Once They Were Eagles (11 page)

Boyington led them up the slot to Kahili, and the blue Corsairs circled the airdrome at 15,000 feet. The antiaircraft batteries opened up, but no Zeros came out to meet them.

“Come on up and fight, you yellow bastards,” screamed Boyington over his radio. He knew that the Japanese listened in on our frequencies; when he had been up over Kahili only a few days before, a clipped Oriental voice had spoken into his earphones:

“Major Boyington, what is your position, please?”

He knew that it was a Nip, not only from the accent but also because one of his Black Sheep would have said: “Hey, Pappy, where the hell are you?”

Boyington had replied: “Right over your lousy airfield, you yellow bellies. Come on up and fight.”

This day, he expected a reply to his challenge. He got it. “Why
don't you come down, Major Boyington?” queried the Japanese monitor.

Instructing the remaining Corsairs to stay aloft, Boyington pushed over and went down in a screaming dive, spraying the field with his six 50-caliber guns. AA fire burst all around him, but the Corsair zoomed up and away, untouched.

Rejoining his flight, Boyington taunted the Japanese once more: “Now, come up and fight, you dirty yellow bastards!”

There was no answer. But there is the “oriental face,” and the morale of thousands of Nip troops on the ground must have been rapidly ebbing. The flight of Marines audaciously circling and mocking them was too much for the Nip commander. Japanese pilots raced out to their planes, and one after the other they took off until there were 40 Sons of Heaven.

Boyington and his flight circled slowly, waiting for them. It was like the moment before the kickoff: mouths were dry, hearts beating fast, palms sweaty even at that altitude.

Giving the enemy a chance to get well bunched, Boyington waggled his wings and then took his formation down in huge S-turns to meet them. The enemy was brought to action at only 6,000 feet.

Like the spring on a broken clock, everything fell apart, and the sky was a wild, seething mass of hurtling planes. Results began to show immediately, with Zeros falling into the water “like AA shells,” as one of the Black Sheep put it. In 15 minutes the beaten Japanese scattered, leaving the field of battle to the Leathernecks.

Once again the Black Sheep stormed hilariously into our ready tent, shouting and waving their arms in the familiar fighter pilots' gestures, showing with their hands the planes' positions and going through the gyrations and maneuvers as they talked.

The final score showed 18 Zeros knocked down with one Squadron 221 pilot missing, the only loss of the day. Boyington's plan was working: in the two missions on two successive days, Marines had shot down 38 Zeros, with only one pilot missing in action.

The Black Sheep score jumped eight more to bring our total to 57 planes destroyed since the 16th of September, only 32 days before—55 of them over enemy territory, an important factor. Fighting over enemy territory meant that if you had to go down, there was little chance of being picked up by friendly forces. The fact that all but two were fighter planes was also important; the slow-moving bombers were easier to shoot down. Our score was run up the hard way. Only those planes actually seen to burn, explode, or crash were counted, according to the
Navy and Marine system. “Probables” and those destroyed on the ground were frosting on the cake.

Boyington had welded a conglomeration of casuals and replacements into one of the deadliest aerial combat squadrons in history. He was not only a savage past master of individual aerial combat; he was also an inspiring leader.

Reames, a broad grin on his face, was circulating and slapping backs, looking the Black Sheep over and passing out his two-ounce bottles of “nerve medicine” as I gathered notes for my official action report.

Boyington had downed another plane; it made him an even 20. Tall Jimmy Hill of Chicago had made his first kill. Wild Man Magee had become the third Black Sheep ace: he'd shot down three Zeros to bring his score to seven. Moon Mullen got one to become a near-ace with a total of four and one-half planes to his credit. Ed Olander had scored again.

Burney Tucker, separated from his flight on the way back, made his return count by coming, alone, across a Japanese troop bivouac area in Faisi Island and gun emplacements on Poporang Island in a high-speed strafing run, expending 1,400 rounds of ammunition as he chopped down tents and troops. On his way out, he dodged shells from the AA and coastal gun positions; one of them splashed in the water under his wing.

It was perhaps this day that Bill Case got religion. Because he was short, he usually raised his seat several inches in order to give him better all-around vision out of the cockpit. On this flight, for some reason, he'd raised his seat only slightly, perhaps two or three inches less than normal. In the melee, Case got his eighth plane but did not escape unscathed. A 7.7 bullet had pierced his Plexiglass canopy, split his scalp as it skidded across the top of his head, and then lodged in his gunsight. Had he had the seat in its usual position, the bullet would have hit him squarely in the back of the head and killed him instantly. He was never able to figure out why he'd flown with his seat lower that day.

During the afternoon, our relief squadron had come in. We were to go back to the Russells the next day.

The Japanese aerial defense of Bougainville was in shambles.

 

Waiting for a lull in the celebration, I told the pilots that our relief was in and that we were scheduled to leave the next morning. With a whoop, they pounced on Doc Reames.

“How about unlocking that medicine cabinet of yours, Doc? It's time for a party,” they shouted.

And Doc didn't have to be urged. We moved out of our tents and gathered in a big Quonset hut (a recent innovation at Munda) that night. We drowned out the lizards and tree toads as we sat, naked, on our canvas cots, babbling about the day's action, singing, and talking about Sydney, where all squadrons were sent for seven days of R-and-R leave after each six-week combat tour.

It was about two o'clock when the last of us stretched out and dozed off.

The beam of a flashlight across my face awakened me.

“Strafe Kahili!” I heard Doc exclaim.

Boyington stood beside me, feet wide apart, sweat glistening on his hairy, stocky body. His square jaw was thrust forward; his bloodshot eyes peered out between half-closed lids.

It was 3:45 in the morning. I rolled over; what the hell
was
this? Our squadron had been relieved, but here was an operations officer nervously rattling some papers and bringing us news that Operations wanted four planes to strafe Kahili and Kara, the latter another airdrome adjacent to Kahili.

“What the hell's the matter with the squadron that just relieved us?” I asked.

“They're not yet familiar with the area,” the officer replied. “Fighter Command said to give the Black Sheep the mission.”

“All right, they want Kahili strafed, we'll strafe it,” said Boyington. “This is no time to take a regular division. Who wants to go with me?”

It never entered Pappy's mind that he could send someone else in his place.

Pappy selected George Ashmun, Wild Man Magee, and Bob McClurg. The four of them and Doc and I got up, drank a cup of coffee, and went down to the strip. It was 4:25
A.M.
when we got there.

Everything was black night. Strain as it would, even the Coleman
lantern gave up after pushing the darkness only a few feet from the table.

“You fly my wing,” Boyington told McClurg. “We'll strafe Kahili. George, you and Maggie take care of Kara.

“We'll take off, stay together, go up along the west coast of Choiseul, split up into our two sections there, and make our runs at about the same time.”

The Black Sheep had started out when Doc saw that Boyington was barefooted! “Pappy, where the hell are your shoes?”

“I don't need any shoes.” Pappy stamped his feet on the sharp coral to prove it.

“You'll sure need them if you go down.”

“Don't worry, Doc. I'm not going down.”

“I don't want you going up there without any shoes, Skipper. Here, take mine.” Doc pulled off his shoes.

“O.K., Doc, if it'll make you feel any better.”

They took off at 4:50, headed north, and almost immediately ran into a violent thunderstorm that would have justified their returning to base. They switched on their wing lights in order to stay together, however, and flew grimly on, buffeted about like matchsticks by the squall.

Suddenly, Ashmun was separated from the others. Afraid of colliding with them in the turmoil, he dropped a thousand feet and continued northward.

In the meantime, McClurg had joined Magee, thinking he was Boyington.

Ashmun, believing he was far enough north, began to let down through the storm. He broke into the clear over Fauro Island, too far offshore to get to Kara, so he made a strafing run on the Ballale airdrome. He roared the length of the strip, a little to one side, 40 feet off the ground, and sprayed the revetment areas and the control tower. He had to lift one wing to keep from hitting the tower.

The other three continued north, managing to stay together in spite of the heavy weather until Boyington nosed over, flicked off his lights, and disappeared.

Magee and McClurg flew on up the east coast of Bougainville, went down to 2,000 feet and then to 800 feet, and circled inland about a mile north of Kara airfield. When they were sure they had located it, they went down to 40 feet and sprayed the length of the runway. Eight bombers lined up on one end were left burning from their incendiary shells.

Boyington had made his run from the water, inland over Kahili, but didn't see anything, so he pulled around in a tight circle and came back down the runway, firing, while enemy antiaircraft shells and tracers lit up the sky.

“I wasn't fully awake till then,” Boyington told me, “but I sure as hell woke up fast.”

Holding into his run, the Black Sheep skipper poured a long burst into three bombers parked on the end of the strip. They exploded as he passed over them. Coming out into the clear over the water, he circled to the left and hurtled into the mouth of Tonolei Harbor, strafing the small boats anchored there.

The antiaircraft batteries opened up, and in their flashes he made out the outline of a huge destroyer at anchor. He kicked slight right rudder, bore-sighted the destroyer, and held his trigger down. The ground fire intensified as Boyington poured hundreds of rounds into the warship, skimmed over it, and out over the ridge back of the harbor.

Circling out to the right, he stayed low and searched the coves along the coast of northern Choiseul until he found an enemy barge. He destroyed it with the remainder of his ammunition. Then he returned to Munda and gave Doc back his shoes.

Later that day, 12 Black Sheep went out again to Bougainville as cover, but not a single enemy plane rose to challenge them. The next day, eight more Black Sheep covered a Marine dive bomber strike on the Kakasa area of Choiseul, and again no enemy planes were sighted.

Finally, our squadron received a characteristic dispatch from Admiral Halsey: “Your steeplechase over; you are retired to stud.”

The following morning we all flew to the Russell Islands and got ready to go out of the combat area. While the rest read mail, ate and slept, or went swimming, I worked over my books, bringing squadron records up to date and preparing official reports. The last few days at Munda had been so hectic, I was way behind.

Busily writing, I heard the door open and a voice say, “Hello, Red.”

It was Quill Skull Groover, his hair standing straight up as usual. I let out a whoop. “How are you? Are the leg and arm O.K.? Can you fly?”

“Sure, I can fly. I appreciated your letters and I read about what the Black Sheep were doing, and I sure wished I was along.”

“Hell, you did your share, boy. But we've missed you.”

About that time some of the gang came in, and an impromptu celebration began.

A couple of days later, we all loaded into transport planes at 7:30
one morning, flew to Guadalcanal, changed planes, and then flew on down to Espiritu Santo.

By the time we got loaded into trucks and hauled over to the camp at Espiritu Santo, it was about 4:00
P.M.
After the combat area, the place looked like a country club to us. Set in a coconut grove, the camp was quiet and well kept. Cool green grass covered the ground between the Dallas huts. The coral roads were smooth and white. A clean, sandy beach ran down to the warm water of the channel. A dock jutted out some 150 feet, and a bathing platform was anchored 50 yards away.

There was even a mascot—a lady goat smuggled in from Sydney when she was very young. Under loving attention from so many pilots, however, she had grown difficult to handle. One day, after a squadron consultation, it was decided that Nanny needed a boyfriend. She was taken back to Sydney; a groom was found; and she was married off with 40 pilots attending the ceremony.

The hut that Boyington, Bailey, Doc, and I shared had just been vacated by a squadron going north. It was dirty; the previous occupants had moved out in a hurry. Papers littered the ground about it, but we were too tired to care.

“We'll clean up in the morning,” Boyington said.

It was well after midnight when a flashlight beam swept over our little hut.

“Boyington.”

“Yeah. What is it?” And then, recognizing the colonel commanding the Group, Boyington swung his feet to the floor, stood at attention, dressed only in a pair of shorts and said, “Yes, sir?”

“You know the rules around here. Why haven't you and your men got your mosquito nets up? I've been around to the huts of all your squadron, and not one of them has his net up.

“Furthermore, your area is dirty. Why isn't it cleaned up? You know the rules. You're the commanding officer of your squadron. You will take immediate steps the first thing in the morning to remedy this situation, understand?”