Once They Were Eagles (33 page)

“The Black Sheep were different; we had a strong feeling of camaraderie. Boyington was a motivating factor; you were a stabilizing factor; and Doc Reames had a knitting, cohesive effect on the group. It
was a maturing experience. I came from a section of the country where prejudice was the order of the day, and it knocked a lot of that prejudice out of me. I remember selling some whiskey to the mess boys, who were black, for $60. Boyington found out about it and made me give the $60 back
and
let them keep the whiskey, which was a damn good lesson to me.”

After the war, Groover went back to the University of Georgia, got his law degree, and commenced practice in Macon, Georgia, 41 years ago. He served as a member of the state legislature for three terms and then as general counsel for the Georgia Farm Bureau, which owns an insurance company that does some $70 million a year in premiums. In 1984, Groover was reelected to the state legislature.

He also has a broad general law practice, handling everything from criminal cases to contests of wills—anything that has to do with trial work, where he has earned the reputation of being a master. Law classes make it a point to adjourn to the courtroom to listen when Groover sums up for a jury.

One of the swiftest ways to get his temper boiling is to mention the TV series about the Black Sheep. “It amounted to mass character assassination. I thought of suing them when it came out, but that would have just given it more publicity. The show brought down and deprecated men of considerable bravery and valor, and for them, by God, I resent it.

“I feel some compassion for Greg; I am sure he participated because he needed the money. I am delighted, of course, that he is able to get something of a financial reward based on his combat record. It does seem a shame, however, for the others who contributed so much to the squadron's record, and indeed made possible Greg's record, to have been vilified—that was unnecessary, as well as completely ridiculous.”

“As for today, there's a disturbing difference in the young people. The problem is having too much of everything; they're used to getting all they want with little or no effort. It's the ‘government will look after me' syndrome. We were raised in the Depression, when a dime was a dime and we had to work for it. Even those with money recognized what it was all about, and there was still pride in your country, pride in being a part of it.

“When I listen to the radio on the way to work, half the telephone calls coming in to this talk show disc jockey are from people employed in the biggest air materiel area in the country. They're at work, sitting around calling in on some damn show instead of doing their jobs.

“What happened to that pride?”

Bill “Casey” Case picked me up at the Seattle/Tacoma International Airport. Although his hair is now graying and has receded somewhat, he is still alert and energetic, his frame compact and well maintained. We took the ferry to Bainbridge Island where Bill lives, a small bedroom community lying in Puget Sound between Seattle and Bremerton. We talked of old times, sitting in the den of his comfortable home.

“I'd taken Civilian Pilot Training in college, and went into flight training a couple of months before Pearl Harbor. My first combat tour was at Guadalcanal with Marine Fighter Squadron 122. I saw no enemy planes in the air.

“About the time we were ready for another tour, Boyington was reassigned from the Operations Office to us. We did some training in June; then Ed Schiflett, a pilot in 122, broke Boyington's leg in a Saturday night ‘wrestling match,' and Greg got shipped to New Zealand while we went up to combat. At the end of that tour, the squadron number was sent back to the States. Several of us needed a third combat tour before we were eligible for home leave, so we were part of the beginning of the Black Sheep.

“I was naive about combat, never thought that I was going to be hurt or could be shot down. I took it for granted that nobody in our outfit was dragging his heels. It was a chance to get out and be productive at the game of fighter pilot we were playing. The Corsair was a superior airplane, would get us out of any trouble we might get into. We had a strong sense of cohesion, of challenge, and not a sense of doom.

“I give Pappy credit for a lot of our difference. He was an aggressive person and a lot of that rubbed off. And we had the opportunity. I didn't see any planes the first three-quarters of my South Pacific experience. After that I probably shot at 100 and if I'd been a good shot, could have had 20 or 30 birds, instead of eight. You have to have the talent for shooting, and the guts.

“I'd applied to go regular before I left the South Pacific. I liked the people I was with, liked the Marine Corps, and had some fine assignments. I was at headquarters; flew in Korea; had a great tour in Italy and another in Japan. Along the way, I earned a master's degree in business, and retired in 1969 as a colonel.

“I worked for two years as a business consultant; then as assistant to the president of Western Farmers, a multi-million dollar farmers' cooperative. In 1972, I went to Alaska to become business manager of the Fairbanks School District System and later budget director for the University of Alaska Statewide System.

“After I had a heart attack, I moved to a job with less tension and stayed with it until I had open heart surgery. Then I retired and came here. Now, I swim to keep healthy. I've been both president and maintenance officer for the Water Corporation, of which our home is a part; and I've been commodore of our local yacht club. I've been racing competitively with a sailboat the past three years.”

He paused. “Remember the bullet that split my helmet and scratched the top of my scalp? The only time my seat was lower than usual—just two inches!—otherwise, I'd have been drilled right through the back of my skull. If it had missed me altogether, I'd probably have been dead, too, because the round hit the bulletproof windshield, ricocheted down my gunsight, and made powdered glass spatter across my forehead. There was enough of the
7.7
bullet going through my helmet to yank my head down; otherwise, I'd have had my eyeballs full of powdered glass, and we were 300 miles out. I'd never have made it back.

“I attribute my narrow escape to the fact that the Lord said Today is not your day to go.' It gives me a higher sense of responsibility for making my life more useful. I've been given an extra run, and it's colored every move along the way. I call it a religious experience, and it happened.”

Gregory “Pappy” Boyington has traveled a rocky, roller-coaster road since those days when he made Marine Corps and aerial combat history with the Black Sheep in the South Pacific.

He'd been picked up by a Japanese submarine after he was shot down on 3 January 1944, and spent the remaining 20 months of the war in Japanese prison camps.

Released by U.S. forces, he was an international hero, acclaimed all over the world. He had an opportunity to grab life's brass ring.

I recall sitting with him in the steam room of the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco during our fabulous party after his release.

“Greg,” I told him, “you can be or do anything you want. Your name is a household word. Your picture has been in every paper in the country. Your story has been told and retold. You can be a congressman; you can be governor of your home state; you have your choice of positions in a dozen corporations—everyone wants you. But you absolutely
must
control the booze. Liquor has been your major problem to date. If you don't solve it, this will all turn to ashes.”

“I know it, Frank, you're absolutely right. But I want you to know that I had a chance to do a lot of thinking while I was in that prison camp. I'm going to be able to handle the liquor. You don't have to worry about me on that score.”

Later, when he was staying at our home, he told my wife, “You know, Carol, the happiest time of my life was when I was in that Japanese prison camp. I was told what to do. Everything was arranged. I had no decisions to make.”

Then again, during his media-hyped courtship with two women vying for his affections at the same time in a story reminiscent of today's soap operas, he once told me, as we sat quietly at Marine Corps Camp Miramar: “You know, Frank, I don't want to marry anybody.” “You certainly don't have to, Greg. You're not hooked till they say the words over you. If you don't want to get married, then, for Christ's sake, tell them both, ‘no'.”

But, while one, who was getting a divorce so she could marry him, waited vainly in Reno, he married the other one in Las Vegas.

Unfortunately, his resolve regarding the liquor didn't last long, either. While another Marine Corps war ace and Medal of Honor winner, Joe Foss, became governor of his home state, Boyington went
through a series of lurid, broken marriages and bounced from one job to another: beer salesman; stock salesman; jewelry salesman; wrestling referee. Liquor was always present.

More recently, Alcoholics Anonymous has given him a measure of help.

In 1958 he published
Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,
a best-selling book based on his wartime experiences. In 1976–77 he was listed as “technical adviser” for a television series of the same name. It was the usual Hollywood hokum, featuring drunken brawls and jiggly nurses, and depicting Black Sheep pilots as fugitives from courts-martial. When some of the Black Sheep protested Boyington's connection with the show, he said, “I only did it for the money.”

In 1980, he stood before us at our Washington meeting, no longer the barrel-chested, swashbuckling terror of the skies. His deeply lined face showed every mile of the tortuous road he'd traveled over the years: “Enough booze to float a battleship” as he often said; the stress of combat flying; the ravages of 20 months of Japanese prison camps; the strains of multiple marriages and divorces; brushes with the law; bouncing from one job to another; medical problems, including the lung cancer operation; sessions with psychiatrists—a classic picture of a man driven toward self-destruction.