Once They Were Eagles (9 page)

Lagging slightly on a turn, Rinabarger received a long burst from a Zero that dived on him. One 20-mm shell exploded in his right stabilizer, another in his left wing gas tank. Machine gun bullets beat a steady tattoo on his tail and worked up his fuselage; one entered at an angle just back of his cockpit, nicked his knife, and hit him in the left hip. The slug traveled on down through his thigh, stopping just under the skin about eight inches down on his left leg.

Rollie attempted to stay in formation but couldn't do so. Then the shells really began to hit him as the enemy planes all piled onto the cripple. A second 20-mm shell exploded in his left wing; a third struck the right side of his cowl, breaking his oil line and putting one cylinder out of commission; another entered his fuselage and exploded back of his cockpit, starting a fire; still another hit his left wing, bursting his tire and destroying his flap control on that side, while machine gun bullets raked him fore and aft.

Mullen brought the remainder of his division around as sharply as he could and engaged the swarm of Zeros as Rollie dived out, smoking badly. For 140 miles these three Black Sheep fought off the pack of Zeros attempting to finish off their squadron mate. They worked gradually toward Munda, keeping the Zeros several thousand feet above Rinabarger, whose engine was smoking badly.

The fire in the fuselage behind Rollie burned out, but oil obscured his windshield; blood ran out the leg of his trousers, filled his shoe, and covered the floor of his cockpit. He limped into Munda, coming in too fast—about 140 miles an hour—because his air speed indicator had
been shot out and his left flap was damaged; he was unable to see through the oil on the windshield, and one tire was flat.

He drifted too far without his flaps but sat down well in spite of the flat tire, rolled down the runway, and might have made it except for a grader parked to the right. His right wing struck the grader; the Corsair spun, rolled over, and was washed out.

Doc Reames rode with Rollie up to the hospital, and Boyington and I went up to see him as soon as the flight was in. He lay on a canvas cot in the hospital, a long tent with open sides and a bare, muddy coral floor. His face was pale, and we could see that his wound was painful.

“Gee, Skipper, I'm sorry I wrecked the airplane,” he said. Rollie was evacuated to New Zealand to recover.

The next day, our Black Sheep knocked down four more Zeros to run our score up to 23, plus 13 probables. Ten Black Sheep tangled with 50 Zeros in that action, which took place off southern Bougainville.

Boyington had Mo Fisher on his wing, with Bill Case leading his second section and Red Harris on Case's wing.

These four attacked 20 Zeros and shot down three, Boyington, Fisher, and Case each getting one. The remaining six Black Sheep jumped 30 Zeros, and Don Moore sent one spinning down.

In the scramble, the Black Sheep became separated and then had to battle a storm for 15 minutes before coming out into the clear.

Case and Harris were apparently alone in the sky as they came out in the vicinity of Treasury Island, so the two of them headed for Vella Lavella. Almost there, Case looked back and saw a swarm of Zeros attacking the rear of the bomber formation that had just broken clear of the storm. One bomber was smoking.

“Red, we've got to go back,” he radioed to Harris, and the two turned to try to fight the Zeros off the flight of Army Liberators. As they drew closer, they could see about 40 enemy planes.

Climbing as they went back, the two Black Sheep gained altitude and then came down on the Zeros, scattering them. They pulled back above the bombers and scissored over them as the Zeros reformed still farther above. One after the other and in pairs, the Zeros began to dive on the two Corsairs and then pull out.

The bombers were going very, very slowly, and the Black Sheep were buying their passage, foot by foot.

Suddenly, Japanese planes were coming in from all directions; one was directly on Red's tail. Case turned and fought him off, but a 20-mm shell exploded in his left wing and a flight of bullets went past him. He slid under Harris and came back at the Zeros. They were hitting him from all sides. He went into a diving turn, looking for Harris, but
couldn't see him. Then he pushed straight over and went down, shaking his attackers.

Behind him, as he leveled off, he saw a plane splash into the water. It might have been Harris's, because Red didn't come back.

As Case climbed back into position over the bombers, one of them radioed him: “Corsair, you're smoking. Get the hell home.”

Landing at Vella Lavella, he found his plane riddled with 20-mm and
7.7
bullet holes.

And at Munda, I wrote “MIA” beside Red Harris's name in my diary. It had been three months to the day since Red had kissed his new wife, Maurine, goodbye at San Diego.

The next morning McCartney and Matheson, returning from a patrol mission, spotted a barge filled with 15 enemy troops in Kape Harbor by the enemy-infested island of Kolombangara, just across the channel from us. They went down and made several passes at them, chopping them to pieces with their 50-caliber slugs.

“That's for Red,” called Mat as they headed for home.

That day and the next the Black Sheep shot up anything that moved in enemy territory.

 

On 29 September our men were out hunting again, although the weather was not good. I noticed a civilian sitting near our ready tent and learned that he was George Weller, a war correspondent for the Chicago
Daily News.
He was en route to MacArthur's command in Australia but had been weathered in at Munda.

Seeing an opportunity to get the Black Sheep some of the recognition they deserved, I invited him into our ready tent and opened the diary of biographical information I'd collected on each of our pilots.
Three of our Black Sheep were Chicago boys, I told him, and supplied details: their home address, their schooling, their performance. I pointed out that the Black Sheep had already scored 23 planes and 13 probables, although they'd been in combat only three weeks. I explained how the squadron had been formed and how we'd selected our name. He scribbled furiously and asked me to repeat some of the statistics. As the boys checked in, I introduced him, and he talked to them himself.

As a result of that stop, he wrote a series about the Black Sheep, stories that were syndicated all over the United States and among our Allies. The Black Sheep were on their way to becoming a household name.

The night of the 29th, we received orders to return to the Russell Islands the following afternoon.

The next morning, on their way back from dawn patrol, Bailey, Alexander, and Tucker spotted four boats at Ropa Point off Sosoruana Island near Kolombangara. Bailey radioed instructions:

“Don't fire until I give the word.” He flew low, recognized them, and radioed: “Don't fire, they're our own PT boats.”

Apparently not receiving the message, or perhaps accidentally tripping his trigger, Alexander opened fire. The PT boats responded, and the next thing Bailey and Tucker knew, Alex's plane had crashed on the Kolombangara beach in flames, sliding into the jungle. Bailey and Tucker circled the spot but could see nothing but a column of smoke.

When Bailey came in to report, I could tell that something had gone wrong.

“What is it, Stan?”

“Alex is dead.” Unshed tears balanced on his lower lids as he told me what had happened.

“I sure loved that kid,” he said.

I wrote “MIA” beside Alexander's name in my diary, but I knew he didn't have a chance of getting out alive. The all-American boy was gone … one of the tragic errors of war.

At 1:00
P.M.
, 30 September, 14 Black Sheep took off for the Russells via transport plane. At 4:30, eight more followed in Corsairs. Boyington, Reames, and I went down the next morning.

The Russell Islands really looked good. Although actually only 130 miles from Munda, it was a million miles away in comfort. We had good food, swimming beaches, clean clothing, and practically no bombing raids. For three days, we had no missions except scramble alerts.

And we had
mail
—six huge bags of it for us alone. It was the first
we'd received since we left Espiritu Santo 19 years—no, days—before. Some of the boys got as many as 75 letters.

After a shower and a change into clean clothing, I went to dinner with Doc Reames, and afterward we walked to the outdoor movie and sat through one of the horse operas that seemed to have been made exclusively for showing overseas. By the end, half the audience had left.

Following the rootin', tootin', hootin', and shootin', Doc and I went back to our hut.

“Sit down a minute,” said Doc.

“Let's go over to the big hut where most of the gang is staying.”

“You sit down a minute. I need your help.”

“Sure,” I said, “what is it?”

Doc was fumbling in his bag.

He came up with a pint bottle of champagne.

“I want you to help me drink this,” he said. “We're going to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“I've been carrying this bottle around with me for eight months. Ever since I left to come overseas. I knew I wouldn't be able to get it over here.”

He split the bottle in our two canteen cups.

“What is it, Doc?”

“My wife's having a baby tonight.”

“What! How do you know?”

“Tonight's the night, boy.”

“O.K.,” I said. “Here's to Junior.”

“And here's to Rosalita.”

We clicked our canteen cups.

Outside, a tropical rain had begun to beat down. The wind rustled the palm trees about us; an occasional coconut fell to the soft earth with a thud.

And inside, a candle flickering between us, Doc Reames and I drank warm champagne out of canteen cups in an 8,000-mile toast to his wife, whom I'd never seen, and to his son, whom he'd never seen. It was two more months before he learned that he had, indeed, become the father of a son at about that time.

For a few nights, our choral society really flourished. We gathered in the long hut where most of the boys were quartered and shook the coconuts with our singing. With Ashmun, Mo, Moon, Mat, Oli, and Sandy leading, we sang such songs as “Wreck of the Corsair,” “Blood
on the Runway,” “Bless 'em All,” ‘I'm Gonna Lay Down My F-4-U,” “After Rabaul Is Over,” “In a Rowboat at Rabaul,” and, of course, our own “Black Sheep Song.” We had parodied the Yale drinking song which, in turn, had been taken from Rudyard Kipling's “Gentlemen Rankers”:

We also sang old favorites—“When You Wore A Tulip,” “I Want A Girl Just Like the Girl That Married Dear Old Dad,” “For Me and My Gal”—and many that were considered risque at that time: “The Bastard King of England,” “One Ball Riley,” “The Man in the Moon,” and dozens of verses of “In China They Never Eat Chili.”

Some energetic individual once gathered many of our songs, had them mimeographed, and circulated a few copies under the title: “South Pacific Serenade, a collection of bawdy morale-builders chiefly contributed by Marine Pilots, dedicated to Marine Aviation, whither-soever dispersed.”

My musty-smelling copy is one of my favorite souvenirs.

On 4 October, Pappy led five other Black Sheep off the Russell Islands coral strip in Corsairs that had been sent down from Munda for major overhauls but had not yet had them. The six Black Sheep were to act as medium cover for a Marine bomber strike on Malebeta Hill, an enemy AA position next to Kahili Airdrome.

They were still 50 miles south of Kahili when they saw dust rising from the airdrome as 30 Zeros rose to meet them.

There was plenty of time to count them.

Pappy took his flight down in a high stern run from 3,000 feet above, coming too fast, and almost overran his quarry. He chopped back on his throttle, skidded sideways, settled back into position, opened fire, and chopped a Zero's tail to pieces.

The Zero spun in.

Still in a tight turn, Boyington came in on his second Zero in a high port quarter pass.

After a very short burst, the Zero pilot popped out of the cockpit, parachuting to safety.

Continuing in his sharp circle, Boyington swung in on the tail of a third Zero, opened fire, and closed in on him, firing. The Zero flamed from the wing root and went down.

Three Zeros in 30 seconds! Pappy had run his score to 15 (including his Flying Tiger kills) and the squadron total to 26.

The Black Sheep reassembled and looked about, but the remaining 27 Zeros had left the field of battle.

For the next six days, our pilots saw no combat action. They flew task force covers, local patrols, escort and search missions.

On 10 October, however, “recess” was over, and we all flew back to Munda.

It was a different squadron from the one that had arrived there just 23 days before. This time, our pilots were an integrated fighting team, battle tested and battle wise.

We had hardly unloaded our gear when 20 Black Sheep were assigned to cover a twin Army and Marine strike on Kahili and Malebeta Hill. Army B-24s were to attack the airstrip while Marine dive and torpedo bombers were to go after the AA positions.