Target: Rabaul (56 page)

The one person who stood to gain the most, Boyington, was the only American pilot out of the dozens involved who claimed more than two kills. His descriptions of the individual combats, which he presented to Walton during the post-mission debriefing, were the sole basis for his receipt of official credit. Boyington’s wingman that morning, Lt. Robert W. McClurg, was prone to going after his own targets. He had, in fact, chased down and claimed Zeros for himself on that mission. Boyington flew alone.

Although several factors make Boyington’s four claims difficult to reconcile, the most harmful is his veracity. During interviews and public presentations and in his own writing, Boyington unflinchingly described himself as untruthful. In one interview, he even called himself a pathological liar. (He actually said “psychopathic,” but his meaning was clear.) Because of his damning self-assessment, it is extremely difficult to accept his claim that he downed four enemy fighters. The pilots adored his cavalier demeanor and aggressive combat leadership—no one can challenge those attributes—but Boyington was his own worst enemy regarding the credibility of his after-action reports. In addition to his well-established track record of embellishments, he had a personal agenda: beating the victory record. Finally, if Boyington’s four victories were to be taken at face value, then almost all the claims by twenty-three other pilots and aircrew members were mathematically impossible, as only two other Japanese fighters were lost.

A total of six Zeros were definitely lost, and an unknown number of others returned with combat damage, which confirms that a considerable portion of the shooting that day was accurate. Circumstantially, some of the overclaiming
was innocent—the result of perspective. Pilots and gunners, peering through an illuminated gun sight or simple ring sight, were practically oblivious to what was happening outside their narrow cone of concentration. The likelihood that other pilots or gunners were shooting at the same plane, in succession if not simultaneously, was extremely high. In a battle involving dozens of aircraft, all moving fluidly in three dimensions at hundreds of miles per hour, there was often more visual input than the brain could process. Stir in the occasional gray-out and blackout of high-g maneuvering, together with the body’s natural responses to mortal danger—the autonomic release of chemicals and neurotransmitters such as adrenalin and dopamine—and the fighter pilots were not only mentally agitated but physically juiced during combat.

It was the responsibility of nonflying intelligence officers to determine the official results of the pilots’ claims. Given tremendous latitude regarding their decisions, the ACIOs were under pressure to award credits generously. Squadrons and individuals competed vigorously for top-gun bragging rights; and there were plenty of correspondents waiting to write hyperbolic articles to boost morale back home. In most cases, if a pilot or gunner provided a plausible account, his claim was accepted.

Years later, Walton acknowledged the phenomenon of overclaiming:

The records were way, way inflated; all of our claims were inflated. We shot down about four times as many planes as the Japanese ever produced, according to the records. We never had any verification on a lot of the claims. We trusted, in many cases, just the guy’s word: “Yes, I did this and I did that.” The way he detailed it was what we put down.

Bruce J. Matheson, the only member of Boyington’s group to reach flag rank, agreed that duplicity was inherent in the claims process:

Frank would tend to sort this out. He’d say, “Now, wait a minute, you said this,” and somebody else would say, “Yeah, but I was over here and I’m sure I shot it.” Frank would say, “Is there a possibility you two guys were shooting at the same airplane?”

Hell, yes; there may have been three or
four
of us shooting at this poor sucker before he finally blew up!

The awards system in place during World War II was flawed, but there was no alternative. The fighters in the Solomons were not equipped with gun cameras, so the intelligence officers had to rely on the honor system.

Scrutiny aside, Boyington was a happy man when he returned to Vella Lavella on the afternoon of December 23. Interviewed in a radio truck for a future broadcast on American radio stations, he also gave several newspaper
correspondents inspirational material. With the victory record on everyone’s lips, the Black Sheep started an epic party in the tent Boyington shared with Walton and the flight surgeon, navy lieutenant James M. Reames, who kept a supply of medicinal liquor. Thanks to Reames’s Le Jon brandy, Boyington was talkative, philosophizing on a variety of subjects. Although another of his pilots had been lost during the fighter sweep, making it the squadron’s worst day yet, the Black Sheep skipper was pleased with his own outlook. “I’m working with the best bunch of guys in the South Pacific,” correspondent Dan Bailey heard him exclaim. “I’m flying. I’m fighting. I’m killing Japs. I’m the happiest man in the world.”

COMAIRSOLS PLANNERS TRIED a different tactic on December 24. A fighter sweep consisting of fifty Kittyhawks and Hellcats headed from Torokina in advance of a bomber strike. Due to a delay between events, the Japanese met both waves, scrambling ninety-four fighters for the first intercept, and eighty-one to meet the bombers. Again the victory claims were exaggerated. The Eleventh Air Fleet claimed to have shot down fifty-five Allied fighters in the first wave—more than the number of participants. New Zealanders claimed twelve enemy fighters and suffered heavily for their effort, losing six of their own (only one pilot was rescued), while the Hellcat pilots of Fighting Squadrons 33 and 40 claimed six Zeros destroyed.

One of the latter victories was credited to Lt. j.g. David A. Scott of VF-33, who disabled a Zero over Saint George’s Channel and followed it until it hit the water. While Scott circled, another Zero got behind him unseen and opened fire. Startled by a sudden explosion in his engine from a 20mm shell, Scott saw his oil pressure drop. He immediately turned southeast, getting as far south as he could before the engine seized, and made a smooth water landing about ten miles west of Cape Saint George. Scott was observed paddling briskly in his rubber boat—and Dane Base acknowledged receipt of his position—but he was not picked up that day or the next. (Scott survived an entire week in his one-man raft. Sighted by a PV-1 Ventura, he was rescued by a Dumbo on January 1, 1944.)

Christmas brought no letup. The assault on Rabaul continued for the third straight day, this time with an escorted bombing raid but no dedicated fighter sweep. Fifteen B-24s, escorted by approximately fifty P-38s, F4Us, F6Fs, and P-40s, unloaded almost forty tons of bombs on their targets. The Eleventh Air Fleet responded by scrambling eighty-eight fighters, resulting in numerous sharp engagements. The American pilots claimed fourteen kills (the Japanese lost three), including eight by Corsair pilots in VMF-214 and -223. The Japanese claimed four Liberators shot down, along with twenty fighters. Although no B-24s actually fell, three of the escorting fighters did. A few days hence, the families of a Corsair pilot and two P-38 pilots would get the wrenching news that their loved ones had been lost on Christmas Day.

One lucky pilot who almost ended up in a War Department telegram was the commanding officer of VF-33, Lt. Cmdr. Hawley Russell. After shooting down
a Zeke from dead astern—a victory confirmed by his wingman—Russell was in a turn at full throttle when a Zeke approaching from his left opened fire. With uncanny shooting, the enemy pilot hit Russell’s F6F with the first 20mm round fired. The shell exploded in the Hellcat’s left wing, taking out the hydraulic system and damaging the landing gear. Fragments pierced the cockpit, wounding Russell in the left leg. He and his wingman pulled out of the fight and returned to Ondonga airstrip, New Georgia, where Russell made a successful belly landing.

THE PARTY IN Boyington’s tent on December 23 continued into Christmas Eve. But Boyington’s initial exuberance wore off, leading to a prolonged binge. One can only guess what depressed him. Stress and fatigue were proportionately worse because of his drinking, and it’s likely that he experienced a phenomenon known as “survivor’s guilt” when the likable Carnagey went missing. (“It’s sure lonesome here without old Pierre,” Boyington admitted to Walton).

Years later one of Boyington’s cousins, a healthcare professional, described him as bipolar. His outward behavior was certainly erratic. Within three days of his professed happiness, Boyington’s mood had changed dramatically. During an interview on the night of December 26, war correspondent Fred Hampson asked Boyington if he was as eager to break the record as everyone assumed. “Sure I am,” Boyington replied. “Who the hell wouldn’t be? I’d like to break it good and proper. If I could just get on the ball again I might even run it up to thirty or thirty-five. Lord knows the hunting’s good enough when the weather lets you in there, but I’m not right. I’m not right at all.”

The next morning, scheduled to lead a fighter sweep over Rabaul, Boyington still felt hungover. His customary cure was to plunge his head into a rain barrel. “I repeated the dunking several times … until I was able to steady myself down a bit,” he related later. “This little aid had become standard procedure with me by then, for the pressure was really on me, I felt.”

After hopping up to Torokina with three divisions of Black Sheep, Boyington got the sweep underway at 1000. Sixty Corsairs and Hellcats formed up and headed toward Rabaul in a formation stacked to thirty thousand feet. The Japanese reaction was less vigorous this day, because Kusaka had sent a large strike (seventy-eight fighters and fifteen bombers) to attack the invaders in the Cape Gloucester area. Those planes were just returning, minus seven downed fighters, when the American fighter sweep approached.

In an ideal position to observe the estimated fifty interceptors rising up from Rabaul, Boyington guided the sweep appropriately. Figuring that some of the pilots would be overeager, he keyed his microphone. “Take it easy,” he said, “and let down slowly.” He added that “the Japs would be up in about four minutes.” He then led the formation in a wide, 360-degree turn to the left, rolling out approximately a thousand feet above and slightly behind a dozen Zekes.

In an uneven melee, Corsair pilots scored sixteen official victories (two Hellcat pilots shared credit for one additional Zeke), with VMF-216 accounting for a slight majority. Carl, leading the VMF-223 contingent, splashed one and was credited with a probable. Black Sheep pilots claimed five, including one confirmed Zeke for Boyington. Making an overhead pass at fourteen thousand feet, he opened fire at a hundred yards and the unarmored fighter ignited.

It seems incongruous that Boyington did not record multiple victories. One probable reason: his wingman was
not
McClurg. Lieutenant Edwin A. Harper, wounded over Kahili during the previous tour, did not let Boyington out of his sight. Savvy and dedicated, he even managed to flame a Zeke over Simpson Harbor without losing contact with Boyington.
^*

When the combat subsided, only one American fighter failed to return. A Corsair from VMF-216 was last seen going down over Rabaul with smoke streaming from both oil coolers and two Zekes giving chase. The pilot, 2nd Lt. Frank G. Putnam, was never recovered. The Eleventh Air Fleet, however, had six fighters missing and a seventh listed as “set on fire.” This was an interesting description. When a Zero was seen to burst into flames—a fairly common occurrence—the Japanese typically applied Bushido philosophy to explain its loss. The pilot had not been vanquished; instead, because his plane was damaged, he had elected to blow himself up. This was purely symbolic, as the pilots did not actually have a suicide switch inside the plane. Yet the Japanese had a unique word for the made-up phenomenon,
jibaku
, which means “to self-explode.”

Returning to Vella Lavella, a tired-looking Boyington swung his Corsair around in the revetment, shut off the engine, and held up his index finger—a single victory. His score now stood at twenty-five, still a victory shy of the record. The correspondents didn’t care: they crowded around, anxious for details. Then someone pointed to a neat hole in the right wing of the Corsair, made by a 7.7mm bullet. It was a harmless hole, but the unseen bullet unsettled Boyington. Matheson later said, “It shouldn’t have been anything to rattle anybody, but this one damn round through his wingtip shook Boyington up.”

Despite his fatigue and the bullet hole, Boyington spent only ninety minutes on the ground. No missions had originally been planned for the following day, but late in the afternoon, word got around that Major Rivers of VMF-216 was going to lead another fighter sweep to Rabaul in the morning. Hastily gathering three divisions, Boyington jumped in a different Corsair and took off at 1745 for Torokina. The Black Sheep scrounged some cots for the night, then arose at 0400 for chow and the mission briefing.

The composition of the sweep was ideal. It was an all-Corsair formation, including eighteen from the host squadron, twelve Black Sheep, and eight each
from Carl’s VMF-223 and newly arrived VMF-321. But the cobbled-together mission had flaws. The pilots of VMF-321 were inexperienced, having arrived in the combat zone just four days previously, and Morrell had never led a sweep before.

An hour after departure two Black Sheep turned back with mechanical problems. The rest had an uneventful flight. Upon reaching Saint George’s Channel at twenty thousand feet, Morrell mimicked the full turn that Boyington had used the day before. However, this was a much wider, more time-consuming circle, with the formation in a slight descent the whole time. When the Corsairs reached the west side of the caldera, they saw enemy fighters climbing over Lakunai airdrome. Morrell guided the formation across Simpson Harbor toward the enemy, apparently unaware that another large group of Zeros, to the southeast, circled above his formation. With the sun behind them, the Japanese sprang with unprecedented ferocity.