Baa Baa Black Sheep (29 page)

However, we did get our trip to Sydney, for there was no way he could logically prevent us without going through wing HQ. He was also aware of the fact that we had to have a negative smear for malaria before being allowed to go to Australia. Perhaps he was counting on some of us not taking our atabrine—if so, we would have been dead ducks for sure.

And I do not wish to bore you with more sex, as this trip was almost a repetition of the last trip, only different women in most cases. But women were a vital part of a combat pilot’s
life, if only in his songs and thoughts, so I shall let it remain that way.

One thing was different from other trips for me because, although I had a date somewhere around the Romano night club, I shared the entire evening with General Nuts Moore. Everyone else but the general and myself who had been seated at the table had shoved off by either direct or indirect invitation, leaving the two of us alone to entertain ourselves after a fashion.

Moore informed me that the Bougainville invasion had been a success, although costly as usual, and that just enough of the island was taken to construct three airstrips. What remained of the island the Japanese were welcome to, for we didn’t want it at any price.

The reason that the other guests were forced to leave the table, one by one, was that the general and I were using the entire tablecloth for a war map, leaving only enough space for the two of us long before the club closed. We really had everything all doped out, but things didn’t quite work out in the exact manner we had planned. But come to think of it, the majority of these things did come awfully close. If only MacArthur and Halsey had been present, there would have been no need of further alterations, and then we could have rolled up the tablecloth and taken it along with us.

I was the most dumfounded person in the Corps when, because of my seeing eye to eye with the general, or vice versa, I was called into Lard’s office upon our return to Espiritu. This was three days prior to the date set for my squadron to go back into combat.

I must say, too—and almost every military person will appreciate what I mean—that there are times when we have to fight to be able to fight the enemy. This has occurred to many of us all along the line, and perhaps from time immemorial. We break all kinds of rules, local or standardized, in order to be able to do what we think we can do best. We certainly are not encouraged to go over people’s heads, even if the purpose is simply to get into combat during time of war. But as an early example of this, if I had not gone over people’s heads I still might be parking cars near Victory Square in Seattle.

Or another is that the Black Sheep Squadron would not
have come into being. It was a case of doing what one thought was right, or what one thought just had to be done, and to take a chance on being reprimanded by some paper-wrestler who was a stickler on regulations.

There is a heel or two in every outfit, regardless of what it is. So in this connection I will again remember some good advice from Chesty Puller. He gave it back in basic school to us second lieutenants:

“A word of advice to you men. Many times in your Marine Corps career you are going to feel like resigning. But don’t forget: one son of a bitch or four or five cannot ruin the Corps.”

Through the years I always remembered those golden words whenever confronted by somebody who seemed deliberately to go out of his way to show his authority by keeping things stymied. Then fortunately his superiors would not be that way at all, and the higher they were, the more understanding they were, and also the more capable. And, in order to help get a war won, it frequently was up to the lot of us to take the chance and say something—as delicately as we could of course—but where it would count.

All of these things were rolling over in my mind on the way to Lard’s headquarters.

After I arrived at group headquarters, I was permitted to cool my heels for the prescribed amount of time outside the door of Lard’s sanctum.

Finally somebody said: “You may go in now, Major Boyington. The colonel is free.”

I entered and said: “Good morning, Colonel. You sent for me?”

“Yes, I did, because I’m going to have to jerk you out of 214, as I have a new job assigned for you.”

“But—but—I thought it was all settled when I talked to General Moore.”

“I’ll have you know I’m running this group, and I’ll be giving the orders around here, understand? We have to place senior majors into staff jobs as they come up, and that’s what I have to do in your case.”

“But, Colonel, who is going to command 214? They have to go back to combat in a couple of days.”

“Don’t you worry about that. Anybody can do it.”

“What is my new job, then?”

“Oh, it’s—er—ah—I’m not at liberty to say just now. This will be all for the present. I’ll get in touch with you later.”

I left Lard because I was at a loss for words, and besides I realized there was little use in talking any longer to anybody so stupid. My 214 had already destroyed over a hundred enemy aircraft, not to mention a bit of shipping, and had done loads of escorts and patrols. He had not explained his reasons, because he had none. Nor did he have any new job in mind, or he would have said what it was. He didn’t even have a squadron commander in mind to send in my place.

The pilots in the squadron were about as stunned and disgusted with the odd turn of events as I was. I had destroyed somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty planes personally, and I was anxious to keep on knocking down some more, for, after all, that was the reason I was out there.

I could not quietly sit by and watch my Black Sheep leave old Espiritu and fly out for a combat tour again without me, nor could anyone else have, under the circumstances. What causes some people to change orders like that, without a reason or even an explanation, is something I cannot understand. It may have been jealousy over my record, or it may have been something else. But I did not know. I went to see General Moore, who happened to be on the other side of the island at wing headquarters.

I did not go to his office directly, for I had to be more subtle than that. I sort of timed myself to cross his trail while he was walking to his office. He was a great general, that man was, and after we greeted each other he wished me the best of luck on the next combat tour, coming up in three days.

“But I’m not going, General,” I said.

Moore looked puzzled; he invited me into the office and asked me why. He probably thought it was something personal.

I explained calmly that I did not know why but that my orders had just been changed today. In no time at all Moore reached for his telephone, called a certain office, asked for a certain group commander, and I sat there—still with a poker face—waiting for an explosion, I guess. But there was no explosion. Moore very quietly told this person he didn’t want any changes, adding that he might drop over to see him before he went north again.

But I was so happy about my reinstatement with my
Black Sheep, and it occurred immediately, that the moment I left the general, I could keep my poker face no longer. Three of my pilots had accompanied me on this little mission of sorts across the island and had been waiting patiently for the outcome, one way or another. There was only one thing to do, and that was to celebrate another Black Sheep victory with this official good news. So we celebrated. And we celebrated too long. For when we finally broke up at the wing club, the time was midnight, the rain was a deluge, and we had to cross the island in a jeep to our quarters on the fighter strip.

I was driving in the downpour when a sentry stopped me. He was as wet as I was, and in the darkness we could not see each other very well. But he said:

“Major Boyington, you’re wanted at Colonel Lard’s quarters immediately, regardless of how late you get here.”

In the hard rain I could barely make out the poor guy’s features, even when he was standing in the glare of the headlights. He was more than ankle deep in muddy water, and probably chilled to the bone. Knowing this was no ordinary challenge, I asked:

“What’s up, sentry? And how come you were able to know me so well?”

“Oh, that’s easy. It’s none of my business, but as long as you asked, I guess I can tell you.”

“Certainly, you don’t have to worry about me, spill it.”

“Well, the colonel called first on the phone, but because I couldn’t understand him over the wet line, he drove out here in a jeep. He was so damn mad I thought he had gone completely crazy. He was swearing and waved his arms around so hard he slipped and fell flat on his ass in the mud.”

“Yes, yes, but what did he say?”

“I didn’t know what he was yelling about, but he said he would handle it, and I was to have you report IMMEDIATELY. He also said I could smell when you were coming because you would be like a bourbon factory. He said you were a bull-necked, flat-nosed son of a bitch who would have no cap or raincoat because you didn’t have brains enough to wear them.”

So I reported, and learned I was to consider myself under technical arrest for having violated some local code such-and-such for having seen the general without having
gone through certain channels, and having done it for the “betterment of my own command,” or similar wording. I forget just what now.

Anyhow Lard’s executive officer typed another set of orders for me to take along up north with me for the coming combat tour. Words to the effect that I was to be permitted to lead my squadron but was not to be allowed such privileges as going to the movies or any officers’ club, as if we had any where we were going. This was to be effective for a certain period of time. I forget now but took a copy of the set of orders along to remind myself.

The following morning, while I was still in my tent, Bragdon and some other pilot entered my quarters all excited after an early breakfast. Bragdon said: “Hey, Gramps, we had a visitor real early this morning.”

“What do you mean by visitor?” I asked.

“The gent with the cane intercepted Lard as he was coming down the trail from his penthouse to breakfast. I saw him standing beside the trail and wondered what he was doing over here so early.”

“What happened?” I asked, getting excited along with the pilots.

“Believe us, it was a one-sided conversation, with the general on top.”

“Well?”

“It went something like this, and we pretended not to be eavesdropping.

“ ‘Good morning, General—’

“ ‘Say, Stud, I thought I’d better drop over and pay you a little visit; I’ve been neglecting you. I understand from more than several sources you like to keep the combat pilots in close touch. Well, I fixed it up so you can go up to the new strip and be with them as an operations officer!’ ”

These pilots said Lard’s mouth kept opening and closing without making a sound until the general was through, like a big fish out of water.

I asked: “What did Lard say when the general was through with him?”

“Nothing but ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ because Nuts wheeled around and left him when he was through talking.”

This was great as far as I was concerned, for Lard would be where he couldn’t do any good for himself or be of any
harm for us. His feathers had surely been plucked. I wondered how he was going to get along without the palatial estate on the peninsula, or without a staff to help dig up dirt on anyone.

Bell P-39 “Aircobra”

Here was December, two years after Pearl Harbor, before the Allies were on the roll in the opposite direction for a change. We were thinking about the long way to Tokyo as we were flying in the DC-3 back to combat. We were to have a new home there this time, for the Vella Lavella strip had been completed.

One of these big deals General Moore and I had worked out on our tablecloth down in Sydney was put into action. This was quite an operation and, because it involved passing a certain longitude, Halsey had had to obtain permission from MacArthur prior to our going on the mission, which involved all the Allies in the Pacific. Anyhow, with all the lengthy screwing around, I’m convinced the Japanese were let in on it too, for they were certainly waiting for us like they never had before.

The long-planned operation, containing over a hundred
Allied fighters, struck the Rabaul area in a fighter sweep. We had topped off our fuel on the new strip at Bougainville, and had started taking off on December 17 at the crack of dawn. This mass fighter sweep was led by Wing Commander Freeman of New Zealand in the P-40s, and included Aircobras, P-38s, Hellcats, and Corsairs.

Whether the Nips had gotten previous word makes no difference now, but the strike was balled up from the very beginning. The Allied fighters were of so many different types, we might just as well have been escorting bombers. Because the five large airfields on New Britain and New Ireland were spread over a large area, the mission at least should have been restricted to fighters with the same flying characteristics.

Commander Freeman and his P-40s were first off, and hit the Rabaul area without waiting for their high cover to get into position. They probably figured they had to chance it because they had been first off and knew their gas wouldn’t last for much more than the round trip. The individual take-offs from the new strip had been awfully slow to begin with, and we were too late to prevent Freeman himself and many other P-40s from being knocked down that morning.