Once They Were Eagles Read online

  “Tell us about it, Pappy. What happened? What did the General say?”

  “Give me a drink, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  Fisher quickly found him a bottle of beer.

  “Well, I went over to call on General Moore. Naturally, I couldn’t call for the purpose of complaining about my new assignment because that would not be going through official channels, so I just dropped in to pay him a visit. We chatted awhile about the days up at Munda.

  “Then he asked me how our squadron was shaping up. I told him it was fine; the new boys had fitted in O.K. He looked at his schedule, and said we were due to go north in a few days, and he expected I was eager to get into combat again.

  “I told him the boys were eager to go, and so was I, but since I had been assigned this operations job, naturally I wouldn’t be with them.

  “‘What!’ he shouted.

  “‘Yes, sir,’ I said, ‘the Colonel told me this morning he had assigned me as operations officer at Vella Lavella, so I wouldn’t be going up with my squadron.’

  “The General hit the ceiling. He called his Chief of Staff. ‘What’s this about Boyington being taken out of his squadron?’ he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir.’

  “‘Get me MAG 11.’

  “When he got the Colonel on the field telephone, he said, ‘What’s this about taking Boyington out of his squadron? … What? … Well, put him back, do you hear? Put him back immediately. … I don’t care how senior he is; he’s the best combat pilot we’ve got, and he’s to be left in command of his squadron where he belongs, understand?’

  “The General banged down the receiver and looked up at his Chief of Staff who was standing before him. There’s too goddamned much of this business of transferring squadron commanders around without my hearing about it. You get a good man in command of a squadron, and then somebody wants to take him out. In the future, I want to know about it before any squadron commander is transferred. Is that clear?’

  “The Chief of Staff mumbled ‘Yes, sir,’ and went out. The General was still sore, banging the desk and swearing, when I thanked him. He shook hands and wished us luck on our tour when I left.

  “The guard at the gate stopped me when I came in and told me the Colonel wanted to see me.”

  “Yes,” we said, “he’s been looking for you all day. What the hell, there’s not much he can do. You’re back in the squadron, and we’re due to shove off in a few days.”

  But next morning, after Boyington reported to the Colonel, he came back with a serious face. “I slipped up, and he’s got me. Group Regulations say that when you leave the camp, you must notify the Adjutant. I didn’t do that when I left yesterday, and he’s put me under official arrest.”

  A few minutes later, a runner brought over a sheet of paper. “The Colonel wants you to sign this, sir.”

  The typewritten page read: “I hereby acknowledge that I violated rule number so and so of the Group Regulations”; there was a space for Boyington’s signature over his typewritten name. Boyington reached for a pen.

  “Don’t you sign that,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “That’s going into your official file in Washington. For all anyone knows who reads that, that rule you violated might be murder or stealing.” I turned to the runner. “Take this back and have it retyped to read, ‘I hereby acknowledge that I have violated rule number so and so of the Group Regulations, which reads, quote,’ and then quote the rule.”

  The runner took the sheet and left. He returned in half an hour with the revised sheet which read:

  I violated Group General Order Number One, dated 17 January 1943, quoted herewith:

  GROUP GENERAL ORDER NUMBER 1, 1943

  Official trips to the First Marine Aircraft Wing or other higher offices.

  1. All officers of this Group will not make trips to the subject offices for personal or departmental benefit without specific permission of the Group Commander.

  2. The exceptions to this order will be the Group Quartermaster and his staff, who may deal with higher offices as in the past.

  Boyington signed it. A little later, the runner brought a memorandum over the Colonel’s signature. It read:

  1. You are hereby placed under arrest for a period of 10 days for disobedience of orders.

  2. The limit of your arrest is that you re restricted to the Turtle Bay Airfield Area exclusive of the Officers’ “Wine Mess.”

  3. You are informed that this report, together with your statement, will be forwarded to the Commandant, Marine Corps, for file with your official record.

  The same afternoon, however, the following letter was forwarded to Boyington:

  FIGHTER COMMAND

  AIRCRAFT SOLOMONS

  APO 717

  15 November 1943

  FROM:

  The Commanding General, Fighter Command Aircraft Solomons.

  TO:

  The Commanding General, First Marine Aircraft Wing.

  SUBJECT:

  Combat efficiency report, case of Major Gregory Boyington.

  1. Major Gregory Boyington, while Squadron Commander of VMF 214, came under the operational control of this Command from 15 September 1943 to 20 October 1943. His activity during this period was marked by a brilliant combat record, readiness to undertake the most hazardous types of missions, and a superior type of flight leadership. The superb caliber of his work is indicated by the fact that he destroyed 14 enemy aircraft during this period.

  2. Major Boyington enjoyed the complete confidence and respect of his superiors and his squadron mates as a combat leader. I consider him one of the five outstanding combat fighter pilots that have operated in this theater since the beginning of operations.

  D.C. Strother

  Brigadier General, USA

  Commanding

  The payoff came the following day when the Colonel himself was ordered to take over the operations job!

  Three days later our entire squadron took off via SCAT transport planes for our second combat tour.

  At Guadalcanal, while our planes were being serviced, we were standing near them talking when Rinabarger suddenly slumped to the ground, unconscious. He hadn’t looked well at all since he’d rejoined us, and Doc Reames had told him he should be back in the hospital. But Rollie had begged so earnestly to stay with the squadron that Doc had reluctantly let him do so. Now, Doc examined him and ordered him to the hospital.

  “I’m O.K., Doc. I’ll be all right.”

  “No, you need a long rest, Rollie. I’m sending you to the hospital and recommending that you be transferred to a cooler climate to recuperate.”

  Rollie was evacuated to New Zealand and then home. He was ready to go overseas again with a Marine carrier squadron when the war ended.

  17 | Vella Lavella

  Vella Lavella was a lovely little island, solidly covered by jungle and coconut groves except where the airstrip, roads, and camp areas had been cleared. The runway had been built by the simple expedient of blasting out the coconut trees and then grading down the surface dirt to the firm coral underneath. It lay along the southeastern coast of the island, bounded on one side by coconut trees and on the other by the clear, warm waters of Vella Gulf. From there, we could look directly out to Kolombangara, some 35 miles away, rearing its 6,000-foot peak into the clouds. It was there that Alex had crashed on our previous tour.

  Our new temporary home was typical of all the Solomon Islands. Only about as far from the equator as San Diego is from San Francisco, it was hot and steamy. Rainfall averaged some 140 inches a year with most of the rain falling during the period from November to March, which meant that we were getting as much rain every month as San Francisco averages every year. We learned to appreciate the phrase, “It isn’t the heat, it’s the humidity,” because although the temperature was rarely over 90 degrees, we were sweltering.

  Kahili Airdrome lay only 75 miles to our northwest; the enemy fortress at Rabaul, with its fine harb
or and five loaded airdromes, was 300 miles farther.

  Marines had landed at Empress Augusta Bay, on the west coast of Bougainville, 26 days before. They were engaged in heavy fighting to secure the tiny perimeter, about half a mile deep and four miles long, that they’d carved with their blood out of the side of the 3,900-square-mile island. This new landing had taken place about 15 months after the Marines had swarmed ashore at Guadalcanal; in that time, the Marines had come 500 miles closer to Tokyo. At that rate, it would take them another six years to cover the remaining 2,500 miles to the heart of Japan.

  But our pace was accelerating all the time. The distance, though small, represented a tremendous gain in tactical position. And it represented an even greater gain in attrition of enemy men and materiel. A note in the diary of a Japanese officer killed in the Munda campaign made this clear. He had written: “Oh the cursed South Seas—that have swallowed countless noble souls and closed over weapons sweated from the blood of citizens—cursed be the Sea of the Solomons!”

  As our farthest-advanced air base, Vella Lavella was of enormous tactical importance, particularly if the Japanese decided to contest the air over Bougainville. However, for nearly three weeks, the Black Sheep saw no enemy aircraft. They flew dawn patrols, local patrols, dusk patrols, task force covers, and strafing missions without air opposition.

  Then one morning, on patrol over the precarious Marine beachhead on Bougainville, they got a call from the ground. Marines were pinned down and getting cut to pieces by enemy mortar fire. Could our planes help?

  The ground Marines laid out a huge arrow in white panels and asked that the airmen strafe enemy mortar positions 500 yards off the tip of the arrow. The Black Sheep made eight strafing runs over the area, putting 25,000 rounds of armor-piercing, incendiary, and tracer slugs into it, cutting down trees, chopping away the underbrush, and leaving the enemy crews sprawled about their broken weapons.

  The smashing success of that operation helped the Black Sheep to realize the importance of strafing missions. After that, when they were relieved from a patrol or cover mission, they went hunting over enemy territory. They chopped to pieces and burned bivouac areas, huts, wharfs, small boats, barges, ships, buildings, AA positions, trucks, airfields, villages, troop concentrations, supply dumps, and bridges. Nothing in Japanese territory that moved or was usable was safe from their guns.

  The dispatches began to speak of “the irrepressible Black Sheep,” the first time a squadron had been mentioned by name in these official reports.

  In the air the Black Sheep were relentless killers, but on the ground they passed the time much the same as anyone in the States. We played volleyball; we went swimming—took off our clothing and walked across the coral taxiway to the water. Leaving our shoes on a convenient log, we’d dive in and splash about, but care had to be used in putting our feet down because the bottom was littered with wrecked aircraft—silent testimonials to the violent battles for the skies waged over this tiny coral atoll that doesn’t even appear on most maps of the world. Nor did anyone venture far; lurid stories of the quantity, size, and ferocity of sharks and barracuda roaming the waters prevented that.

  After swimming, we’d pull on our field shoes and walk back to our office tent, keeping our eyes half-closed against the brilliant glare of the sun.

  The camp area was pleasant in spite of the usual lizards and coconut bugs. The island abounded in tropical fruit. We had limeade for every meal; an ice-flaking machine was kept going 24 hours a day. And in spite of what we’d read about headhunters in the Solomons, the natives were friendly. We bought some of the trinkets they made out of shells, bits of coral, carved ebony, and mahogany.

  The natives watched with open mouths as the planes taxied to the end of the runway, gunned their engines to test the magnetos, and sped off. They loved to ride in our jeeps, and watched carefully the manipulations required to operate them. One night a couple of them got a little high on their native beverage (fermented coconut milk) and stole a jeep. They got it going, drove along the strip to the head of the runway, roared the motor once, flicked the lights off and on, and then—just as they’d seen the airplanes do—took off wide open down the runway.

  They were doing about 50 when they went over the cliff at the end.

  We took advantage of the comparative lull in activities to make a trip over to Kolombangara to see if we could locate the spot where Alexander had crashed. I telephoned the PT boat base that had been established at Vella Lavella and made arrangements for one of their boats to take us. Seven Black Sheep (Boyington, Mullen, McClurg, Reames, Moore, and I, along with Burney Tucker, who’d seen him crash) boarded the powerful 65-foot craft shortly after dawn on Sunday, 5 December.

  The Navy lieutenant commanding the twin-engined boat ordered the lines cast off, and we moved out into the rough, choppy channel in the midst of a tropical downpour. Dressed only in trousers, shoes, oilskins, and sou’westers, we bowed our heads into the driving sheets of steamy rain and clutched onto handholds as the boat rolled and lurched and pounded like a bucking bronco.

  The weather cleared as we neared the coast, and the skipper headed in close to shore. We purred along slowly, with a sailor on the bow to watch for underwater obstructions in these uncharted waters. We scanned the coastline for some indication of the spot where Alex had gone in. Because of the rapidity with which the tangled jungle closes in on everything unless a major effort is made to keep it back, we were afraid we might not find the place.

  “There it is,” said Tucker quietly. He’d spotted it well. Under his direction, the PT boat moved in near a small promontory and stopped about 100 yards off shore.

  “Right there,” Tucker said, pointing to a spot where the solid jungle was scarred as though a giant scythe had made a sweep through the tree tops.

  Rubber boats were lowered; we climbed into them, pushed off, and paddled in. Although our forces had, by now, bypassed and sealed off the island, Japanese troops were still scattered through this portion of it. For this reason, in addition to machetes for cutting through the brush, we also carried our service pistols.

  Wading ashore, we hacked out the mass of twining vines and cut our way inland. A few birds rose, screaming. Flying foxes, hanging upside down from limbs high above us, awakened, let go their holds, and swooped about crazily. Brilliant flowers such as I’d never seen grew in wild confusion all about us. Delicately tinted orchids festooned the vine-wrapped trunks of trees. A huge lizard nearly eight feet long, with horns running down its back, blinked at us from one of the tree trunks.

  Time had stood still in this strange, far-off world.

  We chopped, following the path of Alex’s plane by the splintered tops of the trees, until we came to a burned-out section. Here were parts of the plane.

  Corsairs of the Black Sheep Squadron over the Solomon Islands, September 1943.

  Pappy Boyington reviews tactics with Black Sheep pilots at Espiritu Santo. Kneeling, from left: Boyington, Stanley Bailey, Virgil Ray, Bob Alexander. Standing: Bill Case, Rollie Rinabarger, Don Fisher, Henry Bourgeois, John Begert, Bob Ewing, Denmark Groover, Burney Tucker.

  Runway at Munda.

  Black Sheep home life at Munda.

  The Black Sheep at Vella Lavella. The baseball caps were gifts from the St. Louis Cardinals: one cap for each enemy plane shot down. From left, on the ground: Chris Magee, Bob McClurg, Paul Mullen, Greg Boyington, John Bolt, Don Fisher. On wings: Sanders Sims, George Ashmun, Bruce Matheson, Jim Hill, Ed Olander, Bob Bragdon, Frank Walton, Ed Harper, Warren Emrich, Bill Heier, Burney Tucker, Don Moore, Jim Reames, Denmark Groover.

  South Pacific barbershop.

  Walter R. Harris was one of four Black Sheep pilots lost during the squadron’s first combat tour. (Others were Robert T. Ewing, Robert A. Alexander, and Virgil G. Ray.) Pierre Carnagey and Harry R. Bartl (left and right) were lost in the air battle for Rabaul on the second combat tour. (Others missing in action over Rabaul were James E. Brubaker, Bruce Ffoulkes, J.C. Dustin, Do
nald Moore, and George M. Ashmun.) Two Black Sheep pilots—William L. Crocker and William H. Hobbs (bottom, left and right)—were lost on combat missions over the Northern Solomons after the squadron was disbanded.

  Pilots on scramble alert at Vella Lavella.

  John S. Brown

  Don Moore explains to intelligence officer Frank Walton how he shot down a Zero, while Bob Bragdon and Herb Holden watch.

  Walton with Corsair named for his wife.

  New Year’s Eve at Vella Lavella. Pappy Boyington is holding the jug, flight surgeon Jim Reames wearing the derby.

  Seattle welcomes Pappy Boyington home after his release from Japanese prison camp, September 1945.

  Boyington after receiving the Medal of Honor from President Truman, October 1945. Walton is on the right.

  Spreading out, we searched the surrounding area. We found a wheel here, a bit of stabilizer there, parts of the wings, the fuselage. We found the plate that definitely identified the plane.

  And then we found Alex.

  The violence of the crash had torn the seat loose from the rest of the plane, and we found Alex’s bones beside it. There was a rusty knife one of the boys had given him a few days before his last flight … his crushed canteen with his initials scratched on it … a few metal buttons.

  With our machetes we scooped a shallow grave, laid his bones in it, and covered them up. Then we carried some clean white rocks up from the beach and put them around the grave. Searching about, we found a blade from his propeller, painted his name on it, and erected it at the head of his grave. We were undecided which end to make the head until Boyington said: “Let’s have him looking toward Japan so he can follow our advance all the way to Tokyo.”