Target: Rabaul: The Allied Siege of Japan's Most Infamous Stronghold, March 1943 - August 1945

by Bruce Gamble

  Knowing he would be passed over for promotion by the next selection board, Boyington went to the air-conditioned bar of the Hotel San Carlos one hot August night and met with a recruiter for the American Volunteer Group (AVG). Learning that he could make almost three times his current pay by flying P-40 fighters overseas in support of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, plus five hundred dollars for every Japanese airplane he destroyed, Boyington resigned his commission and joined the AVG.

  The director of aviation at the time was then-Colonel Mitchell, who approved Boyington’s resignation in “the best interests of the service.” Mitchell added a strongly worded caution, recommending that “Boyington not be reappointed at a future date in either the regular Marine Corps or Marine Corps Reserve.”

  Unfortunately for Boyington, he did not improve his reputation with the AVG. Although the mercenary group achieved early successes against the numerically superior JAAF in China (the grateful citizens called them Flying Tigers), Boyington enjoyed little personal glory. He neither appreciated nor respected the AVG’s leadership, starting with the high-profile commanding officer, Claire Chennault, whose rank as a colonel was self-appointed. Boyington spent only five months overseas, during which he fought with his fellow Flying Tigers as much as with the Japanese. He received credit for shooting down two enemy planes in aerial combat, but was shortchanged on bonus money for destroying three and a half planes on the ground. Bitter over the disputed pay, he began drinking more heavily and belligerently. Ultimately, Boyington quit the AVG in disgust and spent the money he’d earned buying passage back to the United States.

  Upon his arrival in July 1942, Boyington proceeded to Headquarters, Marine Corps and asked to be reinstated. Although Mitchell had recommended against this, much had changed. Heavy losses at Pearl Harbor, Wake Island, and Midway had decimated the marine fighter community. Tipping the scale in his favor, Boyington untruthfully told headquarters that he was an ace in the AVG, with six victories. A pilot with such a skill set—not to mention an association with the famed Flying Tigers—would certainly not hurt the situation. Accepted for reinstatement, Boyington shipped overseas in January 1943. Later that year he assumed command of VMF-122, but he suffered another setback when he broke his left ankle in a brawl with one of his own pilots.

  After recovering in a New Zealand field hospital, Boyington returned in late July to Turtle Bay, the fighter strip on Espiritu Santo. There he performed administrative duties as the temporary officer in charge of squadrons returning to the United States. Although he understood the rationale behind his stint in purgatory, not flying drove him crazy. Fortunately, a new development presented him with an unexpected opportunity.

  BULL HALSEY, BUSY with invasion plans for Bougainville in late summer 1943, was particularly worried about enemy air attacks out of Rabaul, only 250 miles away. This put a premium on fighter coverage. Most of the navy outfits were still flying outdated F4F Wildcats, whereas the marines had been successful with their hand-me-down Corsairs. Halsey wanted even more of the big gull-winged fighters for the Bougainville campaign, but timing was against him. By late summer 1943, four of the first eight squadrons equipped with F4Us had completed their obligatory combat tours and were headed home. Conversely, only two new squadrons were en route from the States to replace them.

  To compensate, someone in Halsey’s chain of command hatched an idea. The squadrons that departed left their Corsairs at Turtle Bay, and new fighters were being shipped in on a regular basis; therefore, why not use the excess planes to form a new squadron with replacement pilots? Dozens of pilots were available. Some had recently arrived overseas after completing flight training in the States; others had gotten out of sequence with their original units due to illness, combat wounds, or other setbacks.

  Boyington was one of the latter. Waiting for his broken ankle to mend, he was transferred into VMF-124, the unit serving as the administrative catchall for fighter pilots in the replacement pool. In mid-August, Boyington received authorization to select twenty-seven pilots to form an independent flight echelon. His instructions were apparently verbal, as no official orders are known to exist.

  Boyington chose highly experienced pilots, including eight others with one or even two tours of combat. After three weeks of training, the squadron became an official flight echelon on September 7. For administrative purposes, the handpicked squadron was given the control number belonging to a flight echelon that had just completed a difficult combat tour in the central Solomons. No one told the original members of VMF-214, who were justifiably upset when they learned about the sneaky administrative change. Split up and assigned to different squadrons, they blamed Boyington for their misfortune.

  They also had cause for jealousy. Boyington and his handpicked team came up with a media-savvy name, the Black Sheep, and proved to be hotshots right away. VMF-214 scored heavily on its third combat mission, during which Boyington became a rare ace-in-a-day with five victories. Facing determined opposition from the Eleventh Air Fleet, the Black Sheep were closely involved in the campaign over southern Bougainville throughout late September and the first three weeks of October. Boyington’s score ran up quickly, his personal charisma making a big impression on war correspondents. Near the conclusion of the squadron’s six-week tour, Boyington led several fighter sweeps over the enemy’s vaunted base at Kahili. In two consecutive days, the squadron officially downed nineteen planes and added four probable victories without losing a single pilot. During that stretch, while temporarily based at Munda, the squadron received a visit from Halsey. Eager to meet the marine pilots everybody was talking about, he spent several minutes shaking hands and offering congratulations.

  Thanks to the VIP visit, the Black Sheep caught the attention of other key military personnel. The squadron’s record was impressive—fifty-seven victories and nineteen probables in barely a month of combat—and Boyington made great strides toward proving that he wasn’t a bum.

  After the six-week combat tour ended, Lt. Col. Raymond E. Hopper, commanding officer of Marine Air Group 21, forwarded a letter recommending Boyington for a Medal of Honor. His recommendation, aside from Boyington’s ace-in-a-day achievement, emphasized the squadron’s repeated success “against superior numbers of enemy aircraft.” At about the same time, Boyington received a letter of commendation from Fighter Command praising his “brilliant combat record, readiness to undertake the most hazardous types of missions, and a superior type of flight leadership.”

  Both of these documents crossed the desk of the commanding general of the 1st Marine Air Wing (MAW) for endorsement, swinging the pendulum of fate in Boyington’s favor. Although this was Mitchell, who had recommended Boyington’s permanent separation from the Marine Corps two years earlier, he now saw the hard-charging fighter pilot in a completely different light. Moreover, Mitchell was tapped by Halsey as the new ComAirSols on November 20.

  Boyington had other allies. Mitchell’s chief of staff was Brig. Gen. James T. “Nuts” Moore, a paternal sort who took Boyington under his wing and supplied him with scotch. The fact that two marine generals were running the tactical side of Halsey’s aerial forces certainly helped Boyington’s cause. Under their guidance, the siege of Rabaul would resume—and pressure the Japanese more strongly than ever.

  Meanwhile, the Black Sheep enjoyed leave in Sydney, then spent much of November reorganizing at Turtle Bay, where the flight echelon expanded to forty pilots. At the end of the month, ready to commence another combat tour, VMF-214 advanced to Barakoma airstrip on Vella Lavella. Then followed a frustrating period of little action while the Seabees completed the airstrip at Torokina Point, but the wait proved worthwhile.

  Boyington’s personal record stood at twenty enemy aircraft. Fourteen had fallen during the recent combat tour, and the Marine Corps believed that he shot down six as a Flying Tiger, though only two were aerial victories. Not bothering to verify his claim, the marines gave him four fabricated victories, which became part of his permanent record. Moreove
r, his current total of twenty put him within six of the all-time American record, currently shared by Maj. Joseph J. Foss of Guadalcanal fame, and Capt. Edward V. “Eddie” Rickenbacker of World War I. Both men had earned a Medal of Honor.

  Once again, timing was important. The new airstrip at Torokina Point became operational on December 10, which meant that SOPAC forces could finally take on Rabaul. And for Boyington, it meant an opportunity to make a run at history.

  *Worth approximately $63,000 in 2013, based on the Consumer Price Index inflation calculator

  CHAPTER 19

  The Ace Race

  BOYINGTON SPENT SEVERAL hours at the Torokina fighter strip on December 10, and found it nothing like the quagmire Olander had described. “You must be crazy,” he teased when he returned to Vella Lavella. “It was as dry as a desert.”

  Encouraged by the field’s improving condition, Boyington led two divisions of Black Sheep on a dawn patrol over Bougainville the next morning. After extending the patrol to nearly four hours, the eight Corsairs landed at Torokina to refuel. The new airfield was in even better shape as the Seabees kept making refinements.

  While other divisions in VMF-214 flew patrols the following day, Boyington took off shortly after lunch and landed at Munda, where he met with General Moore. They both looked forward to such visits. “I simply adored the man,” Boyington wrote later, “and he had always impressed me as a father rather than a superior officer.” Conversely, Moore was genuinely fond of the hard-drinking, irreverent Boyington, probably seeing himself in the major’s behavior.

  The meeting brought good news for Boyington. Moore apparently told him about the Medal of Honor recommendation, and shortly thereafter Boyington shared the news with his mother. “I never dreamed that someday I was going to get the highest honor they give,” he mentioned in a letter. “But you said you wanted a new dress for a trip to Washington, D.C., so I had to go out and knock down a mess of Japs to give my mom her wish.…”

  Moore undoubtedly cautioned Boyington to keep the information private. The recommendation had to receive numerous endorsements before it was approved. Besides the letter to his mother, Boyington complied. However, his awareness of the possible award undoubtedly affected his decisions and demeanor during the coming combat tour.

  While Boyington visited Munda, he and Moore discussed the prospects of a fighter sweep against Rabaul. Three days later, on the afternoon of December 15, a notice appeared in the daily orders calling all fighter squadron commanders to a conference at Munda the next day. In response, Boyington and eight other skippers met with the marine generals on December 16 to plan the mission. Designating the leader was easy. The most unorthodox squadron in SOPAC, commanded by the bad-boy pilot with the hottest scoring streak, would spearhead the first Allied attack on Rabaul by land-based, single-engine aircraft.

  The effort would be enormous, with fighters stacked at different altitudes to resemble a bombing formation—and hopefully mislead Japanese radar operators. All the squadron commanders wanted a piece of the action, and Moore tried to fit them all in. The number of participants grew to thirty-two marine F4Us, twenty-four navy F6Fs, and twenty-four RNZAF Kittyhawks: eighty fighters in all. Departing from separate bases on Vella Lavella and New Georgia, they would converge at Torokina, top off with fuel, then take off to attack Rabaul.

  Returning to Vella Lavella, Boyington and his air combat intelligence officer, Lt. Frank E. Walton Jr., prepped for the important mission. By early evening, Walton had gathered the necessary material to brief the marine contingent, which included Maj. Marion E. Carl, a veteran of Midway and Guadalcanal, and the Marine Corps’ first ace. Now in command of VMF-223, Carl would lead his share of future missions against Rabaul.

  With Boyington on the cusp of the American victory record, there was no lack of correspondents hovering around him. Sergeant Marion “Dan” Bailey, a marine journalist, spent nearly all his time with the squadron in an era when embedding had not yet been invented. He later quoted some of the practical advice given by Boyington during the briefing:

  There’s no such thing as strategy in fighting up there. Gambler’s guts would be better to describe what a fighter pilot needs. Good aerial fighting is a gamble. And you’ve got to be willing to take the consequences if you lose. It’s just like street fighting. If you hit the other guy first, and hit him hard, you’ll probably strike the last blow. That he’ll hit you back harder than you hit him is the chance you have to take.

  Walton briefed the pilots on the mission essentials, including rally points, weather forecasts, and rescue information. Two U.S. Navy Lockheed PV-1 Venturas would patrol the air route between Bougainville and New Britain during the attack phase, and two Dumbos (PBY Catalinas) would be on dedicated standby at Bougainville under the callsign Dane Base.

  With two divisions of Black Sheep in tow, Boyington took off the next morning at 0515 for the forty-five minute hop to Torokina. There was barely enough room on the new airfield for eighty fighters, let alone the small fleet of fuel trucks. Takeoffs commenced when the topping off was complete, starting with Boyington at 0900. It took well over an hour to get all of the planes airborne from the single runway. One of the New Zealand P-40s had starter trouble and two others turned back with mechanical issues, but one standby Corsair slid into place. The initial effort totaled seventy-eight Allied fighters.

  The two New Zealand outfits, Nos. 14 and 16 Squadrons, were to proceed at fifteen thousand feet or less. They had been operational in the Solomons since mid-1943, but this would be one of the first major offensive missions for RNZAF fighters in the Pacific. The squadrons were led by Wing Commander Trevor O. Freeman, commanding officer of the RNZAF wing based at Ondonga, New Georgia. An experienced combat veteran, Freeman had served with the Royal Air Force during the early stages of the war, flying nearly sixty combat missions. His job this day was to lead the P-40s over Rabaul at medium altitude and stir up the interceptors. Arriving a few minutes later at stepped-up altitudes, the Hellcats and Corsairs would hit the Japanese from above.

  Heading northwest, the sun warming their backs, the New Zealanders and Americans climbed to their assigned altitudes. Surrounded by squadron mates, each pilot sat quietly, gazing at the longest stretch of ocean he had ever faced. The flight from Torokina to Rabaul took almost two hours, including 140 miles of unbroken water between Bougainville and New Ireland. Every few seconds the pilots scanned their instruments and paid close attention to the sound of their engines—the Kiwis listening to the smooth purr of liquid-cooled Allisons, the Yanks to the unbridled rumble of fat, eighteen-cylinder Pratt & Whitney radials. A burp in the rpm, a twitch in one of the engine gauges, almost any little anomaly was enough to cause a cold sweat. This was no place to suffer a breakdown. In a single-engine aircraft, even a small problem with the engine, electrical system, communications, or other components could quickly escalate into an emergency.

  Lieutenant Paul A. “Moon” Mullen, a Black Sheep pilot and University of Notre Dame graduate, wrote a song mocking the prospect of being adrift and even captured. It became surprisingly popular—prophetically so—at squadron songfests across the South Pacific:

  “In a Rowboat at Rabaul”

  If your engine conks out now

  You’ll come down from forty thou’

  And you end up in a rowboat at Rabaul

  In a rowboat at Rabaul

  We are throwing in the towel

  ’Cause they’ll never send the Dumbo over here.

  We’ll be prisoners of war

  With a nifty Nippon whore

  Getting drunk on sake and New Britain beer.

  Due to the slow takeoff evolution from Torokina and the lower altitude assignment for the P-40s, Freeman and his two Kiwi squadrons leveled off before their American counterparts had an opportunity to get organized. Rather than maintaining the planned interval, Freeman proceeded toward Rabaul with his twenty remaining Kittyhawks, leaving their top cover far behind.

  Boyington eventually
got the conglomeration of Hellcats and Corsairs sorted out, at which point the formation started across the Solomon Sea. Circumventing a large storm, they fell even farther behind the P-40s. More than halfway to Rabaul, one of the VMF-214 Corsairs began to run roughly. Lieutenant Sanders S. “Sandy” Sims nervously turned for home with his wingman. The gesture was a matter of common sense. It was unwise for anyone with a mechanical problem to attempt the long overwater flight alone.

  Boyington and the rest of his formation continued toward New Britain, finding the skies at high altitude clear of enemy aircraft.

  Down below, the situation was different. The Japanese had recently gained twenty Zeros (along with thirty-six Kates) in response to the Allied landings at Arawe on December 15. On the morning of December 17, more than fifty Zeros and a dozen Kates had attacked the invasion convoy off the southwestern coast of New Britain. Some of the fighters, straggling back from the mission, were still airborne. An additional twenty-seven Zeros of Air Groups 201 and 204 scrambled from Lakunai airdrome when Freeman’s P-40s approached. On the southern side of the caldera, Air Group 253 sent additional fighters aloft from Tobera. Altogether, seventy Reisens responded to the approaching attackers.

  Dropping to hit the Zeros climbing from Lakunai, the New Zealanders made the most of their superior altitude. Freeman apparently knocked down one Zero just as it was getting airborne over Praed Point, but after that initial pass, the Kiwis’ advantage dissolved. Once the P-40s were down at the Zeros’ altitude and their airspeed bled off with a couple of turns, the advantage was reversed. Freeman drew a lot of attention, and while heading east across Saint George’s Channel, his Kittyhawk was hit in a vital spot. It was seen trailing smoke, or perhaps a thin mist of Glycol, the lifeblood coolant of the inline-engine. Either way, Freeman was not flying back to Torokina.