Baa Baa Black Sheep

by Gregory Boyington

  AM UNABLE TO GRANT PERMISSION FOR BOYINGTON STOP SUGGEST YOU DRAFT BOYINGTON INTO TENTH AIR FORCE AS SECOND LIEUTENANT STOP

  This wire was signed “CHENNAULT.” Who was this guy, God? Why, he had let people who had even refused to fly return by Air Corps transportation. He had given cozy jobs on his staff to others who said they couldn’t take combat flying. Why should he pick on me? I had never turned down a fight in the air or, for that matter, ever turned down a fight in a bar-room brawl. And I had volunteered for everything even though I knew some of these missions were plain crazy. Could Chennault be one of the old-school Army who hated Marines? If so, I shouldn’t think he would even want a dead Marine’s body stinking up his precious China.

  But the real blow was the demotion he suggested, for all of my classmates by then were majors in the Marine Corps. This tyrant had to be taught a lesson, even if it meant my swimming back to the Corps and shooting down a thousand Japs.

  After being blocked out of an airplane ride, I soon found that a steamship was to leave in a couple of weeks for New York, the S.S. Brazil. So I simmered down, forgetting the past somewhat, and enjoyed the night life in Karachi, and then Bombay, where the S.S. Brazil finally departed from.

  The Brazil was a much larger and faster ship than the Bosch Fontein, and it was like old home week, for I ran into most of the missionaries I had come out with, plus some entirely new ones, all of them going back to the United States. Also, there were any number of export wives returning without their husbands, as well as a few seamen who had been torpedoed and were returning for another ship.

  The voyage turned out to be lengthy and crowded, but I can’t say it was too unenjoyable at that. The missionaries were able to keep their morale and morals up, the same as before, but the rest appeared to have morals that suited my own. For many an orgy took place during the six weeks it was to take the S.S. Brazil to reach New York without an escort. And I was right in the middle of all I could handle.

  In addition to the passengers mentioned there were around five hundred Chinese youths who were going over to the United States to learn to fly in the Air Corps schools, all from the better families throughout China. It seemed to me that all of them were speaking almost perfect English. During the one and only stopover where passengers were allowed to go ashore, in Capetown, South Africa, I knocked myself out trying to get these youths accommodations for the three days we stayed there. But Capetown would not have any part of them—they were Orientals, and Orientals were not allowed.

  Although members of the Brazil explained that these Chinese were the equivalent of our own congressmen’s sons in the United States, it was of no avail. I have come to believe in more recent years that the stuffy English were correct, and did know after all.

  One statement aboard ship had some bearing. Even though we had knocked ourselves out to help these Chinese boys to try and get lodging in Capetown, several of them talked to me in an unfriendly manner afterward. They informed me that we were not fooling the Chinese one bit: we weren’t over to help China, we were only interested in money.

  So the quarterbacks later tried to dope out who flew the Migs against us in Korea, and imagined the Russians were, although there was no evidence from crashed Migs.

  At this later date I recalled picking up a Chinese cadet while at Kunming, giving him a lift into town. And we had a barrel of fun asking the cadet questions. We asked: “How do you stand in your class?”

  “I am in the top five,” he proudly answered.

  Our next fun-poking question had been: “How long have you been taking flight training?”

  After counting up on his fingers he answered in broken English: “Four years some.”

  At the time of the Korean conflict I pulled out of my memory facts that led me to the answer. The Mig pilots weren’t Chinese, not the way they train them over in China; they were the very same Chinese we had tried to get rooms for at Capetown. These and many others following them had received the best flight training in the world, in our own U.S.A. Just another bite at the hand that tried to help—but unwisely so.

  Aboard the Brazil I had many a spare hour to meditate while gazing out over the vastness of the ocean by day, and at the stars as I lay on deck at night. I was trying to figure out problems, most of which were of no concern to myself; not knowing time always brings the answers.

  While in this deep thought I wasn’t conscious of the fact that I had already established a precedence that would provide the remaining pilots amusement for years to come. I hadn’t realized I was such a comical bastard when I had argued with the Asia staff like a half-assed idealist. And I didn’t think everyone knew I could climb to a second-story window with a bottle of scotch under one arm to make love.

  Yes, and many other things I didn’t stop to think about that people have to assume as eccentric, to say the least. A number-one position on the entertainment parade was to be provided by accounts in the newspapers coupled with the imaginations of the pilots who knew me in China for many years to follow.

  But it is wonderful, as I mentioned in the beginning of the book, to be able to join the few remaining pilots each year in Burbank and be able to laugh at myself and others. Bill Bartling almost goes into convulsions while telling about what was rumored around Kunming when they heard I had left Bombay by ship instead of by plane. Bill does the story like this: “You caused a lot of worry. We got the dope you left Bombay by ship with two thousand American nurses and the ship was sunk. We had visions of twenty years later, of coming upon some tropical island, where all of the people and their children would walk leaning forward at a forty-five-degree angle.”

  He would then add: “You know, fellows, Greg is the only son of a bitch I ever knew, who could walk leaning forward at a forty-five-degree angle and not fall.”

  Time and again we had been told, or have read, how the Statue of Liberty first appears to most Americans as they sail home after having been fighting in the war zones. The old gal seems to stand there with a homecoming welcome for a job well done. But in my own case, as our transport from Asia edged her way into New York Harbor, my own thoughts were a little different from that.

  As our vessel drew into the harbor, in July 1942, the Statue of Liberty appeared just as ever. But in my own heart I knew that I should not regard her welcome as a homecoming at all, but merely as a prelude to being able to go out again, and as soon as I could, and this time as a Marine.

  “You have done a fairly good job,” the Statue could have been saying to me. “In your year’s time away you have gotten six planes, and all that. But your job isn’t nearly complete. In fact, my boy, you haven’t even started.”

  In fact, I was so anxious to get to Washington with my papers and be reinstated back in the Marine Corps that the four-hour ride by train from New York seemed far too slow. I flew instead.

  The only clothes I had, of course, were my AVG clothes with their Chinese buttons and their rank epaulets. But I did not worry too much, as I felt it would not be long before these would be changed to our own Marine Corps uniforms, for I remembered only too well the top-secret papers that had been signed and filed away regarding all of us of the Marine Corps who had volunteered for the AVG. We had merely been a government loan to China, so to speak, and I assumed that the reinstatement would be automatic.

  So in Washington, after I put in my letter for reinstatement in the Marine Corps, I was instructed at headquarters to go to my home town on the West Coast and await my orders.

  My AVG uniform, with its gaudy epaulets, seemed too conspicuous. So, when on the train for home, I removed the epaulets and put them in my hip pocket. But when in the club car, and feeling at peace with the world, I happened to notice a couple of gentlemen in civilian clothes who continued eying me. I paid no attention to their conversation, but after a while they came over and sat beside me, one on each side.

  The two men started to question me, but as I did not feel much like talking, I gave them only a few vague answers and continued l
ooking out at the American scenery going by, for the scenery looked good after I had been away for a year.

  Each time they gave me a question I absentmindedly replied with a vague answer. Finally one of them, with a look of great satisfaction, showed me his F.B.I. card. He must have been sure that he had dug up a hot one posing in a false uniform of some sort. Nor was I the least aware that the security measures had increased so much during my absence.

  But, not being aware of it, and not knowing what he meant by showing me his identification card, I merely looked at it, saw that it was okay, and then handed it back to him.

  He broke out laughing then, and said: “But we’re inspecting you. You’re not supposed to be inspecting us.”

  Oh, so that was it. And it was my turn to laugh this time. And it all ended with the three of us each buying a round of drinks. They were good people.

  Yet in much this same regard I remember that, not many days later I almost had my block knocked off for not joining in the singing of “God Bless America.” Why, I never even had heard the words before, or knew there was such a song. It had all been originated at home while I was out at the wars. I was at some sort of football game, with accompanying victory rally, when everybody in the stands stood up and sang this song. I stood up too, but, not knowing what they were singing, I did not sing. And this was when four or five young fellows in new uniforms, and apparently very fresh recruits, started taking some swings at me. Nor was there much I could do about it. For this time I had on no uniform, but just my flight jacket with its Flying Tiger emblem. But this meant nothing to these new boys, and we all know how a football crowd can get excited about some silly fight in the stands.

  But enough of this, nor does it matter, other than that I was beginning to feel more and more lost at home, for my orders from Washington had not yet come through, and I was beginning both to worry and to wonder.

  From September clear on through to November 1942 I continued both worrying and wondering, and in direct increased proportion to the days as they went by. Each day I went to the post office expecting orders to active duty, and each day seemed longer than the day before. I had to work in order to have money on which to live. But, being a reserve officer in the supposed status of awaiting orders, I could not leave the vicinity. This meant that I could not do anything, for example, like flying for airlines. There was nothing to do but to take some common labor job. I had to go to the labor union in Seattle and explain my predicament. I was informed that there were only certain positions open to me for a while.

  So the following day I looked up an old friend who owned a large garage in the heart of the city. I had earned my way through the university by parking cars nights for him. When I now asked him for my old job back, the one I had had eight years previously, he said: “You don’t mean it. You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m broke.”

  For two long dreary months, right in the heart of the war, I parked cars—and with only high-school boys left on the job along with me. And still no word from Washington.

  A year later I was to learn the reason for this delay from Washington. It seems that, after I had filed my request for reinstatement, a renowned son of a bitch who attained his promotions by other than endangering his own life had unearthed an older order, dated in 1939, that anybody who leaves the Marine Corps “in the time of national emergency” could be classified a deserter, or the words could be interpreted something like that for his needs.

  However, I wasn’t alone in this boat, for this same man had classified all ten of us Marines who had gone with the AVG with this antiquated order he had dug out in 1942. But the hell of it was: none of the ten was to be informed, so we could not defend our rights. This officer is well known within the Marine Corps for the sure-fire method of his own personal promotion, by cleverly but continuously knifing any officer who shows signs of some ability.

  Anyway, I continued parking cars at seventy-five cents an hour, not being aware of what was going on in Washington, and ironically each noon somebody would be talking to thousands in the tremendous Victory Square adjoining the garage entrance. And ironically, too, it would be part of my job to help park the cars for military personnel who were participating in the Victory Square programs. And even though I already had seen more fighting than they had, I always was aware of the expressions on their faces: “Why aren’t you in the service?”

  Finally, after waiting almost three months, I could stand the strain no longer. It was a case of violating ethics, but in late November 1942 I sent a three-page night letter over the heads of everybody, and direct to the assistant secretary of the Navy. Owing to the length of this night letter, I had consumed a fifth of bourbon while I was composing the masterpiece, so by the time I had finished there was no pain in reading it off over the telephone to Western Union. I did not know the secretary personally, or anything like that, but whoever handled the night letter must have worked fast, or bawled out somebody, for within three days I had my orders for active duty, reporting to San Diego, and within no time at all I was on my way out to the Pacific again.

  And ironically also, exactly three years later, the war just over, I was to stand in this same Victory Square next to this same garage, while confetti was being thrown, and there were placards: “Welcome home, Pappy.”

  A guy does not forget comical twists like that, of course, nor could I forget my old friend who owned the nearby garage. As soon as I could get away from the crowds in Victory Square, I walked over to my friend at his garage and said: “Have you got a job for me, Mr. Hutchinson?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes, right now I am. But you can never tell when I’ll need one.”

  * * *

  13

  * * *

  January 1943. Again I saw the shores of the United States disappearing in the distance, the last little piece of land being Point Loma at San Diego. And again it was by water, for I happened to be aboard the S.S. Lurline, which had been converted into a troopship for World War II.

  The ship was loaded with troops who slept on bunks that were four deep all over the entire ship. I was fortunate as I shared one of the ships cabañas, originally designed for a honeymoon couple going to Hawaii but for this trip had seven officers of field grade in their places.

  The adventure and romance that were with me on the Bosch Fontein seemed to be lacking on this voyage. This time we had two destroyers to protect the speedy ship from possible attack by enemy submarines, so she was able to make excellent time as I recall, thirteen days to New Caledonia. Just once in the middle of the Pacific at midnight did we have a scare. It was an awesome sensation to experience the huge ship heel over on its side and complete a 360-degree turn while traveling at such a speed.

  The Lurline remained in the harbor at Noumea, New Caledonia, only long enough to unload the troops and her small cargo, then she was off for the United States to pick up another precious load. Noumea was our first rear-area base in the South Pacific, and, as I happened to be classified as a replacement major with no command, I was free to do a bit of sight-seeing around the island. A hot and sticky feeling, a feeling that had become only too familiar, was back again. Yes, there were filth and dirty people as well, but one additional sight struck me in a repulsive sort of way.

  While driving about Noumea I saw a long line of sailors and Marines, almost two blocks long, standing beside one of the buildings. Having been in the habit of waiting most of my life, or standing by, I don’t know why it occurred to me to ask what this line was for.

  As it was explained, there were four lone prostitutes who were taking care of this mob of men as fast as they could. Of course, they had been examined by our own medicos, and from all outward appearances these four girls were capable of doing their job fairly rapidly, at that. Pay lines, chow lines, sick-bay lines, and now a line for this beat everything I’d seen up to date.

  The following day I transferred to the General Henderson to complete my voyage to Espiritu Santo, an isla
nd in the New Hebrides group. The Henderson was an Army transport that was used along with other smaller ships to make the shorter interisland jaunts. For the United States had learned out here by sad experience not to risk large ships traveling at slow speeds or in dangerous harbors. The ship was so old the termites had almost replaced the woodwork inside the metal hull, and some of its older passengers said the ship was old during World War I, when they went to France on it.

  We arrived at Marine Aircraft Wing One Headquarters at a place called Tontuda, and disembarked. This area didn’t look too bad even in the rain, for it always seemed to rain in the New Hebrides, which I understand have one of the highest rainfalls in the world.

  But this was not my destination, and it was another splashing six-hour drive to the other side of the island to a place they called the Fighter Strip. At the time this was the first strip on the island, and the Seabees, God bless them, had constructed it out of coral with bulldozers. Many of us believed these coral white strips were the finest in the world.

  This had been a French plantation at one time. Many a coconut tree had been removed in order to make way for the Fighter Ship, its taxiways, and plane revetments. The base itself, which consisted of numerous quonset huts and tents, had been set up among coconut trees about a mile off to one side on a lagoon.

  The base was infested with mosquitoes and flies. I believe the Army Engineers finally rid Espiritu Santo of its mosquitoes, but what a task it was to be, because they were forced to put DDT and oil over practically the whole island. And after they were through with Espiritu, they had to do the same to the neighboring island so the wind wouldn’t blow them back or some others in. We took care of the flies by cleaning up acre after acre of rotting coconut husks, the flies’ breeding place. Prior to cleaning up the coconut husks a person’s body would appear coal black from only a short distance away as he was walking into a shower because of being completely covered with flies.