Baa Baa Black Sheep (50 page)

Also, while the place was lined with pressmen, Mayor Kelly started to ask me a few questions. First: “Well, where were you shot down?”

“It was in the St. George Channel,” I answered. “It was between New Britain and New Ireland.”

The dear old mayor had not been paying much attention,
but at the mention of Ireland his old eyes brightened: “Oh, they got you in Ireland, eh?”

“Oh no, Mr. Mayor, not in Ireland—but off New Ireland in the South Pacific.”

“Well, go on, son, tell me all about it.”

I started explaining how I was swimming around in the water, being strafed, and finally had to take off all my clothes to keep afloat—but before I could finish, his eyes brightened again: “Oh, they caught you while you were in swimming, eh?” What was the use? I just gave up and began wondering when I could leave the place.

As a sort of paradox, though, I must say that I did not mind, and still don’t, addressing audiences, once I got used to it. I do like my audiences to be somewhat openminded, though, and sometimes I found them that way, and sometimes I didn’t. For at that time I felt that I had something to say to Americans that was useful.

The audience would be disappointed at first, or at least puzzled at first, why I—all banged up by beatings, wounds, and so on—didn’t hate the Japanese. Sure, I hated the little guards who made me miserable when I was a captive. But the best analogy I could make to my audiences was as if some little kid were making you miserable if you were tied up on a davenport. You would hate the little devil, but, after you got loose and turned him over to the authorities or sent him to a detention school, you would not hate him any more. You would realize that he had to have education.

I explained to my audiences that I couldn’t hold any hate in my heart for the masses of the Japanese population. I had read recent articles on how the Japanese actions over there might be termed facetious in their love for America because we won the war and they want to work their way out the easiest possible way. But I saw enough in the war, and before the Japanese knew they were going to lose it, to know that the Japanese gave Americans better breaks than they did other nations.

When asked to give information on Japanese war criminals, I answered that anybody who was named by any of our fellows who had been prisoners would be looked up by the Japanese themselves. All we would have to do was ask the Japanese where these had been, give their descriptions, and the Japanese themselves would be only too happy to look up
these people. This proved itself out. Everyone they looked for who had not committed suicide was found with ease.

The occupational forces we had in Japan were small, and yet we had little trouble, and I explained why. I explained that the Japanese would co-operate to the fullest extent, which they bad done and were doing. By handling the situation properly we had gained complete control of the Pacific.

I made the analogy that the Japanese islands are comparable to the Philippine Islands, and I reminded people that not many years ago we waged a bitter war with the Filipinos, who are now our bosom friends, buddies, and allies. I tried to make the analogy that the Japanese people are far more industrious, and that in time we will have a much better asset in Japan than we have in the Philippine Islands, because the Japanese have proved themselves, even in being an enemy, far more co-operative and industrious than the Filipinos in trying to rebuild their country and get things straightened around.

And in closing most of my talks I would remind the audience again that Japan has followed us and copied us in everything we did, and that they liked our way of doing things since the day we forced trade upon them. And that in twenty or so years from now, or even less, Japan would be one of our greatest assets, an American-thinking Japan right off the coast of Russia!

At the height of my luxurious living, I didn’t have time to enjoy it, and I realized that I never would—even with time. Once again in my life another milestone, another location, turned out to be just another millstone around my neck.

So I indeed welcomed a long-distance call from the Marine Corps Headquarters in Washington. It was from one of my first squadron commanders, now a major general in Headquarters—old “Skeeter” McKittrick.

“Hello, Rats,” the general chuckled over the phone, “this is McKittrick.”

“Well, hello, General. It is nice to hear from you.” But I was thinking: “I wonder what’s wrong now. If there were any complaints, then, what right have they to complain, after all I’ve done for them. It isn’t fair for anybody to criticize me for the wonderful job I’m doing, educating the public.”

He continued: “Just received a hostile letter from the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, giving us hell for using a guy who has too many things wrong with him. The way they describe the guy, I don’t think he’s alive.”

“Is that so, then, who is he, sir?”

“I’ll read the letter, because I believe you know more about this fellow than I do.”

Then the general went on reading this lengthy, damning letter addressed to Marine Corps Headquarters. It stated ailments too numerous to mention, such as beriberi, liver, and some high-sounding medical terms for something radically wrong with a leg, and various other diseases caused by malnutrition, and wound up by ordering them to have this individual turn himself in to a naval hospital of his choosing, immediately. Yes, it was difficult to believe, but they were referring to me.

How happy I was for an excuse to wind up this madhouse I had found myself in. But I just had to pretend that I was gallant, so I said: “General, I only have one more week scheduled, which winds me up in Portland, Oregon. So, with your permission, I will do my duty on the way back, then turn into a hospital near Los Angeles.”

“Okay, Rats, that will be all right, I guess. Good luck, let me hear from you.” General “Skeeter” closed out, little realizing that they were not only going to hear, but they were going to see an avalanche of unfavorable crap plastered all over the front pages of every newspaper in the country as a result of my drinking past. I knew that all this was on its way even though I pretended otherwise, for I just simply couldn’t face facts. And my drinking pattern was coming back again, worse than ever. I was able to get by with the talks and in some very fancy places because I was smart enough not to take a drink until the occasion was almost over, consequently, a great many people were spared embarrassment. That is, all the people except those who attended a talk in the last city on my itinerary, which happened to be Portland, Oregon. Once again I had counted upon completing a job before casting it to one side as useless; but no, fate, as I termed it—fate later became alcohol as far as I was concerned—was to rear its ugly head. And with my lecture tour in the bag, so to speak, it happened again.

After getting out of the car in Portland we were taken up
to a large suite. There was a grand piano, along with many other things I had no use for. However, I soon spotted one item that could be of some use, a scotch-and-soda setup on the table. The committee said: “Go ahead, take your time. Rest, get cleaned up and take a shower and shave. We won’t have this informal dinner for a couple of hours.”

“But I’m not expected to go to any dinner tonight,” I answered. “The program’s supposed to start tomorrow, not today.”

“But this is just a little dinner,” the committee said. “Only a few of us will be there. You’ll not even have to talk. Just relax, take a few drinks, you’ll have plenty of time to get cleaned up later.”

All my life I seemed to have difficulty saying no to anything, especially when I was drinking. But my biggest problem was that I could never say no to liquor—and mean it. I suppose the only reason for the war record is that I couldn’t stop myself from volunteering. When I didn’t have to say no, all I had to do in most cases was to remain silent. But silence wasn’t one of my virtues either.

The committee hung around. I poured drinks for them, and they poured drinks for me. They began to feel good, but I am certain that I felt better. One of the more jovial said: “Pappy, I’ve heard that you can give a hell of a good talk, but that you’re always sober. I’d love to hear you after you’ve had a few drinks, so you could feel free to cut loose, giving us the real lowdown.”

Frank could stand no more and said: “Man, you don’t know what you’re asking for. Please believe me, and let well enough alone. Why don’t you all leave and let Greg get some sleep? I know what I’m talking about.”

With a few drinks in me I resented this, but I laughed for the benefit of the straggling committee and said: “Oh, Frank is just the worrying type. Thank God he is, or I’d never been able to complete this trip. But come on, fellows, I love good company, so let’s have another drink.”

Frank left us saying: “I’m going to catch an hour’s rest. But don’t ever say that I didn’t warn you people.”

The shower, shave, and rest I had looked forward to slowly slipped out of my mind. We drank right up until somebody said: “My, how time flies; it’s time for dinner.”

I was escorted down to a lower floor where the informal
dinner, or whatever it was, was to take place, and I found that this informal affair included about two hundred of the city’s leading citizens, all dressed formally for the occasion. Leading, I might add, as far as making money was concerned.

A combination of shock and scotch made these guests go out of focus, much as if they were standing behind the heat waves coming off from a hot radiator. I had been tricked. I had to talk, and there was no way out of it. In order to get by I realized I was going to have to eat and then drink a lot of black coffee before it came time for me to speak.

I had every intention of sobering up, and I was trying my damnedest by gulping down a few cups of coffee. My audience was beginning to get into focus a bit better, when one of my drinking friends in the committee said: “Too bad you can’t talk like Patton. Have you ever read one of Patton’s speeches, Pappy?”

I answered: “No, I haven’t, but that is a man I admire.”

He laughed and handed me a sheet of typewritten paper, and he said: “This is a copy of one of Patton’s speeches. Go ahead, read it. I’ll bet you wish you could talk like he does.”

The coffee had cleared my vision enough to enable me to struggle through a speech that had a wonderful selection of four-letter words. This had been given to a completely different kind of audience from the one I had facing me, but the committeeman had started my ego rolling.

In an attempt to get sober I hadn’t so much as touched any of the drinks lined up in front of me. They just stood there waiting until my talk was over. I was going to be announced any minute. But by now I was desperate. Forgetting the fact that my audience was a group of men and women, and all of them swells, I was going to try to top Patton’s talk, which had gotten his troops so fired up. In order to do this I needed something, and something in a hurry, too.

The answer was staring me right in the face, five or six glasses full of scotch and soda (heavy on the scotch and light on the soda). I downed the lot of these glasses about as rapidly as I would have downed water on Truk, if the Japs had given it to me. The stage was set. My lengthy and fantastic introduction was at an end, at last.

With General Patton’s speech before me to help remind me just how far to go, I started out:

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I compliment you all, for I have never seen more beautiful gowns or handsome dress clothes. And how thoughtful of you to invite me to this little surprise. I wish to thank you for gathering here tonight, because I realize that it must be quite a sacrifice on your part. But I will assure you that I will get right to the meat of this occasion. I shall not keep you long.

“You came here to be entertained by some sideshow freak, I know. You want to hear about the time when my foot was bleeding so badly that I had to roll my Corsair onto its back to make my blood last longer. How I continued shooting down Japs upside-down against overwhelming odds. Yes, you’d love to have me dramatize the race between running out of ammunition and running out of life’s blood.

“But I know the only reason I should be here tonight. And I would like to inform you of the only reason you should be here.

“It is not to pay homage to a so-called war hero, because he would have been helpless without the financial assistance of slobs like you. So, in closing, I’m going to remind all of you slobs to continue to invest in War Bonds.

“Thank you for your time. Good night.”

Then I sat down. There wasn’t one single clap of hands. The guests filed out of the private dining hall with bewildered expressions on their faces. None of them ganged up at the speaker’s table to shove and shake my hand as they usually did. The committee members were dumfounded and probably hoped that the whole thing was nothing but a bad dream. I recall saying: “This serves me right. I shouldn’t talk over people’s heads.”

Then someone put his arm around my shoulders and said: “Come on, Greg, forget it. I love you. You’re just at the wrong address tonight, so let’s go to a night club where we’re wanted, then we’ll have a little fun.”

This man took me to a night club. I have often wished that I had some way of repaying him for some of the kindness and thoughtfulness he has displayed throughout the years. He happened to be my uncle, Guy Boyington, and I am positive that he would do the same for any poor soul.

But the bond tour was over, at last. It was loused up at its completion like everything else in my life. Frank and I headed for Los Angeles, and his home.

One of the things I have never been able to figure out is how lucky a person can be, especially one who has a knack for always getting into trouble. Others have wondered too. Some have said so—to my face.

A few years prior to the war a classmate who was killed later while dive-bombing at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, gave a toast one night. His name was Ray Emerson, and a great person. Ray and I started out in the Marine corps together, so he knew me well enough to wonder about some of the luck I had.

My drinking had not progressed to the point where it seemed to bother me in the slightest, but some things were happening that most people pass off as bad luck, things actually caused by neglect and by forgetting what seemed to be a part of me, leading to forced landings and car accidents. Although none of these incidents was pinned down as my fault, I am certain most of them could have been avoided if I hadn’t been drinking.