Once They Were Eagles (15 page)

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.