Once They Were Eagles (31 page)

“You've been pretty faithful about making our Black Sheep reunions, and seem to get along great with all of them,” I said.

“Yes, we were a close-knit group, much closer than any other I've ever been in. The squadron had tremendous morale. We had a leader who was experienced, and we had faith in him. He was one of the boys on the ground, but he knew what he was doing in the air, and we knew he was on the level with the rest of us. If you got a lousy aircraft, you figured, well, he's got one, too.”

Nashville, Tennessee, dates back to 1779, when a band of pioneers cleared an area along the Cumberland River and built a stockade for a fort. A few months later, several families arrived by boat to settle the area. Now, Nashville is a thriving metropolis of some half a million people; its Grand Ole Opry is world famous; about an hour's drive south is Lynchburg, home of the best sipping whiskey in the world: Jack Daniels. Famous Tennesseeans include Andrew Jackson, Davy Crockett, David Farragut, and Sam Houston.

To these can be added Black Sheep Burney Tucker, with four Japanese planes to his credit, 105 missions, five Battle Stars, Air Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross, Japan Occupation and Presidential Unit Citation.

Burney was born in Nashville and reared in Murfreesboro; he'd had two and a half years at Middle Tennessee State College when he went into the Marine Corps. I interviewed him in a Nashville hospital room. During the course of a routine physical, the doctors had discovered an arrhythmia in his heart and insisted on an immediate angiogram—which was negative. I arrived the next day and found him in excellent spirits although still under observation.

“I saw a lot of places: I was at E Base in Atlanta and then Jacksonville for basic training, where I got my wings in January 1943; up to Great Lakes to qualify on the carrier
Wolverine;
San Diego and overseas on the U.S.S.
Wharton
—somebody told us it was Admiral Byrd's Southern Cross; New Caledonia in July 1943; then Espiritu Santo. There we bounced from one squadron to another; they said we were in the pool. I had several hundred hours in the Corsair when all of a sudden, in September, I was transferred to 214 and went into combat a week later. I was scared, the first mission. If anyone says he wasn't, he's a liar. The only thing that saved us was our training.

“On the second or third hop out of Munda, when I was flying on Boyington's wing, a Zero made a pass at him and was on his tail. I shot that one down; then I got a hot feeling on my neck, looked around, and I'm being attacked. I did the right thing: turned in to him and went under. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have gotten away. But I'd saved Boyington's neck. I always said that Pappy Boyington wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Burney Tucker. I also was one of a four plane division who later searched Blanche Channel for Pappy after he was lost in January 1944.

“After the war I decided to stay in and make a career in the Marines, but after I was accepted, I began to have second thoughts. I'd read a lot about architecture while I was in Japan and liked the idea of it, so I got out and went back to college. When the Korean War came along, I was at Georgia Tech working on my master's degree, and perhaps that's why I was one of the two (out of 34) in my Reserve squadron who did not go.

“I got my degreee and spent five years as an architect's apprentice in Phoenix. In May 1956 I came back to Nashville and opened my own office.”

Tucker is a member of the National American Institute of Architects, the Tennessee Society of Architects, and the National Council of Architectural Registration Boards. He has also served as member and chairman of the Brentwood, Tennessee, Planning Commission.

“Black Sheep success? I think we were at the right place at the right time; we had a great airplane, Boyington's leadership, and experience. By that, I mean we had more experienced pilots than a brand-new squadron commissioned in the States. As time went on, we became more honed and a better and better team. That's the real reason for our success: we were a team. Others had just one man. Of course, we had Boyington, but the whole squadron shared in the work and in the record. After all, the other pilots, besides Boyington, shot down
75
of the 97 planes we scored.

“It was easy to be misunderstood by the folks back home. When I was overseas, my grandmother turned over some of my letters to a local newspaper, which published some articles based on them. I'd written that I'd found some ‘cats eyes,' and evidently the girl who wrote the article didn't know they were a type of seashell. She wrote that I killed jungle cats and liked to keep their eyes. I thought I'd never hear the last of that.

“My practice keeps me busy now, but I'm trying to slow down. I do a lot of reading. I enjoy life, and I tell others to enjoy life. I enjoy my work, my family, and my fond memories of those days with the Black Sheep.”

Sonoma, where Al Marker has his lovely home, is steeped in tradition. The town of some 6,000 is the site of the flag raising in June 1846 that proclaimed California a republic. The Stars and Stripes replaced it in July of that year.

Sonoma is in the heart of wine country; there's one high-quality winery just up the road, and nearby is the Sonoma State Historic Park containing the well-preserved home of General Vallejo, the city's founder. Close by are the home of macho author Jack London, and the Jack London State Historic Park.

Although one of the youngest Black Sheep, Al's gray hair and shaggy gray beard make him appear the oldest, but he is energetic, vigorous, and active in civic and philanthropic affairs in his city.

His tour with the Black Sheep was shortlived. Joining us for our second combat tour, he was injured in a crash at Bougainville not long afterward, evacuated, and hospitalized; he did not rejoin us until we returned to Espiritu Santo. He completed his overseas duty at Green Island, came back to the States, retrained, and immediately volunteered to return overseas.

“I felt I hadn't done anything toward the war. The senior officer at
San Diego said, ‘What the hell are you doing here? You just got back a few months ago. You don't have to go overseas.'

“I said, ‘Hey, I know, but I'm going.' At the same time, I had this gut feeling, Frank, that I wouldn't live through a second tour of duty overseas.

“They sent me to the Marshalls, where we spent all our time bombing a little rock. I was totally frustrated; it was extremely disappointing. I came home assigned to Norfolk, giving out jackets to Marines who were coming back from overseas. By this time, the war was over, and I had enough points to get out, so I did, staying in the Volunteer Reserves.

“By the time the Korean War came along, I had been married about two years, had a child and a good job, but I still wanted desperately to get into the war. I remember vividly: I was on the phone with Bill O'Brien, who had a responsible position in a squadron forming up. He said, ‘Do you really want to get in?'

“I said, ‘Hell, yes, Bill, what do I do?'

“About this time, my wife came into the room, and she went
swissssh,
right through the ceiling. It was the first time I'd seen her mad. She said, ‘You're not volunteering for anything! You have responsibilities; you have a wife and child.' And I had to agree with her, Frank.

“But I suspect I'm still not over the disappointment, the embarrassment, the feeling that I just didn't do my job. As far as I was concerned, my job was to shoot down planes, not to strafe barges or blow up bridges or anything like that, however successful. And I had done everything possible to get into position where, somehow, some way, I could do my job.”

I reminded him, “Some guys never left the U.S., and others hung onto their civilian jobs and got promoted. Tell me about your life after the war.”

“I worked for a couple of printing firms for about 20 years, then bought my own company. I specialized in a very narrow area of the business, focusing on service. As a result, I was grossing a million three when I sold out.