Once They Were Eagles (6 page)

“Nine Zeros, nine o'clock and up,” reported Rinabarger suddenly, and Case spotted them off to his left.

The two Corsairs spread out about 200 yards apart, flying a level parallel course with the enemy planes still at high nine o'clock.

In spite of their numerical superiority, the nine Zeros failed to press home the attack, making only short, ducking, ineffectual passes.

Case and Rinabarger gradually pulled away until they spotted four more Zeros attacking two Corsairs. As one of the Corsairs dived out of trouble, Case and his wingman dived on one of the Zeros. The Japanese plane smoked, pulled up sharply, and then rolled over and down, leaving a black trail.

Case rolled and spiraled down behind him, losing his wingman in the dive. Rinabarger had mistaken the other Corsair for Case and had joined with him.

Case, in turn, joined a Navy Hellcat, and the two started home. The Hellcat pilot spotted a straggler in trouble, waggled his wings, and turned to attack with Case following. The Hellcat pilot made a beam run, firing, but missed, and the Zero turned in toward Case. The two planes—Japanese and American—came at each other with guns firing. Four of Case's six guns quit, but he continued his head-on run.

It was the Zero that pulled out in a chandelle to the left. Case pulled sharply to the right and rolled over on him in an overhead pass. The Japanese pilot rolled over and spiraled down, Case staying with him even though only two of his guns were firing.

At 4,000 feet Case began his pullout, leveling off at 1,500 feet. The Zero had disappeared.

During the scramble Rinabarger saw a “daisy chain”: a Corsair had a Zero on its tail, another Corsair was on the Zero's tail, and another
Zero was on the second Corsair's tail. Ronnie dived to make the fifth, but the last Zero pulled away as he did so.

John Begert was leading a division of Black Sheep when the skies rained Zeros.

“After a few violent maneuvers,” he told me, “a Zero came across my bow, followed by a Corsair. The Zero slow-rolled to the right, rolled on his back, and pulled through too tightly for the Corsair to follow. I peeled off and got in a short burst at the Zero. He burst into flames from the underside of the engine and all along the belly. The pilot bailed out.

“Thirty seconds later the same thing happened. Another Zero, followed by another Corsair, pulled through so sharply the Corsair couldn't stay with him. I opened fire from about 50 yards and gave him a short burst. The Zero rolled over on his back, and I rolled with him, firing all the way through. He caught fire along the sides of the cowl as we were inverted, and then he spun down burning and crashed in the water.”

Bob Ewing, Black Sheep Flight Officer, was leading a division consisting of Bob McClurg, Paul Mullen, and Tom Emrich. These four Black Sheep attacked 16 Zeros in a diving turn to the right. Ewing crowded over so much toward the other three planes in his division, which were on his right, that McClurg had to cross under him to give him room. In doing so, he was left on the outside of the turn and could not stay with his three division mates.

Ewing kept crowding over on Mullen, trying to get into a position to fire. Mullen continued to slide over until he saw a Zero in a steep dive on a Corsair to the left below them. Mullen and his wingman, Emrich, cut under Ewing and got in a burst at the attacking Zero. The Zero spun, smoked, and then went off to the side in a controlled dive.

When McClurg leveled off at 21,000 feet he looked around for his division, but couldn't spot them. Then he looked for any friendly plane to join up with. Off to his left he spotted a rust-colored Zero on its back, firing at a friendly plane. McClurg immediately headed in that direction. The friendly plane began to burn and went down vertically.

The Zero rolled out at the same altitude as McClurg and came at him in a head-on run from about 400 yards out.

“I could see puffs of smoke coming from his wings so I knew he was firing at me,” said McClurg, “but I couldn't tell whether or not he was hitting me. I just held the trigger down as we came at each other. My tracers seemed to be crossing right in front of his engine, apparently having no effect at first.

“At the last possible instant before we would have collided, the
Zero rolled over and dropped into a diving turn to the right with black smoke pouring out of its engine.

“I circled to the left above him and watched as flame burst from the engine and shot back to the cockpit. Then he spun down burning.”

Boyington, leading the Black Sheep's first division, heard the “Tally Ho” call, but saw no enemy planes near him. He pushed over and went down through a layer of clouds looking for them. He was in a sharp circle to the left with Don Fisher, his wingman, about 200 yards behind him when a Zero came in from the left, crossed between the two Black Sheep, and circled in a quarter pass on Boyington. Fisher fired a burst at the Zero, which went into a slow roll to the left.

“I closed in on him,” related Fisher, “and gave him another burst at the top of his roll. Flames shot out of his wing roots, and then the whole plane exploded.

“I looked around for Pappy, but before I could spot him, a Corsair passed in front of me with a Zero on its tail. I fired a short burst and missed, but caused the Zero to pull up into a slow roll to the left. I gave him a continuous burst as he was on his back. He scooped his slow roll and then began to smoke heavily. He fell off on his left wing and spun down. I followed him down, firing, to 4,000 feet. He spun in, burning.”

Shortly after he lost Fisher, Boyington saw a Zero pull alongside, waggle his wings, and pull ahead, passing within 100 feet of him. The Zero had somehow mistaken Boyington for a friendly plane as this is the signal to join up. Boyington accommodated him by giving him a burst from 50 yards. The Zero flamed from the cockpit and spun down burning.

Looking for his flight, Boyington could see no planes at all, so he started for home. Ten thousand feet below him, he spotted several Zeros making passes at the rear of our bomber formation. Pappy pushed over and dived on one of them, opening fire at 300 yards and closing fast.

“The Zero exploded completely when I was about 50 feet from him,” said Boyington. “I threw up my arms to protect my face and flew through the debris.”

Boyington's plane had dents in the cowling and leading edges of his wings from this debris.

“I climbed back in the sun to 18,000 feet and looked around. A Zero was diving on the right flank of the bombers.

“I started to dive, and as I did so, the Zero overran his target and pulled up to about 11,000 feet. I leveled out a little and caught him on the rise as he climbed. I opened fire at about 300 yards and held the
trigger down as he went into a loop. I stayed with him in the loop for a moment; then he pulled inside of me, and as I was on my back, I looked below and saw him flame and spin down.

“I climbed back in the sun and took another look. Zeros that had been heckling the bombers were now leaving them and heading for home in pairs at about 6,000 feet. I spotted what I thought was a single, and knowing I'd have too much speed in a power dive, I slid down on him in a throttle-back glide.

“The Zero began to make a gentle turn to the left and was just a sitting duck. I knew this was entirely too easy so I looked around for the catch. Sure enough, there it was—the bait's wingman was off to the right waiting for me to make a pass and sucker in.

“I continued my pass, watching the hovering Zero out of the corner of my eye until he dove in on me. Then I suddenly jerked on the stick and kicked my rudder. My Corsair cartwheeled to the right and I was in a head-on run at the second Zero.

“I could see pieces flying off his cowling as I held the trigger down during the run. The Zero pulled up and I passed directly under him and then pulled up in a chandelle to the left and saw that he was smoking badly.

“I followed him, climbing, intending to finish him off, but he went down in a flat glide and crashed into the water.

“I didn't want to crowd my luck too far, so I headed for home again. However, I spotted a pair of Zeros about 3,000 feet below me. They turned on me, evidently thinking I was a cripple.

“Since a strong offense is the best defense, I made a head-on run at the leader. When he pulled out to the right, I swung toward the second one. He began to smoke, but I was low on gas, ammunition, and altitude, so I continued on for home, climbing to about 10,000 feet.

“I then spotted a single plane, only about 3,000 feet off the water, which I thought at first was a Zero, although it was headed toward Vella Lavella. Then I saw two planes attack the single and knew that they were the Zeros. I pushed over and opened fire at extremely long range, hoping to drive them off the friendly plane.

“One Zero pulled straight up in the air, and I followed him, firing a succession of short bursts. Then he slow-rolled, going practically straight up, and I held the trigger down and stayed with him. Suddenly, four of my guns quit firing, but I didn't need to fire anymore—the Zero burst into flames and spun down, leaving me on my back in a spin at 10,000 feet.

“After getting straightened out, I looked around but couldn't see
either the friendly plane or the other Zero, so I headed south again and pancaked at Munda.”

At Munda, it was evident why four of his guns quit firing: they were out of ammunition. He had only 30 rounds left in two guns and barely enough fuel to taxi to a revetment!

I added up our Black Sheep score for the day: 11 Zeros shot down for sure and 9 probables—a fine score for a group of replacement pilots whipped into a squadron practically overnight. In those few minutes, they had become a combat team of fighting men. Referring to this mission in his book
Strong Men Armed,
Robert Leckie says: “Soon the baaing of the Black Sheep would be heard all over the South Pacific.”

It was a fine score—but “Rootsnoot” Ewing didn't come back. The last seen of our 23-year-old Flight Officer was when he crowded over to make that initial run. He wasn't in trouble at that time.

But he didn't come back.

What had happened to him? No one could say. He might have been shot down and died at the controls of his plane. He might have bailed out and been killed in his chute. He might have landed safely in the water and been picked up and made a prisoner. The possibilities were many. It was too late to search for him that night.

Sadly, I wrote “MIA” for “missing in action” beside his name in my War Diary. We all hoped he'd turn up soon, and I could erase those letters.

But he never did.

 

In the evening, Boyington and his pilots went over the lessons learned from the Ballale action.

Later, an operations officer came in and told us that we were to move to Munda the next day. At 7:30
A.M.,
five of us left in a transport
plane, while the rest of the Black Sheep took off to search for Ewing. They were to land at Munda on their return.

Munda, on New Georgia, was an example of the costs of war. One entire end of the island had been leveled by bombs, artillery, and naval gunfire. A few splintered stumps were all that remained of a huge coconut grove. Wrecked airplanes lay all around, pushed to one side if they interfered with the work on the strip, otherwise left where they were. Some were upside down; some had tails high in the air; others were broken into several pieces. The shallow water at the end and one side of the strip was studded with them. Roundels identifying some as Japanese stared at us like big red eyes. Here and there, crashed American planes showed that the vital strip had not been won without cost.

Everywhere there was activity. Bulldozers worked in the glare at one end of the runway, lengthening and widening it. Trucks buzzed around. Aircraft landed and took off regularly.

A truck hauled us along the strip, around its end, and up a winding hill to our camp area—a cleared space, bulldozed out of the jungle. Back under the trees were the tents and the mess hall.

Doc Reames and I moved into one of the 16-foot-square tents along with Boyington and Bailey. Our new home had a wooden deck and two six-foot foxholes. The sides of the tent were rolled up to take advantage of any breeze that might come along.

It was hot, steamy. A foul odor pervaded the air. Flies were having a field day: there'd been no time yet to bury the dead Japanese.

We walked back to our truck and went down to the airstrip and our “office.” The fighter intelligence office was another 16-foot-square tent with a long table constructed from rough-hewn teak boards. A couple of homemade bulletin boards lined one side. We looked forward to the return of our men from the search mission, but when we saw their long, sweat-streaked faces, we knew that they'd seen nothing of Ewing.

They flew patrols, photo escorts, and search missions all day. At seven o'clock, the last flight in, darkness covered the island. The strip was secured and we climbed into the trucks to go to our camp area for chow.

A sign over the mess hall door read: “
MAUDIE'S MANSIONS—A HOME FOR WAYWARD PILOTS
.”

We crunched along the rolled coral floor, sat on splintery mahogany benches at long, rough mahogany tables, ate fly-covered Spam and beans with dehydrated potatoes, and drank warm chicory. (To this day, I can't stand Spam!)

After our evening meal, we found our way to our tents and took off
our sweat-crusted clothes. Then, dressed only in field shoes, we slung towels over our shoulders. With a bar of soap in one hand and a flashlight in the other, we picked our way around the stumps and mud puddles to the showers in a corner of the camp area. A raised frame had been built some three feet off the ground. Over this had been laid a few strips of the steel Marsden matting that was used to provide a firm surface on coral airstrips. On racks above were a dozen 50-gallon oil drums, and hanging on the nozzles were tin cans with holes punched. These were our showers. The cool water felt good as we soaped and chattered contentedly. Life here was reduced to its lowest common denominator: if you were alive and comfortable and not hungry, all was well. The showers were a luxury. So was our only woman within hundreds of miles: the well-endowed nude (being chased by three pilots) painted on the corner of the mess hall sign.