Greg Boyington is a figure no less famous in American aviation history than Pokryshkin and Kozhedub were in Soviet times. One of the leading US aces, a Marine Corps pilot—this man became famous not only for his exploits in the sky but also for his extravagant behavior on the ground, far removed from the moral and ethical standards usually attributed to aviators. The fate of this man is full of amazing events, extraordinarily interesting, and therefore deserves a separate story.
Gregory Boyington was born on December 4, 1912, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. His childhood was spent in Okanogan, Washington, where his parents grew apples. Among Greg’s ancestors were Cherokee Indians; his mother remarried after his birth, but the boy and his stepfather, Gregory Hollenbeck, always got along with each other.
At the age of eight, Greg first took to the air, meeting the famous Clyde Pangborn, who would later fly across the Pacific Ocean. “I always liked the idea of flying. I read all the books about World War I aces, collected model airplanes and gliders.”
Early Life and Initial Flights
“His mother lived in Tacoma and worked as a telephone operator so her son could attend college,” recalls Boyington’s son, Greg Jr. “And he earned money by parking cars in some garage. In the summer, he also worked at a gold mine in Idaho to pay for university tuition and membership in a youth union.”
In 1934, Boyington graduated from the aeronautical engineering department of the University of Washington, where, among other things, he swam and wrestled; and received a Bachelor of Science degree in aircraft design. “Bob Galer, who later led the first fighter unit on Guadalcanal in 1941, studied with me. He was shot down several times, but each time he managed to somehow pull himself across the front line. Of course, he was always sober! I also participated in air races in Miami; in general, I did everything to log as many flying hours as possible.”
Soon after, Greg got married. The future ace began his military career in high school as a reservist. Four years later, Boyington was promoted to Captain Cadet, and by 1934, he had reached the rank of Second Lieutenant in the coastal artillery school and served two months in the 630th Coastal Artillery Battery, Fort Worden, Washington.
After his honorable discharge on June 16, 1934, Greg worked as a draftsman in Seattle for Boeing, under the already familiar name Gregory Hollenbeck. Upon learning from his mother that his true surname was Boyington, Greg immediately used this as a chance to start a new career: his existing marriage prevented him from joining naval aviation. Changing his surname, appearance, and leaving his family with three children, Gregory was enlisted as a cadet in Marine Corps aviation on February 18, 1936, and began training at Pensacola Naval Air Station, Florida. His deception was uncovered with his first pay—Greg was forced to pay alimony to his former wife.
On March 11, he officially became a naval aviator and was assigned to Quantico, Virginia, as part of the 1st Marine Aircraft Wing. He graduated as a Lieutenant from the Marine Corps School in Philadelphia, and in June 1938 was transferred to the 2nd Marine Aircraft Group (MAG-2) in San Diego. On November 4, 1940, Greg returned to Pensacola as a First Lieutenant instructor.
“I served in military aviation since 1934 and flew since 1935, and became an instructor in initial training and instrument flying. There I met many of my friends, including Joe Foss. I resigned my commission and signed a contract with the American Volunteer Group (AVG) in China in September 1941, as the next promotion was a long wait, and I needed money. The AVG paid $675 monthly salary, plus $500 for each confirmed victory. In 1941, that was the equivalent of $5000 now. With my ex-wife, three children, debts, and my lifestyle, obviously, I needed money. By the way, the government knew damn well what we were doing. They organized it all. That’s when I learned that Admiral Chester W. Nimitz had a detailed file on every Navy aviator. The only thing required of us was to keep our mouths shut.”
Flying Tigers and the Pacific Front
Before the official entry of the United States into the war, the American side had no right to provide military support to China. Therefore, volunteers went to China disguised as employees of the fictitious CAMCO organization, which supposedly manufactured aircraft for the Chinese Air Force. To become a member of CAMCO, Greg claimed he was a former pilot of the legendary Lafayette Escadrille. On August 26, 1941, he signed a contract as a flight leader with a monthly salary of $650 plus $500 for each enemy aircraft shot down. Greg did not later specify who processed the documents for his service in the volunteer group—except that it was a retired captain, formerly also a Lafayette Escadrille pilot. This was likely Richard Olds, Vice President of CAMCO. The rendezvous took place in an ordinary hotel room in a city suburb. “Japanese planes over China are antique junk,” Olds assured him. “For the most part, your prey will be unarmed transport planes. I suppose you also know that the Japanese are famous for their complete inability to really fly. And they all fly with glasses for nearsightedness.”
“Captain,” Boyington interjected, “This is, of course, a loaded question, but how do you know their pilots wear glasses?” “Our technical staff found them in the wreckage of shot-down planes. For each victory, you get good money—$675. But recruitment is limited,” Captain Olds continued, “so for each Japanese shot down, there’s an additional bonus of $500.”
Boyington sat down and calculated his future earnings. Volunteers were offered three ranks: almost everyone expressed a desire to register as officer pilots, with a salary of $600 a month, which roughly corresponded to a second lieutenant in the American army. Greg, and two other naval aviators, agreed to become flight leaders, with a salary of $675 and a rank equivalent to captain. The highest rank was squadron commander—$750 a month and major’s rank, but no one agreed to this.
Boyington and 25 pilots went to war on the American-Dutch steamer “Boschfontein.” The group commander, 33-year-old Curtis Smith, unsuccessfully tried to instill army discipline in the group. Smith joined the army in 1928 and spent ten years wandering between the army and the Marine Corps. His 2000 hours of flight time made him a notable figure, although by age he was no longer very suitable for fighter aviation. There is no doubt that it was at Smith’s initiative that the recruits changed their hairstyles, as evidenced by the pilot Eddie Overend’s entries:
October 1, 1941: “Well, an interesting start to the month! With this new haircut, I look like a pitcher. But it’s still stylish, and all our guys walk around like that, including Greg Boyington—he looks like a cross between Mussolini and Gargantua. Greg hasn’t been sober once since we sailed: well, maybe he sobers up a bit when he apologizes to the missionaries he offended earlier. He’s strong as an ox. Sometimes he wants to wrestle, and after that, the surrounding area looks like Coventry after a raid. And yet he’s a nice guy and a great pilot.”
And here’s what Boyington himself remembers about this trip: “In San Francisco, we were loaded onto the Dutch ship “Boschfontein,” a crew of 55 people—men and women. According to the stamp in our passports, we were missionaries in China; although, according to my personal legend, I was heading to Java as a civilian K.M. pilot. The Germans did the same when they went to fight in Spain. But such tricks, of course, couldn’t fool anyone—especially the real missionaries on board. Dick Rossi and I were immediately figured out. It was charming, considering I was never sober enough to remember the legend, and quite careless with language.”
On November 12, 1941, 26 pilots arrived in Rangoon. Boyington immediately set his sights on Olga Greenlaw, the wife of operations officer Greenlaw, who will be discussed later. “He was five feet tall,” she would later recall in her book “Lady and the Tigers,” “incredibly broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, his head resting on a thick neck. He had rough features, large eyes, a broad and thick nose, heavy jowls. Other people feared him—and not without reason. One night, dead drunk, Boyington woke Noel Bacon, who, among other things, was in charge of vehicles, and demanded the keys to the airfield van. Noel gave him the keys—what else could he do, at the barrel of a .45 caliber revolver?”
Next are Greg’s own recollections: “The place we found ourselves in was the most plague-ridden hole imaginable. People relieved themselves right in the street, no one had heard of hygiene, and the diseases one could pick up there would depress any Romeo. And then there were those dogs—horrific-looking mongrels that ate corpses and mauled the dying to death…”
“There were three squadrons in total – the first, ‘Adam and Eve’, to which I was assigned. The second squadron, ‘Pandas’, was commanded by Jack Newkirk, and the third, ‘Hell’s Angels’, by Orvid Olsen. Each squadron had 20 people, including mechanics, instrument specialists, and armorers. The rest of the personnel were high-ranking officials from the Asian administration, whose purpose I never fully understood. It always seemed to me that they were just sitting on their butts for nothing. We saw them only once a day, at meals. The biggest jerk was our operations officer, Harvey Greenlaw. This clown was unfriendly to me – in particular, he filed a report to prosecute me and a guy named Frankie Croft for ‘conduct unbecoming an officer’ – all because we organized rickshaw races with the local population. He found out that we had strapped ourselves into the carriages, and the rickshaw drivers had taken the luxurious passenger seats – but the worst thing was, we even paid them. Even after we moved to Kunming, Greenlaw was like a nail in the ass: I just told him that if he caused me any more trouble, I’d beat him half to death. And I also added that there were enough unexploded Japanese aerial bombs around, so when walking around, one should be careful not to blow up. I think we understood each other.”
“I started flying with the ‘Adam and Eve’ in December, and I think after we heard about Pearl Harbor, our return to the USAAC was only a matter of time. To begin with, we were literally cheated on everything. The planes were ready for scrap—they were the very P-40s we had transferred to Britain under Lend-Lease, and the RAF had already loaned them back to us. Parts came from who knows where, and the engines were worn out to such an extent that every takeoff threatened mortal trouble. My first flight in a P-40 was a complete circus because, flying in Florida in a P-36, I was used to landing the plane on three points. I checked everything in the cockpit and took off—and when I touched down, the plane started bouncing, and I sharply throttled up to go around. As a result, the supercharger gauge failed, and after landing, I was reprimanded for barbaric treatment of the ‘Allison’ engine.”
“The maps we were supposed to use were the worst I’d ever seen. Whoever made them—they were either dead drunk when they sat over them, or they’d never visited these parts; that’s what I thought, looking at these shapeless objects. The location of some things on the map didn’t match the actual location by more than 100 miles. Magnetic declination could be forgotten. I remember one map showed a strategic road and a river next to it. We once flew over that place. There was no river in sight, and the ‘road’ turned out to be some lousy dam. We had no radar, no warning system—well, actually, we had our own observers with telephone communication, and despite hundreds of dialects and different languages in this country, the system somehow worked. Anyway, we were ordered to move to Rangoon, and I managed to get there with the squadron on February 2, 1942.”
In Kunming there was a 7,000-foot long runway, which seemed like it would never be finished—at least not until our military entered the war. Now, consider the biggest lie: supposedly, Japanese pilots were poetic types with corrective glasses. I can say from my own experience that Japanese pilots, especially from the Imperial Navy, were the best fighters in the world. These guys were no joke. If they caught you—that was it, you were definitely going to be shot down.
The “Zero” fighter was famous for its fantastic maneuverability, small turning radius, and light weight. In a turn, it was impossible to outmaneuver it, but it couldn’t catch you in a dive, and that was a way out of a difficult situation. But our main opponents were the I-97 (Ki-27). We used “Boom and Zoom” tactics: you dive, shoot, dive again, and in the dive you gain speed—and speed helps you gain altitude for a repeat attack. Another advantage for us was the fact that we flew in three flights—one flight stays up high and covers the other two, which are attacking at that time. In terms of armament, we were stronger than the Japanese—two 12.7 mm machine guns, and three 7.62 mm; and on later machines, all machine guns were large-caliber. The Japanese had all 7.7 mm caliber machine guns. We also had armor plates in the cockpit and self-sealing tanks. The Japanese did not; and they suffered losses throughout the war because of this.
Besides the P-40, we also had three CW-21 “Demon” high-altitude interceptors—all three crashed into a mountain on December 23, with only one pilot, Eric Schilling, surviving. We lost one P-40 during a night raid, interacting with the RAF—the plane crashed into a parked car that was illuminating the runway with its headlights, and the person sleeping in the back seat was killed. The propeller chopped the car to pieces—the other guy jumped out, but the one in the back didn’t make it. Someone found a picture in a magazine where a P-40 in North Africa had shark teeth painted on it—so we immediately decided to paint our planes similarly.”
After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the AVG moved to China, leaving one squadron in Rangoon to defend the city from air attacks. In January 1942, these were Jack Newkirk’s “Pandas,” with some aircraft and pilots from the first squadron. Boyington had also moved to Rangoon, but for some reason was forced to return to Kunming in a Chinese “Douglas.” Only on his second attempt did he remain in Rangoon.
His baptism of fire occurred on January 26. The “Pandas” took three planes into the air—Jack Newkirk’s, Gil Bright’s, and “Moose” Moss’s. Gaining altitude in the direction of Kunming, Newkirk encountered four “Tomahawks” from the newly arrived first squadron. Then his radio died, so he signaled for someone else to lead the group, and he himself peeled off to the north. Bright and Moss also chose to act on their own. Thus, command of the group passed to Red Probst, a stout young man who had enlisted in the AVG to avoid fighting the Luftwaffe. Probst had never before participated in an aerial battle, and his career in the AVG was one foolish blunder after another. Accompanied by “Cocky” Hoffman, Greg Boyington, and Bob Prescott, he was gaining altitude towards the approaching group of 50 to 60 Ki-27 Nate aircraft led by Major Makino.
Boyington was confident that he was being led into battle by one of the 2nd Squadron veterans, until he saw how Probst began the attack—from below and towards the sun. This strange maneuver did not surprise Prescott at all, who kept to Boyington’s right: “When you’re in formation, you see nothing but the leader,” he explained years later. Seeing radial-engined fighters above him, he took them for “Buffaloes.” “They were diving, looping—and I thought: ‘Stupid bastards… Damn, if I could just get these guys out of here—then I could fight.’ Then I looked at them again. ‘Damn, those aren’t ‘Buffaloes’—those are Japanese! They’re diving on us!’ I was to Greg’s left, and the diving Japanese was right over my left shoulder. I couldn’t break formation, but no one forbade me to change position—so I quickly moved to the other side so the Japanese would shoot Greg first.”
Red Probst had already slipped away by then. “The enemy attacked us while we were gaining altitude for the attack,” he explained rather confusedly later. “When they got close, I put my flight into a dive.” He didn’t bother to inform Cocky Hoffman, who was supposedly his wingman, of his sudden “weakness.” In photos from the AVG archive, Hoffman resembles a Native American on the warpath: dark-skinned and grim. Shortly before, he had earned praise for “tearing apart” Japanese bombers, getting almost right up to them. He behaved no less aggressively when he encountered Makino’s fighters. Ground observers thought there had been an air collision. “From the very maelstrom of battle,” wrote British reporter O’Dowd Gallagher, “a fighter plummeted in a spin. Suddenly, a wing tore off; the rest of the plane overtook it in its fall. Where the plane crashed, a grey cloud of dust erupted. A few seconds later, the remaining wing, spinning in the air like a sheet of paper, fell to the ground, raising another column of dust.” Hoffman’s P-40 crashed near the railway tracks, wheels up: the mutilated body of the pilot hung from the cockpit. A forty-four-year-old man, husband and father, he had spent more than half of his life in the Navy—including 13 years as a career pilot.
“They vastly outnumbered us, these I-97s,” Boyington recalled. “They were 2,000 feet above us, and they dove. Very soon I was alone; everyone else had fled. I turned right to avoid flying into that mess, and spotted a pair of I-97s, and closed in on them. No sooner had I started firing at one than the other looped over my head—so I had to break off the attack to preempt his maneuver.” By this time, Bob Prescott had completed his repositioning: “While I was moving, Greg spotted that Japanese,” he recalled, “immediately did a ‘snake,’ said ‘oof-f-f’—and plunged into a dive.” Prescott followed him. In his eagerness, he pushed the stick away from him, without rolling the plane inverted. Inertia pulled him from his seat, instead of pressing the pilot into it. The seatbelt almost cut the pilot in half.
“They say we could escape them by diving. Don’t believe that nonsense! I looked around—there he was, hanging on my tail! At the last moment, I pulled out of the dive, forgetting to cut the throttle. I was thrown back up to 13,000 feet. I look around—and I see a P-40 diving, and a Japanese is shooting at it—bang! Bang! Bang!” —Prescott recounted.
Having regained altitude, Boyington engaged in a dogfight with one of the Ki-27s—against all of Chennault’s instructions, like everything the squadron did that morning. “Unfortunately, at the moment the Japanese filled the entire windshield—well, he performed such a ‘snake’ that any instructor would have been envious. And then I noticed that I was not alone at all—his friends were right there. I immediately came to my senses and broke off the engagement.”
Prescott also decided that he was not destined to be a fighter pilot, and chose the wisest decision—he broke away. So he kept his distance until he heard the command “Free beer!” in his headphones, indicating the return. Prescott landed at Mingaladon, intending to take Greg aside, apologize, and promise to leave the AVG quietly if Greg agreed to keep silent about his disgrace. “I went to the radio station and waited—but Greg didn’t come back and didn’t come back, and I thought: ‘Uh-oh, it looks like that Japanese shot him down.’ But, thank God, he finally appeared and landed. He turned the plane right in front of me, and covered me with dust from head to toe; and I jumped onto the wing and opened his canopy. He looked at me with a smirk and said, ‘Well, we got out of it this time—didn’t we?'”
“When I landed, I found a Japanese 7.7-mm incendiary bullet in my hand, which later left a magnificent scar. It also turned out that I had been declared shot down. This first skirmish with the Japanese was a sheer disaster for us; everyone was depressed, especially since Cocky Hoffman had died. I scored my first victory two days later—more precisely, I shot down two, and the total score for the flight was 16 victories—without losses on our side.”
This happened on February 29, two days after the first setback. 20 Ki-27s appeared in the sky, directly challenging the Allies. Ten fighters immediately took off, including Boyington. As he later recalled, he set fire to his first Ki-27 almost immediately; someone heard a shout over the radio: “That’s for Cocky Hoffman, you son of a bitch!” This is confirmed by Charlie Bond’s diary, who was shooting down another Japanese at that very moment. Boyington does not deny this, although he claims he did so in much stronger terms. The shot-down Ki-27 was never credited to him. Boyington’s first credited victories date only to February 6. Rangoon was attacked by 30 Japanese Ki-27 fighters from the 50th and 77th Hiko Sentai.
“We had already been scrambled twice, but each time the alarm was false. Finally, on the third time, I spotted a lone I-97, and shot him down over the Sittang River. I shot down three more in one flight, two of them one after another. The third was some open-cockpit fighter that just wouldn’t fall. I spent a lot of ammunition on it, and then got close, and then realized the pilot was dead—his arm was dangling in the wind. And then I finished him off—just to make a point, and ended up with six confirmed victories.”
At the end of his life, Boyington insisted that, as a member of the AVG, he had destroyed 6 enemy aircraft, which, combined with his victories in the Pacific, would have made him the number one ace in the Marine Corps. However, AVG documents attribute only 4.5 confirmed victories to him, of which only two were in aerial combat. The Claire Chennault archive contains the following document:
Report
February 6, 1942, along with other squadron members, Deputy Squadron Commander G. Boyington engaged Japanese fighters near Rangoon, Burma. In the ensuing combat, he personally shot down two enemy fighters. On March 24, 1942, as part of a group of six aircraft, he attacked Chiengmai Airfield, Thailand. As a result of this attack, 15 enemy aircraft were destroyed. The commendation for this operation was divided among its participants: Deputy Squadron Commander Boyington—2.5 victories. In total, this pilot destroyed 4.5 enemy aircraft: 2 in aerial combat, and 2.5 on the ground. Boyington is recommended for commendation for outstanding flying skill and high achievements.
Claire Chennault, Commander AVG.
April 27, 1942
This document testifies to how sloppy the paperwork was in the AVG. Chennault, or someone else, decided that the reward should be equally divided among the participants of the ill-fated raid on March 24—in which, in particular, Jack Newkirk was killed and Mac McGarry was captured. As a result, of the Japanese planes destroyed at the Chiengmai airfield, Boyington received only 1.5 victories.
On February 7, 1942, the commander of the 1st squadron, Robert “Sandy” Sandell, tragically died during a test flight. “RAF witnesses said his fighter rolled inverted, and seemed to start winging over—but Sandell held the plane. Apparently, he pulled the stick back too hard—that’s why he ‘plummeted’ all the way to the ground in an inverted position. It was a sad day—Sandy was a great guy. The next day, only a few could attend the funeral—the rest were on duty.”
General Chennault appointed Bob Neale as squadron commander, and Neale tried to pass his duties on to Boyington—but Greg did not comply; he was well aware of General Chennault’s tough disposition. Then Neale appointed Boyington as his adjutant, which he later regretted repeatedly.
Meanwhile, in Mingaladon, a lull set in. The “Adam and Eve” played golf, swam, and pretended to be millionaires, buying sapphires. They went on drunken sprees, picking fights with the RAF and among themselves. “The RAF guys didn’t think much of us, so relations between us were actually quite strained. I was surprised by their snobbery, as they were losing the war.”
Once, the owner of a local brothel demanded the expulsion of the Americans: in response, they shot out all the lights, scaring away prostitutes and clients on the second floor. Another time, on February 14, Boyington and six other pilots visited the bar of the Strand Hotel: the hotel had long been closed, but the bar was open. The pilots got so drunk that they missed morning roll call. The next morning, still intoxicated, Boyington dragged himself to the airfield to relieve Bob Neale. A sharp exchange of pleasantries took place, after which Neale forever lost confidence in his deputy.
After the fall of Rangoon, the “Adam and Eve” returned to Kunming. In early March, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek himself and his wife, who called the Americans “boys” and “angels, with or without wings,” honored them with a visit. Among the pilots, these remarks provoked thunderous laughter, but nevertheless, most Americans were touched by the sincerity of the charming wife of the commander-in-chief. “We are all proud to be fighting for China,” radio operator Bob Smith wrote in his diary. Gil Bright reacted with less enthusiasm—”the madam is a little crazy. She thinks planes are so-o-o romantic!” Boyington himself was more than explicit about the Generalissimo’s family: “Chiang Kai-shek was a legalized bandit, and he took everything that wasn’t nailed down. And his madam ran the whole scam. At the same time, he pretended to command the Chinese army. In truth, none of us truly respected Chiang Kai-shek—but, it’s true, he paid good money, if he paid at all.” His opinion of General Chennault was equally categorical:
“I met the general many times. The first time was in Tungoo village, near Rangoon. His appearance was impressive, and he commanded accordingly, although many of his decisions later alienated us from him. He was, to put it mildly, displeased with some of our antics—for example, the fact that we regularly shot telegraph wires with a .45 caliber revolver, staged buffalo races and street rodeos, or the fact that we smashed lights in the bar when they refused to serve us. Some of the technical staff were caught selling weapons on the side: Of course, we did everything possible to keep Chennault from finding out all this. Once, before a combat mission, we were practicing shooting at walls, and a ricochet almost hit a civilian representative from the ‘Allison’ company, so you can imagine the report he wrote. I can’t count how many times I was threatened with a court-martial—although, technically, we were civilians, so we got away with everything.
Chennault’s authority dropped significantly in my eyes after his order to attack ground targets. In these raids, we suffered huge losses in crews and aircraft. That’s when Jack Newkirk died. The Third Squadron was always busy, attacking imaginary targets and ‘enemy units of unknown strength.’ Complete nonsense. Chennault was simply trying to justify our presence, since we couldn’t meet the Japanese in the air. Many of us refused to fly—what’s the point of butting heads with an oak tree? And Chennault intimidated us with court-martials until we really pushed back. We were civilian specialists working for a foreign government—that’s who we were, not his personal team.”
As we can see, Boyington did not harbor tender feelings for the AVG, which was later reflected in his books—”Baa Baa Black Sheep,” and the humorous novella “Tonya,” published shortly before his death, in which Olga Greenlaw is easily recognizable as the main character. In turn, Chennault gave Greg a “black mark” when he left the AVG, three months before the expiration of his contract.
Claire Chennault already knew Boyington well enough, so the bar closed long before the scheduled banquet with the Generalissimo. Boyington also knew the general well enough, and therefore stocked up on alcohol in advance. Along with Percy Bartolt, Greg ostentatiously pumped himself full of alcohol in the lobby while the others gave speeches. Then the two drunk pilots burst into the banquet, plopped into chairs, and began to loudly clap, disrupting the performance of the Chinese singer.
A day later, the “Tigers,” including Greg, organized demonstration flights for the high-ranking guest. Boyington distinguished himself again, making the Generalissimo and his wife “smell the ground”: he swept over their heads. Greg also commanded the escort operation for the “Douglas” DC-2 with Chiang Kai-shek on board: in the end, the entire group flew south, instead of west—to Hankou. “No one told us the final destination, so we had to follow the transport. Everyone ran out of fuel, and we crash-landed, right in a Chinese cemetery. We evacuated from there in an old American truck, and the guy who was driving it didn’t know anything about driving—so it turned into a real odyssey. We were almost shot by local mountain bandits. You know, there were local feudal lords there who preferred to fight each other rather than the Japanese. Later, we repaired one plane, all the others were written off.”
On March 22, Chennault assigned a dozen Tomahawks a much more serious task—to attack the Japanese Air Force in Thailand. In his own words, he selected the ten best pilots. The “Adam and Eve” squadron (Bob Neale, Boyington, Bond, Mac McGarry, Ed Rector, and Bill Bartling) was to attack the central military airfield in Chiang Mai, while four “Pandas”—Jack Newkirk, Whitty Taylor, Hank Geselbrecht, and Buster Keaton—were to attack Lamphun in the south.
The ammunition boxes were packed to the brim with incendiary rounds. The “Tomahawks” took off from Wu Cha Ba airfield at noon on Sunday. Two hours later, the fighters arrived at Loywing—an airfield whose runway had been cut directly into the hillside. The construction of the airfield was paid for by the Chinese side, although the true owner of the airfield was an American—Bill Pauley. Due to CAMCO’s complete unpreparedness to supply combat operations, there was no one on the field to refuel and inspect the aircraft. The AVG pilots had to wait until the next morning—thus, the entire plan was delayed by a day.
The CAMCO factory was located nine miles from the airfield: a neat little cluster of plastered buildings with camouflaged metal roofs. The village had a golf course, a club with electric lighting, parquet floors, a fireplace, a jukebox, a card table, a movie projector, chilled beer from the refrigerator, and casement windows overlooking the valley, where Bill Pauley was attempting for the fourth time to organize the production of military aircraft for China. In the guest rooms—thick Chinese carpets, tiled floors… There was even a cook named Davidson, who demanded that the pilots call her “Ma.”
March 23 was a foggy and overcast day. While the technical staff inspected the “Tomahawks,” the pilots idled, not wanting to fly until dark to Namhsan—a Royal Air Force airfield, lost in the Shan mountains. In Namhsan, they requested trucks and lanterns to light the runway in the morning, ate in the flight duty room, and even showered in the officers’ barracks. Adventure books on military topics are usually full of various omens, and the raid on Chiang Mai was no exception. An RAF sergeant warned the Americans that the local water was unfit even for brushing teeth. To this, Newkirk mockingly said: “Tomorrow it won’t matter, I think.” Indeed, everyone was in a grim mood. “NOTHING is coming,” Bob Neale wrote in his diary, double-underlining the last word.
The orderly roused the pilots at four in the morning: as they dressed, a messenger burst into the barracks and shouted, “Alright, you curly-headed guys, time to go!” Joking and cheering each other up, the pilots wolfed down breakfast and headed to their planes. Takeoff was scheduled for 5:45 AM—in complete darkness, by the light of kerosene lamps, car headlights, and the bluish flames from the exhaust pipes.
Meanwhile, the “Pandas” took off and headed for Thailand, without waiting for the group from Namhsan. As they gained altitude, it began to get light, although the ground was still hidden in darkness and haze, mixed with smoke from the Rangoon fire. They flew by instruments until they reached Chiang Mai at seven in the morning—and then they could distinguish objects on the ground. And it was then that Newkirk committed a serious breach of discipline; he attacked a railway junction from the air, spending an unacceptably long time on it—like poking a hornet’s nest on the road when your friend is about to pass by. Continuing the flight, he found Lamphun, but only saw rows of buildings that could have been workshops or barracks. He strafed them with incendiary bullets, then surveyed the surrounding fields. On the third, and most extensive field, the “Pandas” strafed some more buildings, after which Newkirk turned north, obviously intending to join the “Adam and Eve” over Chiang Mai. In the combat report, Hank Geselbrecht described what happened next:
“Then we attacked two cars on the road south of Chiang Mai. Newkirk dived and opened fire; I did too, as soon as I spotted the target. Beyond the target, I saw a flash of fire, and, completing the attack, began to look for Newkirk. I realized he had crashed, and the flash was a result of his fall. I gained altitude and turned north, towards my airfield.”
Bass Keaton also saw the explosion and, like Geselbrecht, at first did not understand its cause. “Turning right,” he wrote later, “I saw a huge flame erupt to my right, in the field. The fire spread for 100-150 yards. I assumed Jack and Gesel had set fire to oil tanks. Finding nothing to shoot at, I followed Lawlor.”
Newkirk died instantly—a man-made fireball, which raced, bouncing off the ground and spreading outwards; a napalm canister with a man inside. Then the “Allison” engine detached from it, and rolled another three hundred yards along the ground. Whitty Lawlor identified whom Newkirk attacked, and who, most likely, shot him down. It was a Japanese armored car.
Meanwhile, the “Adam and Eve” reached Chiang Mai. Bond recognized the mountain peak, familiar to him since December—so he led the group. The airfield was located just over a mile from this landmark. “I dipped the nose slightly, simultaneously making a small turn to the right—and confirmed I was right. From 6,000 feet, I saw the airfield and the outlines of hangars; descending approximately 1,000 feet, I fired several short bursts to let the other guys know we had found it—the main airfield of the Japanese Air Force in Southeast Asia!”
The plan stipulated that Ed Rector and Mac McGarry would stay above, covering the group: however, they could assault the airfield equally with everyone else, in the absence of enemy aircraft in the air. Bond led the group to the airfield: “On the first pass, I opened continuous fire on the rows of Japanese fighters; then I turned sharply left, 270 degrees, and found myself directly in front of the second row of planes in the parking area. They were parked practically wingtip to wingtip. Damn, I haven’t seen so many planes at once in years! As if the entire Imperial Air Force tried to gather together on this small field.”
He made four passes; anti-aircraft shells exploded and bullets whizzed all around. Once he descended so low that he could have chopped up Japanese pilots climbing into the cockpits of their fighters with his propeller (they shouted “Mawase! Mawase!”—”Spin! Spin!” to mechanics trying to start the engines manually). Finally, Bond found a large aircraft and literally tore it to shreds. Boyington made two passes. “The planes on the field were mostly parked in two long rows,” he wrote in his combat report. “All enemy planes were starting their engines, and pilots and technicians were scurrying around. After the first pass, three large transport planes turned into one giant bonfire, flames rising a thousand feet. After the second pass, ten bonfires were already burning on the airfield.”
After the air strike on Chang Mai air base on March 24, 1942, the Americans claimed 40 victories: Boyington alone claimed ten! In reality, the 64th Hiko Sentai lost three Ki-43 aircraft and had ten damaged that day.
After the raid on Chiang Mai, Boyington settled in Loywing, along with the Hell’s Angels. On April 1, 1942, the squadron was scrambled several times, but all alarms were false. When the alarm was raised again, the P-40’s engine failed immediately after takeoff: the aircraft had not been checked before the flight. The “Tomahawk” crashed to the ground from a height of 20 feet and hit the ground with such force that the seatbelt broke. Boyington hit his face on the instrument panel, broke his forehead, and injured both knees. “I tried to get out of the remnants of the plane with all my might—what if it caught fire?—and all these Chinese just stood and watched, and didn’t try to help me. That just infuriated me then, but understand that for these poor people, saving a person means being responsible for them for the rest of their days.”
This was all on the eve of a wedding—a guy from the third squadron, John Petach, married a beautiful lady (he died on July 9). During the ceremony, I sat next to Duck Hedman, the leading AVG ace—I still couldn’t stand steadily on my feet. And suddenly an air raid was announced, and I was left alone. Somehow I limped to the exit and jumped into a trench—and it wasn’t a trench at all, but a rocky cliff; I didn’t make it out in the dark. All the medics’ work was wasted. I was taken to Kunming and put in the hospital. For several days I was rehabilitating my knee ligaments—before starting to fly again.”
After leaving the hospital, Boyington occupied himself by ferrying fighters from Loywing after engine changes. In the evenings, he drank and flirted with Olga Greenlaw. His friends had by then left the AVG—Ralph Gandwardahl in January, Percy Bartolt in March. Now Boyington was also ready to escape. “The AVG disbanded on July 4, 1942, and Chennault informed us that we would all become USAAC lieutenants—regardless of past accolades. I didn’t agree with this—you see, I was the only regular combat pilot in the AVG, the others came from the reserves. In Washington, I was expecting major’s insignia, and I wasn’t going to sacrifice my golden wings. I reminded Chennault of the written agreement—but he didn’t want to know anything about it. My Indian-Irish blood simply boiled with indignation. Chennault had already gotten to me by limiting my daily alcohol allowance to two measures—and without specifying what those measures were. His spies constantly watched me. In particular, he was displeased with the fact that we amused ourselves with local girls—and I was no angel at all. I suppose we didn’t fit his idea of moral character, or something like that. Another thing that drove everyone crazy was the statements from incompetent staff that we couldn’t get paid for our victories; or that Chiang Kai-shek was too poor to pay us, since we were returning to American aviation. I told them to go to hell, and got to Calcutta with three other AVG guys—all three were heading to Africa for new P-40s. And I was much more scared in that DC-3 flying ‘over the Hump’ than surrounded by several dozen Japanese: ice accumulated on the wings and propellers.”
Leaving the AVG, Boyington reached India by Chinese Air Force plane, and from there to Karachi on a BOAC flying boat. He then tried to use the services of US Air Force transport aviation, but was resolutely refused—evidently, he was the first to whom Chennault’s demand to not allow AVG deserters on board applied. Eventually, Boyington traveled on the civilian ship SS Brasil. His neighbors were Chinese cadets from the flight school, and—what a coincidence!—the missionaries he knew from the “Boschfontein.” In total, during his service in the AVG, Greg Boyington logged 300 flying hours and shot down six enemy aircraft.
Boyington returned to the USA in July 1942: “I took a direct train to Washington and submitted a report requesting reinstatement of my rank—based on the agreement with Admiral Nimitz. I was ordered to go home and wait for orders. Well, I did that. Several months later, I went back to my old job—that is, parking cars, which I did back in college. Later I found out that all my documents had been annulled: someone had a grudge against me. There were ten of us—former Marines who had served in the AVG, and we all ended up in this situation. In November, I couldn’t take it anymore and sent an express letter demanding a resolution. And then I was sent to San Diego.” On his second day of service, Boyington was awarded the rank of Reserve Major, as that was the rank he would have received had he not interrupted his Marine Corps service.
In January 1943, Boyington again crossed the Pacific Ocean aboard the S.S. “Urlene,” and disembarked at the port of Nouméa, New Caledonia. He was appointed assistant duty officer at Espiritu Santo airfield, but this administrative work, of course, did not suit him. Greg demanded to be transferred to a flying unit. “Overall, it was a stroke of luck. When I arrived in Espiritu Santo, I was appointed assistant duty officer—a dead-end job where I didn’t have to do anything at all. True, I met some old comrades: Bob Galer, who had 11 victories, and Joe Foss—the poor guy had suffered from every illness, from malaria to malnutrition, so I didn’t even recognize him—he was so emaciated. I also met Kenneth Walsh, who had shot down 20 Japanese and received the Medal of Honor for it. In May 1943, Elmer Brackett appointed me his adjutant in VMF-222, and I learned to fly the F4U-1 ‘Corsair’. But as it happened, he was promoted, and I remained in command. And while I was in command, I never saw Japanese planes.
I also participated in the preparation of the famous P-38 raid, when Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto was shot down and killed. Those P-38s were with us on Guadalcanal; they were chosen for interception because of their speed and range. We participated in the development of the operation, including technical and meteorological support. Of course, we knew about the mission, and I told my men to keep quiet—we didn’t want the Japanese to find out that their new radio code had been cracked. Nevertheless, shortly after, Naval Counterintelligence interrogated everyone on the island because a leak did occur.”
The VMF-222 squadron at that time flew “Wildcats,” escorting dive bombers from Guadalcanal on raids to Bougainville. During his first operational cycle, Boyington did not shoot down any enemy aircraft; while the hero rested in Sydney, his unit re-equipped with new “Corsair” fighters. Greg returned to duty in early June, but on June 7, he broke his ankle playing football and, willingly or unwillingly, spent some time in the hospital in Auckland. His unit, under the command of Major Hansen, was at that time engaged in offensive combat and shot down 30 Japanese. “I think they were waiting for me to leave.”
After returning to Espiritu Santo, Greg, as a reserve player, transferred from one squadron to another, participating in virtually no combat sorties. After his sixth such transfer, on June 26, he was assigned to VMF-112, where he remained until August 11. In August, Greg tried to put together a “temporary” team from many pilots who had been rendered idle due to their personal indiscipline—just like Boyington himself. “One of my duties was to handle disciplinary cases for officers and enlisted men. That’s when the thought of forming a squadron ripened within me. I spoke with the MAG-11 commander, Colonel Sanderson, and he verbally approved my idea. And I started gathering pilots from wherever I could.
At first, the idea of creating such a division was taken as a joke. Everyone thought that nothing but nonsense would come of it. But, after only 12 weeks of combat, the division destroyed 94 enemy fighters and occupied all the front pages of American newspapers.
None of our pilots had flown fighters before—but anyone was fit for it, at least I thought so. Unfortunately, Sanderson left the scene due to personnel changes, and I had to deal with Lard. The TV series filmed later with Robert Conrad in the lead role, apparently, offended some of the former ‘Black Sheep’: in truth, the whole damned series was pure Hollywood concoction, but you know show business. Lard, also known as Colonel Joseph Smoke, the duty officer of MAG-11, served in China, and I respected him for that. I simply belonged to the type of military personnel he didn’t understand.”
After overcoming many obstacles, Boyington achieved official recognition for the new squadron, and he himself led it. The squadron was designated VMF-214, inheriting it from another unit that had completed its combat tour and was departing for the USA.
Boyington was the oldest USMC pilot, which earned him the nickname “Grandpappy.” Gradually, this shortened to “Pappy,” and Boyington’s real name was forgotten.
On September 12, VMF-214, in which only three pilots had combat experience, arrived in the North African city of Mundu. “It was September 16, 1943, we had just arrived at the Russell Islands. That’s when my first squadron sortie took place. 20 ‘Corsairs’ split into five flights to escort 150 ‘Avengers’ and ‘Dauntless,’ which were going to bomb Ballale—a place near Bougainville. We maintained radio silence during the 600-mile closed route, thinking of anything. Then we entered thick cloud cover, lost sight of the bombers, and descended below the clouds to find them again. Confident enough, I watched the bombers do their work—and then 40 ‘Zeros’ with full tanks descended on us, and these guys were not stupid at all—well, so it seemed to me. One of them got behind me, waving his wings—as if inviting me to join formation. And then he overtook me. As luck would have it, I forgot to turn on the gunsight and arm my weapons—but when I did, he was still in front of me, so I immediately blasted him. Another was taken off my tail by Moe Fisher, and then we headed back to our group to protect the bombers.”
When the sky cleared of enemy fighters, the “Corsairs” turned back. At that moment, “Pappy” spotted a “Zero” almost right above the water. Greg immediately launched an attack, but was warned in time of danger from the rear: another “Zero” was coming up on his tail. Instantly turning, Greg only managed one burst, and the “Zero” on the opposing course broke apart in the air. Following it, a third, low-flying aircraft, was also shot down. But that wasn’t all: turning again to take his place in formation, Greg saw a damaged “Corsair” and a “Zero” attacking it. Boyington immediately shot down that Japanese, and returned to the airfield on the last drops of fuel. The “Marine” was heavily damaged, oil covered all his canopy, and he was losing speed. I rushed at the “Zero,” and it immediately broke off the attack as soon as I opened fire. I followed it, firing continuously, and it broke apart—but I also almost stalled. I leveled the plane, and then a second “Zero” came into my sights—I immediately shot it down, and only then came to my senses. An adrenaline rush in combat is something you just can’t describe. I never saw that “Corsair” again, and I don’t know who it was—but, the only one of ours who didn’t return that day was Bobby Ewing, so, apparently, it was him. I wouldn’t have made it to base anyway, so I landed in Mundu, with not a drop of fuel.”
The battle results were as follows: VMF-214 shot down 11 enemy fighters, Boyington five. “I shot down five enemy fighters in one engagement; I never managed that again. Most combat operations are quite boring, especially when you start winning the war and outnumber the enemy. My success helped me get rid of most of my detractors—except Lard. He had heard about our drinking in China and Burma, so he imposed a kind of veto on me: I wasn’t allowed to drink, and if I violated the ban, a report was filed. I still got caught, and Lard ordered me to be arrested until takeoff. Need I say how I complied with that order?
After our first big success, the duty officer and I were invited to a reception at the new unit commander’s office. He offered me alcohol, and I became wary—but he assured me that he did not share Lard’s position, and there was no catch. He even took out a copy of Lard’s order and tore it up. We didn’t encounter a single enemy plane for weeks, although for the guys in Mundu those were the hottest days. They were the first line of defense, and the Japanese never broke through to fight us. Then, we had to be inventive, because the Japanese started recognizing my voice on the radio. They kept asking where I was—in clear English!—although they certainly couldn’t fool us. Once I responded, stating an altitude of 20,000 feet—sure enough, 30 ‘Zeros’ quickly showed up. But we were 5,000 feet higher, so we broke into their formation from above and on opposing courses. I think everyone shot down ‘their’ Japanese with the very first burst. My ‘first’ Japanese exploded, and the second smoked, and the pilot bailed out. And I got the third in the turns. It was good work, and I was proud of my guys—of course, shooting down 12 planes without our own losses!”
Greg Boyington’s outstanding flying talent and his squadron’s successes brought him back into combat glory: VMF-214 earned the nickname “Boyington’s Bastards,” but for aesthetic reasons, the official name became “Black Sheep.” Since Boyington began to rise to the top in the number of victories, reporters refused to leave him alone. Fred Evi, who served in the same squadron, wrote: “They wanted to make him a record-holder for shooting down planes. There were always four or five guys who absolutely had to interview him: here and now. I couldn’t stand them—in truth, they should have left Greg and us alone: Our opinion wasn’t even considered. Boyington got tired, and at times worked himself to exhaustion—which, of course, he shouldn’t have done. I wonder—was that one of the reasons he was shot down and captured?”
“Most of my problems were caused not by the Japanese, but by our own technicians. One time I scrambled the squadron to intercept enemy bombers in our sector, and got into a fight with escort fighters—and then, in the midst of a fierce battle, my engine quit: it turned out the plane hadn’t been refueled before takeoff. I dove almost to the limit, and almost peed myself from fear! If it weren’t for naval aviation with its ‘Hellcats,’ I wouldn’t be here! Afterward, I could have very well been charged with premeditated murder—that’s how enraged I was. I had every chance to shoot down the bomber—and I missed them, and afterward, I never got lucky enough to do it. Another time, after takeoff, my cowling ripped off. After landing, I jumped into another ‘Corsair’ and continued the mission, but without success. I never shot down a single bomber—but, it’s true, we destroyed many planes on the ground during strafing raids.”
On October 17, 1943, the “Sheep” escorted “Avengers” during a raid on Kaili airfield, occupied by the Japanese. Of 60 Japanese fighters, not a single one took off. Returning to Mundu, Greg ordered the “Corsairs” to be refueled and reappeared over Kaili, challenging the Japanese to a duel: Boyington had begun to learn Japanese during the fighting in China and the Pacific. An aerial battle ensued, during which the “Corsairs” shot down 12 “Zeros,” including three shot down by “Pappy,” and the “Sheep” themselves suffered no losses.
Shortly after this episode, VMF-214, along with Army “Cobras” and “Lightnings,” escorted a group of B-24 “Liberator” bombers. The planes ran into a sandstorm. The Army fighters fell behind and returned to their airfields. Only Boyington escorted the group to the end. For this act, the Army Air Force leadership intended to award “Pappy” the Silver Star, but the Marine Corps leadership objected, knowing the hero’s unbearable character: imagine, he smoked in the plane!
In October, VMF-214 completed a six-week tour, and the squadron went to Sydney for rest. In 32 days, Major Boyington shot down 14 enemy aircraft in the Bougainville area.
The squadron returned to combat operations in December 1943. Boyington, on assignment from General Mitchell, led raids on Rabaul. The first such raid took place on December 17: 31 “Corsairs,” 23 “Warhawks,” and 22 “Hellcats” participated. The Japanese were unwilling to risk their fighters when the enemy had such a clear advantage.
The next sortie, on December 23, was more successful for the Americans: losing three of their own aircraft, they shot down 30, with Boyington personally shooting down four Japanese fighters.
Captivity and the Legacy of an Ace
By December 27, Boyington had 25 victories to his credit. On January 3, 1944, early in the morning, Greg, along with his wingman George Ashman, took off leading a group of 46 aircraft. Boyington’s “Corsair” was under repair, and Greg used another ace’s machine—Marion Carl’s—to break Joseph Foss’s record of 26 victories.
“First of all, contrary to what I’ve heard about myself all these years—before takeoff I was sober as a judge. It’s just that, on that day, everything went wrong from the very beginning. My plane was in repair, so I took another one. I was leading the squadron to Rabaul—the stronghold of Japanese naval aviation. We were at 20,000 feet. Everyone knew I was going to break Joe Foss’s record—26 victories; and he had just surpassed Eddie Rickenbacker. Even Marion Carl gave me several of his flights, giving me a chance to score points. And all because I was soon going to be discharged, due to age and length of service. I was 25 at the time (actually, 21). Rabaul in this regard was an ideal hunting ground. In short, we were looking for trouble—me and my wingman, George Ashman. George told me not to worry about my rear—he would take care of it, and I would do the hunting.”
At 7:45, “Pappy” attacked a formation of 10 Japanese planes. He managed to shoot down his 26th “Zero,” but when Greg tried to return to formation, Japanese fighters cut him off from his own. Ashman’s “Corsair” was hit and began to smoke. Covering his wingman, Boyington shot down two more Japanese—but too late! Ashman’s plane crashed into the water. The Japanese shifted their fire to Boyington’s “Corsair.” A shell hit the fuel tank, which immediately exploded. Unbearable heat swept into the cockpit. Greg left the plane at an altitude of 200 feet. His life vest was torn, and “Pappy” himself was wounded in the arms, legs, and head. Boyington thrashed helplessly in the water, while “Zeros” fired at him for another fifteen minutes. Finally, the Japanese left. Only the “Corsairs” circled over the splashdown site of their leader, as long as they had fuel.
“I examined my wounds, hoping I would be rescued. I had almost lost my left ear, it hung by some bloody pulp. My scalp was all torn; my arms, shoulders, and groin—riddled with shrapnel, and another bullet had gone through my calf. Yes, I’d seen better days.”
A “Catalina,” sent to search for Boyington, did not find him. After eight hours in the water, Boyington was picked up by a Japanese submarine: three hours later, Greg was in Rabaul. “Pappy” was declared missing in action, although no one doubted his death.
“Fortunately, the submarine crew tried to help me. They were extremely humane—and I wondered if this was some kind of antidote to what, perhaps, awaited me in the future. One of them spoke English and assured me that I would recover.”
Greg spent 10 days in Rabaul, then he was transferred to Japan. As a prisoner of war, Greg spent twenty months in Ofuna camp near Tokyo. “I was not prepared for captivity and interrogations; and even if I had been, we would have made a mistake somewhere. We were focused on Western methods of psychological warfare, but the Japanese think completely differently—as do the Chinese, Koreans, Vietnamese. We just don’t understand them.
Most of the guards behaved quite brutally—meaning we were beaten quite often, but if you found a way to outsmart them—everything was fine. There was a clever translator there, educated in Honolulu, and it’s thanks to him that I, and others, stayed alive. Then, there was this old lady I worked for in the camp’s kitchen. By that time, I had lost 60-70 pounds, and didn’t look my best. She took care of me, for which I am very grateful. Plus, I didn’t touch alcohol for 20 whole months—perhaps that’s why I live so long. Only once, on New Year’s Eve, a guard gave me a sip of sake. Another important reason is Mr. Kono, a mysterious figure in a uniform without insignia, who spoke English. He probably did more to save American lives than anyone else. No, I don’t hold a grudge against the Japanese. That would be foolish, because good and bad people are everywhere. There were always enough Japanese civilians who were regularly bombed—nevertheless, they always showed us favor, not antipathy. Many of them even secretly supplied us with food, and if they had been caught—they would have been in big trouble. When I think about how the Japanese treated military personnel in their own country, I always feel uneasy thinking about how we treated ‘our’ Japanese—we took away their homes and jobs, and threw them into camps.”
We were kept informed of war news, especially by those guards who were friendly to us. In addition, we listened to what the guards discussed among themselves. I quickly began to understand Japanese speech, key phrases and words. Newly arrived prisoners also generously shared information. We knew that Japan was losing the war; and in February 1945, from our Ofuna camp, we watched a massive raid on Yokosuka. The Japanese informed me that Roosevelt had died, and Germany had surrendered. Later, we were moved from Ofuna to a real POW camp—it was a big deal, because up until then we ‘didn’t qualify’ as prisoners of war. At least we were allowed to inform our relatives that we were alive and in fairly tolerable conditions. I felt better, especially when the B-29 raids intensified. When these raids began, we were forced to clear rubble and dig tunnels in the hills near Yokohama. One day, a guard told me that his house in Nagasaki had been destroyed by a bomb. He spoke Japanese, and I understood little—only that the entire city had been destroyed by a single bomb. That was beyond my comprehension, and only after liberation did I learn that it was true. The guard also said that the war was over. They all got drunk, learning about it—I could understand them; but we were worried that some openly offered to deal with us, so we didn’t feel very comfortable. The next day, the senior officer came and began distributing vitamins and new clothes—in short, preparing us. Six days later, I stood in front of a new building where the Swiss Red Cross was housed—new and very clean. A few more days later, B-29s dropped clothes and food to us, with several guys killed by direct hits. Soon Marines and sailors appeared—and we were able to leave the camp. We ended up on the hospital ship ‘Benevolence,’ under medical supervision. After disinfection and a shower, I had the best dinner I can remember. Some of our guys even turned out to be unable to cope with such a diet—after rice and other camp gibberish.
The press swarmed me on the ship—but, in truth, I had nothing to say except, “Give my regards to my family.” Getting back into shape, I flew from Tokyo to the States, via Guam and Kwajalein. Major General Moore (James Moore, Chief of Staff, 1st Marine Aircraft Wing) met me at Pearl Harbor. And I cannot explain the feeling I experienced, seeing my old friend and benefactor. He provided me with his apartments, a car, and a chauffeur—and that was great. I immediately decided that, since the country considered me a hero, I should at least have a heroic appearance, if not behave accordingly. But, thinking about it, I realized that the only reason for all this heroic hype around me was that I was still alive, while everyone thought I was dead. Several weeks passed before I returned to everyday life, and the newspapermen left me alone. To quote a phrase often attributed to me—”Show me a hero, and I’ll show you a goat.”
Receiving the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps, Boyington completed the Victory Bonds Tour on September 4, and on October 4, he was awarded the Navy Cross by the Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps, General Vandegrift. A day later, U.S. President Truman presented the courageous pilot with the highest officer’s award, the Medal of Honor, at the White House.
On August 1, 1947, Greg retired with the rank of Colonel. “I was medically discharged due to my injuries, and my situation went from bad to worse—I couldn’t find a job until I became a part-time sports referee, officiating fighting matches. My second wife, Frannie, helped me avoid serious trouble, though everywhere I went, there was a policeman passionately wanting to lock me up—especially when I left a bar. They called newspapermen just because they wanted to get their names in the papers at my expense. Then, for several years, I sold beer—romantic, isn’t it? But it at least helped me make ends meet, despite falling out of active life.
One time my former comrades got in touch with me, reminding me that we had planned a party six months after the end of the war. That meeting actually took place in San Francisco; however, after such a break, I couldn’t drink like before. Ironically, this meeting was covered by ‘Life’ magazine—I can say the photos were impressive. Good thing those writers weren’t at our Pacific drinking sprees—their moral compass would have gone haywire.”
In 1959, Boyington participated in the filming of a TV series about World War II, serving as a consultant. His memoir, “Baa Baa Black Sheep,” was published and later adapted into a TV series. Boyington served as a consultant for the filming. “To be honest, I quit alcohol after a long and wild binge. Stephen J. Cannell and others who made that movie and TV series did a lot to keep me from completely hitting rock bottom. We still gather the AVG and the ‘Black Sheep.’ Dick Rossi manages all AVG funds. They settled here in California, so getting my share is no problem.”
In October 1977, American Rick West had the opportunity to speak privately with Greg Boyington. Life had never spared this man, and this was reflected in his character. His speech was quite rough, he rarely opened his mouth—only when answering questions, and when answering—he was brief, precise, and emotional. During the conversation, he did not part with his beer, not hiding his long-standing addiction to alcohol.
“I asked him about the ‘Buffalo’—today, tomorrow, and always, my favorite plane. No sooner had I finished the word ‘Buffalo’ than he slammed his mug on the table and literally roared, ‘BITCH!!!’ Then he slowly leaned back in his chair, and, a little later, said, in a different voice: ‘But the early versions, before they were loaded down with armor, radio, and other crap—they were pretty good little ships. Not especially fast, maybe, but the little bastard could turn on a dime around a phone booth. Oh, yeah—a nice little ship; but some engineer came along and screwed it all up.’ And then he reached for his beer and sank back into silence. After that answer, I somehow felt how Boyington felt about life in general.”
Gregory Boyington passed away on November 11, 1988, at the age of 75. By the end of the war, this outstanding pilot had a total of 28 victories to his credit. In addition to the awards already mentioned, he was awarded three U.S. orders. Boyington’s son also became a pilot and participated in the Vietnam War as a pilot of the 555th TAF.
(c) Somati, 1997
The author will accept any corrections and additions to this publication. E-mail: Somati