started with a dull humming inside my head. It grew louder and louder. I shook my head and turned over, but the humânow a wailâpersisted, beating and beating at my brain. Then I heard a scuffle of feet, thuds, the crash of bodies moving through the jungle. I suddenly sat up, bumping my head on my mosquito net support pole.
An air raid! It was 1:00 A.M.
Nothing happened for a few minutes, so we stepped outside the tent. It was clear and bright. The rain had stopped. A full moon illuminated everything, and I knew what âBomberâs Moonâ meant.
Boyington, Bailey, Reames, and Iâwe were a strange sight, nakedexcept for steel helmets and field shoes; shirts and trousers wouldnât have been any help.
Suddenly, a searchlight flung its long finger upward, probing the sky like a surgeon probing a wound for a bullet. Another one flicked on, and another and another, fingers interlocking and opening and moving about relentlessly.
We could hear the uneven drone of unsynchronized engines.
âYes, thatâs Charlie,â said Bailey.
The searchlights continued their restless movement until one passed across the enemy formation; it jerked back and clung there. The others quickly swung and there, like tiny moths caught in the glare of our lights, were six Japanese bombers, making no effort to evade. Our antiaircraft opened up. Ka-bloom, boom; ka-bloom, boom; one after the other the shells burst, at first low and to one side, then closer and closer as the directors began to get the range.
A shell burst alongside one of the flanking planes; it faltered a moment and then began to go down in a long flat glide, trailing smoke.
Like the roar at a baseball game when a batter hits a home run, a cheer went up all over our camp.
âTime to get in our foxholes,â said Boyington.
âNobody has to tell me that!â Doc Reames said, who was already in his.
The rest of us started toward our foxholes and ended up diving in when we heard the whistle of bombs. Down on our hands and knees, we heard them come closer, and then the earth shook with the concussion as they detonated. Bits of rock and coral bounced down the sides of the hole. We crouched there for ages, our shoulders hunched against another blast.
When we crawled out, everything looked the same. Twenty minutes later, the all-clear sounded; we went back to bed.
I woke immediately the next time I heard the siren. It was 2:35 A.M. , and Washing Machine Charlie was back. This time it was a lone plane. He flew a straight course in spite of the lights, made no effort to dodge either them or the AA bursts, which came close but never touched him. Once again we ended in a scramble for our foxholes, and the bombs crashed somewhere toward the strip.
We were hardly back on our bunks when the siren wailed again. By the time the all-clear sounded, it was four oâclock and time to get up.
Breakfast consisted of grapefruit juice, chicory coffee, and creamed hamburger on toastâwhich Marines had awarded the expressive and alliterative title of âshit on a shingle,â or SOS.
The air raid sirens wailed again as we climbed into the trucks to go to the strip. Since no planes could be seen, however, and the Black Sheep were scheduled to take off at five oâclock for a rendezvous with a convoy coming up from the south, we started out. The moon had gone down. All lights were out. Everything was soft, warm, clinging blackness.
Our driver, who would rather have been in a foxhole, wound up the truck in second gear and raced at 45 miles an hour down the slippery coral road to the airfield. We rounded the curve at the bottom without mishap and straightened out on the road that crossed a long open area.
Suddenly, the antiaircraft batteries sprang to life and the searchlights came on again. Our driver jerked on the emergency brake and jumped out of the skidding truck, leaving us in a heap on its floor. We scrambled out and lay down in the muddy
An air raid! It was 1:00 A.M.
Nothing happened for a few minutes, so we stepped outside the tent. It was clear and bright. The rain had stopped. A full moon illuminated everything, and I knew what âBomberâs Moonâ meant.
Boyington, Bailey, Reames, and Iâwe were a strange sight, nakedexcept for steel helmets and field shoes; shirts and trousers wouldnât have been any help.
Suddenly, a searchlight flung its long finger upward, probing the sky like a surgeon probing a wound for a bullet. Another one flicked on, and another and another, fingers interlocking and opening and moving about relentlessly.
We could hear the uneven drone of unsynchronized engines.
âYes, thatâs Charlie,â said Bailey.
The searchlights continued their restless movement until one passed across the enemy formation; it jerked back and clung there. The others quickly swung and there, like tiny moths caught in the glare of our lights, were six Japanese bombers, making no effort to evade. Our antiaircraft opened up. Ka-bloom, boom; ka-bloom, boom; one after the other the shells burst, at first low and to one side, then closer and closer as the directors began to get the range.
A shell burst alongside one of the flanking planes; it faltered a moment and then began to go down in a long flat glide, trailing smoke.
Like the roar at a baseball game when a batter hits a home run, a cheer went up all over our camp.
âTime to get in our foxholes,â said Boyington.
âNobody has to tell me that!â Doc Reames said, who was already in his.
The rest of us started toward our foxholes and ended up diving in when we heard the whistle of bombs. Down on our hands and knees, we heard them come closer, and then the earth shook with the concussion as they detonated. Bits of rock and coral bounced down the sides of the hole. We crouched there for ages, our shoulders hunched against another blast.
When we crawled out, everything looked the same. Twenty minutes later, the all-clear sounded; we went back to bed.
I woke immediately the next time I heard the siren. It was 2:35 A.M. , and Washing Machine Charlie was back. This time it was a lone plane. He flew a straight course in spite of the lights, made no effort to dodge either them or the AA bursts, which came close but never touched him. Once again we ended in a scramble for our foxholes, and the bombs crashed somewhere toward the strip.
We were hardly back on our bunks when the siren wailed again. By the time the all-clear sounded, it was four oâclock and time to get up.
Breakfast consisted of grapefruit juice, chicory coffee, and creamed hamburger on toastâwhich Marines had awarded the expressive and alliterative title of âshit on a shingle,â or SOS.
The air raid sirens wailed again as we climbed into the trucks to go to the strip. Since no planes could be seen, however, and the Black Sheep were scheduled to take off at five oâclock for a rendezvous with a convoy coming up from the south, we started out. The moon had gone down. All lights were out. Everything was soft, warm, clinging blackness.
Our driver, who would rather have been in a foxhole, wound up the truck in second gear and raced at 45 miles an hour down the slippery coral road to the airfield. We rounded the curve at the bottom without mishap and straightened out on the road that crossed a long open area.
Suddenly, the antiaircraft batteries sprang to life and the searchlights came on again. Our driver jerked on the emergency brake and jumped out of the skidding truck, leaving us in a heap on its floor. We scrambled out and lay down in the muddy
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