ditch along the road, feeling more than a little exposed.
The flight of bombers passed over us and unloaded some of their eggs before the lights lost them. We lay there awhile till the lights had all flicked off, leaving the island blacker than it had been before. Then we piled into our truck, and our jittery driver raced once more toward the strip.
We hadnât gone half a mile when the AA opened up again, and once more we scrambled out and flopped into the ditch. But this time we climbed back into the truck as soon as the planes passed over us, realizing that even if they had released their bombs directly overhead, they would fall some distance away.
We reached the field at ten minutes to five, and the Black Sheep were gathering their gear when the AA started again. We sprinted for a huge foxhole, covered with coconut logs and sandbags, beside our ready tent. Not all of us made it. A stick of antipersonnel bombs walked right down the taxiway, past our tent and past our foxhole, one bomb detonating within 30 feet of us.
I still have the tail fin off that bomb, and the scar it made.
One of the mechs dived under a truck that had been parked only a short time. Bomb fragments were flying all around, and in the midst of it, we heard an agonized groan from under the truck. We tried to help the man out.
âDonât touch me. Iâm hit bad. Blood all over.â
In the beam of the flashlight, we could see him huddled face down, his head on his folded arms. The âbloodâ was warm oil dripping from a hole in the crankcase of the truckâs engine.
Later that morning, Harper had a new name: âThe Mole.â During the air raid, heâd hit the ground on his hands and knees and hadnât wasted time to get up; instead, he had scuttled along the ground on all fours, dived into the huge open foxhole, and then tried to burrow into the side of it.
Repeated bombings or not, we still had our Task Force cover to get off. The pilots were only five minutes late despite the confusion.
The Task Force was bringing men and supplies for our beachhead at Barakoma, Vella Lavella, north of us. Black Sheep pilots, in four- and eight-plane divisions, covered the convoy two hours at a stretch all day long, relieving each other on station.
At 1:30, Bill Case came in, reporting downing a Zero. I had hardly finished recording his success when a plane called our control tower requesting clearance for an emergency landing. It was âWild Manâ Magee.
He nursed his crippled Corsair into the groves, eased down carefully as though he were handling a crate of eggs, and then rolled free. As he flashed by us, we could see that one tire was flat, and jagged tears showed in his tail, fuselage, and wings. The actual count was 30 bullet holes.
âI got off late because I had to change planes at the last minute,â Magee told me. âThen I couldnât locate my flight, so I joined with three other Corsairs over Vella Lavella.
âWe spotted 30 dive bombers heading toward Bougainville. We nosed over, gained speed, and came up under them in a low stern pass. One of them pulled off to the side and I followed him, giving him three medium bursts. He caught fire in the middle and went down burning.
âAt this time, I spotted 15 dive bombers heading for our shipping off Barakoma. Iâd lost the other Corsairs by then, and our batteries were throwing plenty of stuff up at the dive bombers, but I knew they couldnât get them all. I pushed over and went down at them.â
âAll by yourself?â
âWell, yes, there were no other friendlies around. I caught them about 100 feet off the water and made a high side pass at the formation. One broke loose, and I chopped his tail off. He nosed over and crashed in the water.
âThe dive bombers jettisoned their bombs and headed for home, so I picked out a straggler and started a high side pass at him. I passed over him before I could get in an effective
The flight of bombers passed over us and unloaded some of their eggs before the lights lost them. We lay there awhile till the lights had all flicked off, leaving the island blacker than it had been before. Then we piled into our truck, and our jittery driver raced once more toward the strip.
We hadnât gone half a mile when the AA opened up again, and once more we scrambled out and flopped into the ditch. But this time we climbed back into the truck as soon as the planes passed over us, realizing that even if they had released their bombs directly overhead, they would fall some distance away.
We reached the field at ten minutes to five, and the Black Sheep were gathering their gear when the AA started again. We sprinted for a huge foxhole, covered with coconut logs and sandbags, beside our ready tent. Not all of us made it. A stick of antipersonnel bombs walked right down the taxiway, past our tent and past our foxhole, one bomb detonating within 30 feet of us.
I still have the tail fin off that bomb, and the scar it made.
One of the mechs dived under a truck that had been parked only a short time. Bomb fragments were flying all around, and in the midst of it, we heard an agonized groan from under the truck. We tried to help the man out.
âDonât touch me. Iâm hit bad. Blood all over.â
In the beam of the flashlight, we could see him huddled face down, his head on his folded arms. The âbloodâ was warm oil dripping from a hole in the crankcase of the truckâs engine.
Later that morning, Harper had a new name: âThe Mole.â During the air raid, heâd hit the ground on his hands and knees and hadnât wasted time to get up; instead, he had scuttled along the ground on all fours, dived into the huge open foxhole, and then tried to burrow into the side of it.
Repeated bombings or not, we still had our Task Force cover to get off. The pilots were only five minutes late despite the confusion.
The Task Force was bringing men and supplies for our beachhead at Barakoma, Vella Lavella, north of us. Black Sheep pilots, in four- and eight-plane divisions, covered the convoy two hours at a stretch all day long, relieving each other on station.
At 1:30, Bill Case came in, reporting downing a Zero. I had hardly finished recording his success when a plane called our control tower requesting clearance for an emergency landing. It was âWild Manâ Magee.
He nursed his crippled Corsair into the groves, eased down carefully as though he were handling a crate of eggs, and then rolled free. As he flashed by us, we could see that one tire was flat, and jagged tears showed in his tail, fuselage, and wings. The actual count was 30 bullet holes.
âI got off late because I had to change planes at the last minute,â Magee told me. âThen I couldnât locate my flight, so I joined with three other Corsairs over Vella Lavella.
âWe spotted 30 dive bombers heading toward Bougainville. We nosed over, gained speed, and came up under them in a low stern pass. One of them pulled off to the side and I followed him, giving him three medium bursts. He caught fire in the middle and went down burning.
âAt this time, I spotted 15 dive bombers heading for our shipping off Barakoma. Iâd lost the other Corsairs by then, and our batteries were throwing plenty of stuff up at the dive bombers, but I knew they couldnât get them all. I pushed over and went down at them.â
âAll by yourself?â
âWell, yes, there were no other friendlies around. I caught them about 100 feet off the water and made a high side pass at the formation. One broke loose, and I chopped his tail off. He nosed over and crashed in the water.
âThe dive bombers jettisoned their bombs and headed for home, so I picked out a straggler and started a high side pass at him. I passed over him before I could get in an effective
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