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15
Dec

#TributetoaVeteran – PFC Frank Plebanek, U.S. Army, 1943-1948.

13
Dec

Lt Regis Philbin US Navy (Served 1953-1955)

regisView the service history of talk show host:

Lt Regis Philbin

US Navy

(Served 1953-1955)

View his service profile on TogetherWeServed.com

http://navy.togetherweserved.com/profile/599706

Short Bio: American media personality, TV-talk show host, game-show host, singer, author, and TV personality, Regis Philbin became one of the most popular talk-show hosts in America and in Canada,. Sometimes called “the hardest working man in show business”, he holds the Guinness World Record for the most time spent in front of a television camera. His trademarks include his excited manner, his Bronx accent, his wit, and irreverent ad-libs.

After Graduating from Norte Dame in 1953 he joined the US Navy. He was last stationed at NAB Coronado with Landing Ship Squadron One and served as a Supply Officer.

11
Dec

Revolutionary War Death Ship

By LtCol Mike Christy

Together We Served Dispatches

 

After the British evacuated Boston on March 17, 1776, Gen. George Washington guessed correctly that their next target would be New York. By mid-April, Washington had marched his 19,000 soldiers to Lower Manhattan. He strengthened the batteries that guarded the harbor and constructed forts in northern Manhattan and on Brooklyn Heights across the East River on Long Island.

On August 22, 1776, Gen. William Howe’s large fleet and 34,000 army troops landed on Long Island, hoping to capture New York City and gain control of the Hudson River, a victory that would divide the rebellious colonies in half.

Gen. Howe halted the fighting by the early afternoon and directed his men to dig trenches around the American position on the next day. Before they could be surrounded, Washington ordered his men to evacuate Long Island. From late in the evening of August 29 to dawn on the following morning, Washington watched as 9,000 Continentals were rowed back to Manhattan. As the sun came up, a fog miraculously descended on the remaining men crossing the river. According to eyewitnesses, George Washington was the last man to leave Brooklyn. At the Battle of Brooklyn, the Americans suffered 1,000 casualties to the British loss of only 400 men. Militarily, the British were now in control of New York City.

During their occupation, British forces captured or arrested thousands of soldiers and civilians, some after battles fought around New York and some for simply refusing to swear allegiance to the Crown. In addition, the Continental government had authorized a number of privately owned, armed ships to serve on behalf of the patriotic cause; some 55,000 American seamen would eventually serve as merchant marines or privateers. Whenever the British captured these privateers, they gave them the choice of joining the Royal Navy or going to prison. Most ended up in prison.

The problem was, management and treatment of prisoners of war were very different from the standards of modern warfare. Modern standards, as outlined in the Geneva Conventions of later centuries, expect captive to be held and cared for by their captors. The primary difference in the 18th century was the care and supplies for captives were expected to be provided by their own combatants or private citizens.

King George III of Great Britain had declared American forces traitor in 19775, which denied them prisoner of war status. However, British strategy during the early conflict included the pursuit of a negotiated settlement allowing officials to decline to try and/or hang them – the usual procedure for treason to avoid unnecessarily risking any public sympathy the British might have enjoyed in the Americas. Great Britain’s neglect resulted in starvation and disease. Despite the lack of formal executions, neglect achieved the same results as hanging.

American prisoners of war tended to be accumulated at large sites that the British were able to occupy for long periods of time. New York City, Philadelphia in 1777, and Charleston, South Carolina, were all major cities used to detain American prisoners of war. Facilities at these places were limited. At times, the occupying army was actually larger than the total civilian population. Other American prisoners were housed in other parts of the British Empire. Over 100 prisoners were employed as slave laborers in coal mines in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia – they later chose to join the British Navy to secure their freedom. Other American prisoners were kept in England (Portsmouth, Plymouth, Liverpool, Deal, and Weymouth), Ireland, and Antigua. By late 1782 England and Ireland housed over 1,000 American prisoners, who in 1783 were moved to France prior to their eventual release.

Space in British jails on land soon ran out, and the British began housing prisoners aboard the abandoned or decommissioned warships anchored in Wallabout Bay, the small part of Upper New York Bay located along the northwest shore of the city of Brooklyn between the present-day Williamsburg and Manhattan Bridge.

As a result, the most horrific struggle of the American Revolution occurred just 100 yards off New York, where more men and boys died aboard a rotting prison ship were lost to combat during the entirety of the war.

The first ships used by the British to hold prisoners were originally transports in which cattle and other stores were carried across the Atlantic. The first prison ship was the “Whitby.” The captives aboard were allowed to keep their clothing and bedding but received no more of such commodities while on the ship. They were given no medical attention. The rations they received were either cut or substituted with unwholesome meat by corrupt British commissaries. The men aboard the “Whitby,” seeing no hope for an exchange, set fire to their ship in October 1777, choosing death in the flames to lingering sufferings of disease and starvation. The burning of the “Whitby” and others like it did not bring the prison ships to an end.

The most infamous of the prison ships was the HMS Jersey or “Jersey” which was an old converted sixty-four-gun man-of-war, stripped of all its fittings except for the flagstaff. Every three days, rations would be given out to a six-man mess. On certain days, men were not allowed to cook fires and had to wait another twenty-four hours or consume their meat raw. Having no fruit or fresh vegetables, scurvy was naturally one of the diseases that afflicted the prisoners. The “Jersey” had on board anywhere from 400 to 1200 prisoners.

Conditions on board were beyond despicable. Meager rations of maggoty bread and rotted meat left the prisoners sick, weak, and emaciated. With no toilets to speak of, excrement piled up as thousands of men and boys were packed into the ship’s dark, dank interior. Occasionally, groups of prisoners would escape overboard, only to be recaptured on British-held Long Island. As years slipped by on the Jersey, life became unbearable: unable to wash but with salt water, their skin turned sallow and hung over their skeletal bodies like old parchment. All thought was consumed by plans for escape, when not distracted by want of food or drink. By 1780, prisoners were dying aboard the Jersey at a rate of roughly ten each day. At least, that’s how many bodies were unloaded from the ship every morning at 8 am. Corpses were brought up to the top deck as they were discovered, and left there until morning when they were piled onto a wooden plank and lowered over the ship’s side to be buried in shallow pits on the sandy banks of Wallabout Bay. Sometimes, bodies would go weeks before being discovered, so dark were the prisoners’ quarters. The air was reportedly so foul that no flame would stay lit.

And since the dead were buried in mass graves only two or so feet deep on sandy beaches, storms and tides regularly uncovered their rancid and decaying corpses, adding an increased air of death and misery to the already-gloomy bay. No records were kept of the dead, and last rites were rarely performed before they were unceremoniously dumped into their pits. Most prisoners remain nameless; their families would never have the closure of knowing what had happened to them

More than 1,000 men were kept aboard the Jersey at any one time, and about a dozen died every night from diseases such as small pox, dysentery, typhoid and yellow fever, as well as from the effects of starvation and torture. Even after the British surrender at Yorktown in late 1781, prisoners were kept aboard the Jersey and other ships until the war formally ended in 1783. At war’s end, there were only 1,400 survivors among the inmates of the entire prison ship fleet, and at least 11,000 men and boys died aboard the ships from 1776 to 1783 – more than lost to combat (6,800) during the entirety of the war. The corpses of the dead were often tossed overboard, though sometimes they were buried in shallow graves along the eroding shoreline. Many of the remains became exposed or were washed up and recovered by local residents over the years.

Throughout the colonies, the mere mention of the ship sparked fear and loathing of British troops. It also sparked a backlash of outrage as newspapers everywhere described the horrors on board the ghostly ship. This shocking event, much like the better-known Boston Massacre before it, ended up rallying public support for the war.

In the years following the Revolution’s conclusion, daily tides uncovered a seemingly countless number of skulls and bones on the shores surrounding Wallabout Bay. Skulls were said to litter the beaches as thick as a pumpkin patch, and children would kick them about like a ball. As Brooklynites collected more and more of the bones, calls began to ring out for a more respectful and honorable resting place for these most neglected of Patriots. As a result, in 1808, a crypt was constructed near the bay for the skeletal remains, almost none of which could be identified. There they would rest in relative peace for another century.

During that century, arguments waxed and waned regarding the construction of a more fitting memorial to these glorious dead. The flame of patriotism was fanned, funds were raised, and in 1908, on a hilltop overlooking the bay where so many thousands of tales of misery were played out, a monument was erected to the Prison Ship Martyrs. Beneath the 100 steps leading to the soaring memorial column was constructed a spacious crypt. Twenty slate boxes filled with the bones of the deceased thousands were placed in the crypt and sealed behind a bronze door. Twenty-thousand New Yorkers and other dignitaries turned out on a cold, rainy November day to dedicate the memorial.

But time has a way of erasing memories. As New York’s fortunes ebbed in the later decades of the 20th century, so too did the fate of the Prison Ship Martyrs Monument. A staircase and elevator which once ferried visitors to the column’s pinnacle were both removed in 1945. Vandals marred its base with graffiti and in 1966, the monument’s four large bronze eagles were removed to be restored, never to return (two remain in storage and two are on display at the armory in Central Park).

As New York has gone through a bit of a renaissance in the past several years, the Martyrs Monument has not been entirely forgotten. Between 2006 and 2008, more than $5,000,000 was spent to restore the column and its surrounding plaza. Despite its restoration, however, the thousands who perished here and whose bones lie beneath our feet remain largely ignored by modern generations. In 2008, in celebration of the memorial’s centennial, only 200 people turned out in the park. Compare that to the 20,000 who flocked there in the rain a century before.

These men walked and fought alongside George Washington. They suffered and died in the name of American independence. They endured untold indignities, even in death. And this largely-forgotten memorial atop a hill in Fort Greene Park is among the most hallowed ground in this nation. We owe everything we have today to the ideals these men held so dear. And we owe them our respect and an immense debt of gratitude.

8
Dec

#TributetoaVeteran SMSgt Robert “Buck” Hensel, U.S. Air Force, 1966-2005

6
Dec

T/5 Don Knotts US Army (Served 1943-1946)

Don_Knotts_Barney_and_the_bullet_Andy_Griffith_ShowView the service history of actor:

T/5 Don Knotts

US Army

(Served 1943-1946)

View his Service Profile on TogetherWeServed.com

http://army.togetherweserved.com/profile/24171

Short Bio: Knotts is best known for his roles as ‘Deputy Barney Fife’ in the 1960s television series the “Andy Griffith Show,” and as landlord ‘Ralph Furley’ from the late 1970s television situation comedy series “Three’s Company.” He entered the US Army following his freshman year and served in the Pacific Theater entertaining troops in a variety show called “Stars and Gripes.”

4
Dec

Bases, Places and Memories: Memorable Flights

By GySgt Paul Moore, USMC (Ret)
WWII, Korean War, and Vietnam War Veteran
I had several memorable flights in the 50 years of flights in both Helicopters and before them the old stiff wings. My first attention getter was in the old Bi-Wing UPF 7 in Primary Flight Training. We had 12 of them parked on an old dirt field located outside Fort Worth Texas in early 1944. We arrived there each day on a bus and then pre-flight our assigned aircraft for our daily flight. This was all a one man operation.

After the preflight, we’d climbed up on the wing left side and with a crank wound up the old inertial starter. We threw the crank down on the ground, jumped in the cockpit, moved the mixture to full rich, cranked the throttle just over Idle, turned the primer to the top cylinders then pulled the toggle to engage the starter motor. Then hope it would fire up or go through that routine again!

After the start, I’d run up to full power check and reached that point then fluctuated. I thought well, that’s not good but if I down the aircraft meant I wouldn’t fly that day. With that unwise decision, I taxied out & took off for our training area which carried me over the outskirts of Fort Worth. Regulations required an altitude not lower than 500 ft over those areas. I went to about 800 ft and the engine dropped back to idle!! I started rapidly moving both the mixture & the throttle FW and Aft and it caught up momentarily then back to idle which required me to drop the nose & start a downward descent to avoid stalling out.

I looked in all directions and it was city streets and houses. I could do nothing but continue my descent without a clue in or on what I was going to land! I had the old seat parachute but altitude and where the aircraft would hit precluded any use of the chute. I was at about 200-foot altitude when I saw the high tension wires in front of me. I pulled the nose up and cleared the wires but lost my forward airspeed and did the only thing left in that mode; lowered the nose and prepared to make a 3 point stall landing!!

To my complete surprise, I was over the railroad tracks that went from Fort Worth to Dallas. I landed alongside the rails in some very tall weeds and came to a stop almost against a building. Would you believe it was a small beer joint on the outskirts named “Blondies.” As I was landing, I noticed cars pulling over along the street and folks looking up at me. I went inside and called the field trying to tell them where I was. At first, they thought it was a caller pulling a joke.

They later took the aircraft on a flat boy trailer back to the field and found that a restriction in the fuel system had caused the problem. It was complete luck that I ended up there without hitting a structure. I received high marks for making the safe landing since I only had been flying solo for 8 hours.

The other one that really got my attention happened at the foot of the mountains in Vietnam near Cam Ranh Bay Jan 17, 1967while flying out of Nha Trang in my old CH34C 543045. I had auto rotated down alongside the mountain to observe an assault by gunships on a mountain site. Suddenly, I went into a very violent spin which made it impossible to move as I was pasted against the seat by the spinning force. I knew that I had lost tail drive and the only possible emergency procedure was to release torque from the main rotors. This happened when I had applied throttle to flare and stop the autorotation. The throttle was on the collective stick and I managed to rotate it to idle and the spin momentarily stopped that was when I saw I was headed nose down to the trees and ground.

Figured that fire was the most likely thing when you crashed so I turned off the battery switch and hit the Mag switch and threw the cyclic stick full left. Wanted to stop the main blades when we hit so they would not chop off our heads. We took down some small trees and the main blades hit the ground on the left side and wound around the top of the cockpit just inches above my head. I was with my left leg outside the side window and the ground. The Vietnamese captain in the right seat climbed up and out the right side window and me trying to get my leg free. I remember hearing the fuel, “gloop, gloop,” running out from the fuel tanks under the troop compartment floor and praying that a fire didn’t start as I could hear the inverters & electrical components running down.

I finally got free and climbed up through the right side window. There in the middle of all that spilled fuel was that dumb Vietnamese officer firing those finger flares we carried into the air. I grabbed him and pushed him away from the helicopter and asked him if he was trying to get the Viet Cong to rescue us!! He wanted to start walking towards the Nha Trang Air Base. I said go ahead if you know where all the minefields and VC might be located. I was going to stay by the crash and see if something flew over then I would fire some flares.

After about 20 minutes some of the Army Hueys flew over and after some time they finally came down with the door gun trained on us to be sure who we were.

I was a very happy camper when we got back to the Nha Trang base. I had some broken ribs, banged-up left leg and numerous bruises but in one piece! When that violent spin started I was sure that was going to be my last flight and my last day on earth.

Anyway, that is two of several flights in my times that I remember every minute of!!

1
Dec

#TributetoaVeteran ABE3 Marilyn Richards, U.S. Navy, 1997-2001

29
Nov

Cpl Leon Spinks US Marine Corps (Served 1973-1976)

12239935_1049676848407972_3466351320048569679_nView the service history of boxer

Cpl Leon Spinks

US Marine Corps

(Served 1973-1976)

View his Service Profile on TogetherWeServed.com

http://marines.togetherweserved.com/profile/369737

Short Bio: According to a 2005 article Spinks says “I went into the Marines to get away from drugs. My birthday was July 11 — 7-11 — but I don’t know how lucky I was.”

He joined the Marines and won a gold medal in the 1976 Montreal Olympics, a member of perhaps the greatest U.S. boxing team in history (along with his brother, Michael, and Sugar Ray Leonard).

“I enjoyed the service, it’s the best thing for a young man,”

27
Nov

Profile in Courage: Gregory “Pappy” Boyington

By LtCol Mike Christy – Together We Served Dispatches

Stories of Gregory “Pappy” Boyington are legion, many founded in fact, including how he led the legendary Black Sheep squadron, and how he served in China as a member of the American Volunteer Group, the famed Flying Tigers. He spent a year and a half as a Japanese POW, was awarded the Medal of Honor and Navy Cross, and was recognized as a Marine Corps top ace. Always hard-drinking and hard-living, Pappy’s post-war life was as turbulent as his wartime experiences.

Born on Dec.4, 1912, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, young Boyington had a rough childhood, as divorced parents, an alcoholic step-father, and lots of moves withheld much-needed parental guidance. He got his first ride in an airplane at the ripe young age of six, when the famous barnstormer, Clyde Pangborn (who later flew the Pacific non-stop), flew his Jenny into town, and young Gregory wangled a ride. What a thrill for a little kid!

In 1926, at the age of 13, his family moved to Tacoma, Washington. In high school, he took up a challenging sport that he would practice for many years – wrestling. As an adult, the hard-drinking Boyington would often challenge others to impromptu wrestling bouts, frequently with injurious results.

After graduating high school in 1930, Boyington attended the University of Washington in Seattle, where he was a member of the Army ROTC and joined the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity. He was on the Husky wrestling and swimming teams, and for a time he held the Pacific Northwest Intercollegiate middleweight wrestling title. He spent his summers working in Washington in a mining camp and at a logging camp, and back in Idaho with the Coeur d’Alene Fire Protective Association in road construction. He graduated in 1934 with a B.S. in Aeronautical Engineering and soon after married his first wife, Helene, who bore him his first son, Gregory Clark Boyington, 10 months later. He initially worked for a time as a draftsman and engineer for Boeing in Seattle.

Boyington had begun his military training in college as a member of Army ROTC and became a cadet captain. He was commissioned a second lieutenant in the U.S. Army Coast Artillery Reserve in June 1934, and then served two months of active duty with the 630th Coast Artillery at Fort Worden, Washington.

In the spring of 1935, he applied for flight training under the Aviation Cadet Act, but he discovered that it excluded married men. Boyington had grown up as Gregory Hallenbeck, and had assumed his stepfather, Ellsworth J. Hallenbeck, was his father. However, when he obtained a copy of his birth certificate, he learned that his father was actually Charles Boyington, a dentist, and that his parents had divorced when he was an infant. As there was no record that someone named Gregory Boyington had ever been married, he enrolled in the U.S. Marine Corps Aviation Cadet program using that name.

He began elimination training in June 1935, where he met Richard Mangrum and Bob Galer, both future heroes at Guadalcanal. He passed and received orders to begin Flight Training at Pensacola NAS in January 1936 with class 88-C. Here he flew a floatplane version of the Consolidated NY-2. Like another great ace, Gabby Gabreski, Boyington had a tough time with flight training and had to undergo many rechecks. On February 18, 1936, Boyington accepted an appointment as an Aviation Cadet in the Marine Corps Reserve.

Until he arrived in Pensacola, Boyington had never touched alcohol. But here, with hard-partying fliers, and the burden of his wife’s “indiscretions,” he soon discovered an affinity for liquor. Early on, he established his Marine Corps reputation: hard-drinking, brawling, well-liked, and always ready to wrestle at the drop of a hat. But he kept flying, all through1936, slowly progressing toward earning his wings, flying more powerful planes like the Vought O2U and SU-1 scouting biplanes. At Pensacola, he also met his future nemesis, Joe Smoak, memorialized in the TV show “Baa Baa Black Sheep” (loosely based on Boyington’s memoirs of the same title) as “Colonel Lard.”

Boyington finally earned his coveted wings on March 11, 1937, when he was designated a Naval Aviator and transferred to Quantico, Virginia, for duty with Aircraft One, Fleet Marine Force. He was discharged from the Marine Corps Reserve on July 1, 1937, in order to accept a Second Lieutenant’s commission in the regular Marine Corps the following day.

Before reporting for his assignment with VMF-1 at Quantico, Virginia, he took advantage of his 30-day leave to return home and reconcile with his wife Helene, who became pregnant with their second child. In those days, Marine aviators were required to be bachelors; Boyington’s family was a secret that he kept from the brass, but he brought them with him to Virginia, installing them quietly in nearby Fredericksburg. He flew F4B-4 biplanes during 1937, taking part in routine training, an air show dubbed the “All American Air Maneuvers,” and a fleet exercise in Puerto Rico.

In March of 1938, VMF-1 aviators took possession of the latest, hottest Grumman fighters, the F3F-2s, the last biplane fighters used by the U.S. Army Air Force. Powered by the mammoth 950 horsepower Wright-Cyclone engine, the fat-bellied aircraft was fast and rugged.

In July, he moved to Philadelphia to attend the ten-month Marine Corps Basic School. Apparently not motivated by the “ground-pounder” curriculum, Boyington here evidenced the weaknesses that would haunt him: excessive drinking, unpaid debts, fighting, and poor official performance. On completion of the course, he was assigned to the 2nd Marine Aircraft Group at the San Diego Naval Air Station, where he took part in fleet exercises off the aircraft carriers USS Lexington and USS Yorktown.

Boyington’s irresponsibility, his debts, and his difficulties with the Corps continued to haunt him. One memorable, drunken night, he meant to show off the swimming prowess he had attained as a swimmer at UW, and attempted to swim across San Diego Bay, but wound up naked and exhausted in the Navy’s Shore Patrol office.

Despite his problems on the ground, it was during these days of 1940, flying with VMF-2, that Boyington first became noticed as a top-notch pilot. Whatever his other issues, he could out-dogfight almost anyone. Boyington was promoted to First Lieutenant on November 4, 1940, and in December he returned to Pensacola as an Instructor. Once back at Pensacola, his problems mounted when he decked a superior Officer in a fight over a girl (not his wife), and his creditors sought official help from the Marine Corps. His career was a hopeless mess by late 1941.

Rescue came from the Chinese front against Japan. Anxious to help the Chinese in their war against Japan, the United States government arranged to supply fighter planes and pilots to China, under the cover of the Central Aircraft Manufacturing Company (CAMCO). CAMCO recruiters would visit U.S. military aviation bases looking for volunteers to help defend China and the Burma Road, critical to maintaining the flow of supplies to anti-Japanese forces in the Far East. The pilots were volunteers only in the sense that they willingly quit their peacetime job with the military; otherwise, they would be handsomely paid through CAMCO. Pilots earned $600 a month, flight leaders $675, plus a fat bonus for each Japanese plane destroyed. This was double or even triple the current military salary for pilots.

In March, CAMCO recruiters began their quest to form the American Volunteer Group (AVG), later known as the famed Flying Tigers in Burma. One recruiter set up an interview room in Pensacola’s San Carlos Hotel, a popular watering hole for pilots. On the night of August 4, Boyington found himself in the hotel bar simply “looking for an answer.” Payday had been just a few days earlier, but he was already broke. His wife and children were gone, he was deeply in debt, and his superiors were breathing down his neck.

The money looked very good to Boyington. Assured by the recruiter that the program had government approval and that his spot in the Corps was safe, he signed on the spot and promptly resigned from the Marine Corps. While the AVG deal for pilots normally meant a later return to active U.S. military service, in Boyington’s case, his superiors took a different view. They were happy to be rid of him and noted in his file that he should not be reappointed.

Boyington shipped out of San Francisco on September 24, 1941, on the Boschfontein, of the Dutch Java Line. After docking at Rangoon, the AVG fliers arrived at their base at Toungoo on November 13. During his time with the Tigers, Boyington became a Flight Leader. He flew several missions during the defense of Burma and was frequently in trouble with the Commander of the outfit, Claire Chennault. After Burma fell, he returned to Kunming and flew from there until the Flying Tigers were incorporated into the USAAF.

Boyington claimed to have shot down six Japanese fighters, which would have made him one of the first American Aces of the war. He maintained until his death in 1988 that he did, in fact, have six kills, and the Marine Corps officially credits him with those kills. However, loosely-kept AVG records only credited Boyington with two aerial kills. The difference seems to have been a mere technicality: it was noted that in a raid on Chiang Mai, Boyington was one of four pilots who was credited with destroying 15 planes on the ground. As the AVG paid for destroyed Japanese planes, on the ground or in the air, Boyington lobbied for his share of the Chiang Mai planes or, to be precise 3.75 planes. And so, later at Guadalcanal, he characterized his Flying Tiger record as including “six kills.” For Greg Boyington, the 3.75 ground kill claims added to 2 aerial kills, rounded off to six kills, and established himself as one of the first American Aces. It may have been a “little white lie,” but once his AVG number of six kills found its way into print, and his USMC victories started piling up, there was no going back.

While with the Flying Tigers, Boyington also made the acquaintance of Olga Greenlaw, the beautiful wife of the Tiger’s XO, Harvey Greenlaw. In her own words, Olga “knew how to get along with a man if I like him.” Apparently, she and Boyington “got along.” Olga served as statistician and writer of the Flying Tigers’ Daily Diary for the year they were in China. In 1943, she wrote her own book titled “The Lady and the Tigers” about her experiences with the Squadron.

Boyington returned to the States in the spring of 1942 and took up with Lucy Malcolmson since his first marriage had fallen apart. With some finagling, undoubtedly helped by the wartime demand for, and a shortage of, experienced fighter pilots, and against the prior recommendations by his superiors, he was reappointed to the U.S. Marines in November, with the rank of Major. In January 1943, he embarked on the Lurline, bound for New Caledonia, where he would spend a few months on the staff of Marine Air Group (MAG)-11. Here, he got his first close look at a Vought F4U Corsair, the fighter in which he would record the majority of his aerial victories.

Boyington finally secured an assignment to VMF-122 as Executive Officer for a combat tour. As usual, he clashed with his superior. This time it was Major Elmer Brackett. Brackett was shortly removed, and Boyington took over but did not see much action. It was now early 1943, when, as the new CO of VMF-122, his claim of six kills with the AVG first made it into print.

In late May of 1943, Boyington’s nemesis, Lt. Col. Joe Smoak relieved him of his command of VMF-122. Shortly afterward, Boyington broke his leg and spent time in the hospital. In the summer of 1943, as he convalesced, the U.S. Naval Air Forces needed more Corsairs in the fight. Oddly, the key pieces – trained pilots and operational aircraft – were present in the South Pacific, but many of them were dispersed. Boyington was given the assignment to pull together an ad hoc Squadron from available men and planes. Originally, they formed the rear echelon of VMF-124.

In a complex, and common, wartime shuffling of designations, Boyington’s team was redesignated VMF-214, while the exhausted pilots of the original VMF-214 were sent home.

Under Boyington as CO with Maj. Stan Bailey as Exec, they trained hard at Turtle Bay on Espritu Santo, especially the pilots who were new to the Corsair. Two other noted Officers rounded out the Squadron: Frank Walton, a former Los Angeles cop, became the Air Combat Intelligence Officer (ACIO), and Jim Reames the Squadron doctor. Walton would later author “Once They Were Eagles.” While leading this group of young pilots, most in their early 20’s, Boyington – at the advanced age of 30 – picked up the nickname “Gramps.” The press gave him the nickname “Pappy” after he was shot down, which stuck with him for the rest of his life.

The new VMF-214 was originally called “Boyington’s Bastards” by his men, since none of them were at the time attached to any units, but was later given the more newspaper-friendly label “Black Sheep” by the top brass. In early September 1943, they were moved up to their new forward base in the Russell Islands, staging through Guadalcanal’s famed Henderson Field.

The Black Sheep fought their way to fame in just 84 days, compiling a record 197 planes destroyed or damaged, troop transports and supply ships sunk, and ground installations destroyed in addition to numerous other victories. They flew their first combat mission on September 14, 1943, escorting Dauntless Dive Bombers to Ballale, a small island west of Bougainville where the Japanese had a heavily fortified airstrip. They encountered heavy opposition from the enemy Zeros. Two days later, in a similar raid, “Pappy” claimed five kills, his best single day total.

In October VMF-214 moved up from their original base in the Russells to a more advanced location at Munda. From here they were closer to the next big objective – the Jap bases on Bougainville. On one mission over Bougainville, according to Boyington’s autobiography, the Japanese radioed him in English, asking him to report his position and so forth. Pappy played along, but stayed 5000 feet higher than he had told them, and when the Zeros came along, the Black Sheep blew twelve of them away and drove off the rest. He even made an unsuccessful play for “Washing Machine Charlie,” a random Japanese Betty bomber with deliberately-unsynchronized engines that would make erratic and inaccurate nocturnal bomb drops over Henderson Field on Guadalcanal.

During the period from September 1943 to early January 1944, Boyington destroyed 22 Japanese aircraft. By late December, it was clear that he was closing in on Eddie Rickenbacker’s record of 26 victories (including his claimed 6 with the AVG). But the strain had begun to tell. On Nov. 19, 1943, his old nemesis Lt. Col. Joe Smoak placed him under arrest for 10 days for speaking to the staff of the Wing Commander without Smoak’s explicit authorization. Then, on Jan. 3, 1944, in a large dogfight in which the Black Sheep were outnumbered 70 to 30, Boyington was shot down. He later claimed three enemy aircraft killed in the aerial battle, one of which was verified.

He landed in the water, badly injured. After being strafed by the Jap fighters, he struggled onto his raft only to be captured by a Jap sub several hours later. They took him first to Rabaul, where he was brutally interrogated. Even the General commanding the Japanese forces at Rabaul interviewed him. Pappy later related in his memoirs titled “Baa Baa Black Sheep” that the General asked him who had started the war. After Pappy replied that of course, the Japanese had started the war by attacking Pearl Harbor, the General then told him this short fable:

“Once upon a time there was a little of old lady and she traded with five merchants. She always paid her bills and got along fine. Finally, the five merchants got together, and they jacked up their prices so high the little old lady couldn’t afford to live any longer. That’s the end of the story.” The General left the room, leaving Boyington to ponder that there had to be two sides to everything.

After about six weeks, the Japanese flew him to Truk. As he landed there, he experienced one of the early carrier strikes against Truk in February 1944. Along with six other captured Americans, he was confined in a small, but sturdy wooden cell which might have been designed for one inmate. The only opening was a six-inch hole in the floor, for relieving themselves. The stench became nearly intolerable.

He was eventually moved to a prison camp at Ofuna, outside of Yokohama. His autobiography relates the frequent beatings, interrogations, and near starvation that he endured for the next 18 months. The guards, whose only qualification seemed to be passing “a minus-one-hundred I.Q. test,” beat the prisoners severely for any infraction, real or imagined.

He initially lost about 80 pounds, and described how he once entirely consumed a “soup bone the size of my fist” in just two days, a feat which previously he would not have believed a dog could achieve. During the middle period of his captivity, he had the good fortune to be assigned kitchen duty. A Japanese Grandmother who worked in the kitchen befriended him and helped him filch food. Before long, he returned to his pre-captivity weight. He freely admitted later that during the two years he spent as a P.O.W. his health improved, due to the enforced sobriety, with one exception: on New Year’s Eve, he managed to get drunk after begging a little Sake from each of the Officers.

From Camp Ofuna, he witnessed the first B-29 raids striking the nearby Naval Base at Yokohama. During this time, he was given a temporary promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. When he was repatriated, he found he had been awarded the Medal of Honor and the Navy Cross. He also added to his claims for aerial victories after his return. Several other pilots had seen him down one Zero, which raised his total to 20 with the Black Sheep, and 26 if his claims for 6 with the Flying Tigers were included. Twenty-six was Eddie Rickenbacker’s WWI record, and the number shot down by Joe Foss, the top-scoring Marine pilot of all time.

Back in the States, in September of 1945, he claimed to have shot down two more planes in that final battle. Frank Walton, the ACIO, prepared the combat report, and Boyington signed it. With a stroke of his own pen, Boyington was credited with twenty-eight victories, making him the highest scoring ace in the Marine Corps. At the time, Boyington was being feted in a national War Bond Tour, patriotic feelings were running high, and he was a national hero. No one challenged the two additional claims.

Pappy lived until 1988, but it was a hard life, marked by financial instability, marriages and divorces, and battles with alcoholism. Things started downhill on his War Bond tour, when he was frequently drunk. On one infamous occasion, he embarrassed himself, the Corps, and the audience with a rambling drunken speech. His tangled affair with Lucy Malcolmson (still married to her husband Stewart Malcolmson) broke up, quite publicly, when he took up with Frances Baker, who became his second wife. Now a PR liability, the Marine Corps officially retired Boyington in 1947, allegedly for medical reasons, and promoted him to full Colonel.

He moved from job to job, never able to stay with any one thing. He frequently refereed at wrestling matches. After a continued decline into alcoholism, he went on the wagon in 1956 and even joined AA. Things picked up for him in 1958 with the success of his autobiography, “Baa Baa Black Sheep.” He met Dee Tatum the next year, soon divorced Frances, and married Dee (his third). The 1960’s were a real low period for Pappy, including estrangement from his own children.

Pappy’s greatest fame came in the mid-Seventies when the television show “Baa Baa Black Sheep” appeared. Based very loosely on Boyington’s memoirs, the show had a three-year run, and achieved a consistent popularity in reruns. Pappy was a consultant to the show, and got on well with its star, Robert Conrad. But the show’s description of the Black Sheep pilots as a bunch of misfits and drunks, which Pappy happily went along with, destroyed Pappy’s friendship with many of his squadron veterans, including Frank Walton. The show made Pappy a real celebrity, found time to get married a fourth time to Josephine Wilson Moseman, and he made a good career out of being an entertainer – appearing at air shows, on TV programs, and other venues.

Boyington, who had been a heavy smoker and battled cancer since the ’60s, died in his sleep on January 11, 1988, at the age of 75 in Fresno, Calif.

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#TributetoaVeteran – Captain Richard Sheil, US Army Air Corps, 1943 – 1945

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