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(Voice over) It was a crisp December day on Vella La Cava, well as crisp as it gets in the pacific. I was having baked beans for breakfast at the edge of the airstrip the Seabees had built.
We had a fighter sweep planned for the morning's mission. As I finished my impromptu breakfast, TJ Wiley came along and in his goofy manner, "Hey Pappy, It's time. You wouldn't want to be late now."
"Watch the mouth TJ." I wasn't really upset with him. Everyone in the Squadron called me either Pappy or Gramps. Most of the men under my command were in their early twenties and the fact was, I was thirty five and that's ancient for a fighter pilot. "I maybe old TJ, but I can still kick your ass."
Before taking off everything seemed to be wrong that morning. My plane wasn't ready and I had to switch to another. At last minute the ground crew got my original plane in order and I scampered back into that. I was to lead a fighter sweep over Rabaul, meaning two hundred miles over enemy waters and territory again. We coasted over at about twenty thousand feet to Rabaul. A few hazy cloud banks were hanging around-not much different from a lot of other days.
My wing man for this mission was Larry Casey. Casey stood 5'11 and even soaking wet couldn't have weighed more that a buck and a quarter. Tall and lanky, he usually had one of two expressions on his face, a smile as wide as Texas or the worried look of a hooker heading to church, ready to confess her sins. I guess I was a bad influence on him. He'd taken over the exec duties a few weeks earlier and other than being a little green when we first met He turned into a damn good friend.
This boy was another who wanted me to beat that record, and was offering to stick his neck way out in the bargain. I spotted a few planes coming through the loosely scattered clouds and signaled to the pilots in back of me: "Go down and get to work." Casey and I dove first. I poured a long burst into the first enemy plane that approached, and a fraction of a second later saw the Nip pilot catapult out and the plane itself break out into fire. Casey screamed out over the radio: "Gramps, you got a flamer!"
Then he and I went down lower into the fight, after the rest of the enemy planes. We figured that the whole pack of our planes was going to follow us down, but the clouds must have obscured their view. All of the sudden it was Case and I against a pack full of Zekes.
Casey and I were not paying too much attention, just figuring that the rest of the boys would be with us in a few seconds, as was usually the case. Finding approximately ten enemy planes, Casey and I commenced firing. What we saw coming from above we thought were our own planes-but they were not. Ten more Jap fighters had joined the fray.
We were being jumped by about twenty planes. Casey and I scissored protecting each others blind spots, the rear ends of our fighters. In doing this I saw Casey shoot a long burst into a plane. The fifty calibers mush have found their mark, it turned away from us plunging downward, a stream of fire flowing from the right wing. A second later I had its wingman in my sights and I did the same thing to another him. But it was then that I saw Casey's plane start to throw smoke, and down he went in a half glide. I sensed something was horribly wrong with him. I screamed at him: "For God's sake, Casey, dive!" Our planes could dive away from practically anything the Nips had out there at the time, except perhaps a Tony. Time and time again I screamed at him: "For God's sake, Casey, dive strait down."
Casey finally managed to get his damaged Corsair under some sort of control. The fast dive had blown the flames out but it was obvious to everyone that that he was going to need a lot of luck.
"Sorry Pappy," he replied on the radio, as the bent winged bird rolled out and headed for home bellowing smoke from the exhaust stacks. The Japs went after my wing man like bums after bologna. Normally I would have followed Case and made sure he got home safely, but the Japs weren't going to give me that chance. Someone had to cover Casey's retreat or sure as hell his family would be the next people I'd have to write to. I wasn't going to let that happen.
I climbed in behind the Nip planes that were plugging at him on the way down to the water. There were so many of them I wasn't even bothering to use my electric gun sight consciously, but continued to seesaw back and forth on my rudder pedals, trying to spray them all in general, trying to get them off Casey to give him a chance to get the hell out of Dodge.
Casey getting away must have pissed the Nips off or something. With his escape every damn one of the came gunning for me. Now I'm good, in fact I damn good, but one of me versus all of them, well you can write your own ending on that one. My job was done, Case got away now I needed to worry about my own survival.
Two of the Zekes got in behind me and there was not much I could do. The bird was acting up. I couldn't get full power, so I couldn't out climb them. The controls felt mushy to me, so I couldn't out fly them. I could feel the impact of enemy fire against my armor plate, behind my back, like hail on a tin roof. I could see the enemy shots progressing along my wing tips, making patterns.
At that point there was nothing left for me to do. I had done everything I could. I decided to get the hell away from the Nips. I threw everything in the cockpit all the way forward - this means full speed ahead and nosed my plane over to pick up extra speed until I was forced by water to level off. Speed is life to a fighter pilot, for the next twenty minutes I bobbed and weaved, never giving the Zekes a clean shot. At the speed of about four hundred knots, I had a slight advantage over them, the down side was they had numbers over me, the best I could do is delay the inevitable. In my desperate attempt to evade the enemy pilots I found my self lost, low on fuel, low on altitude and out numbered, it was just a matter of time.
Fate catches up to all of us and that day it caught up with me. Id just managed to gain a little attitude when all of a sudden my main gas tank went up in flames in front of my very eyes. The sensation was much the same as opening the door of a furnace and sticking one's head into the thing.
The Nips had me, they had me cold and I did the only thing I could, I sacrificed what little altitude I had. Though I was about a hundred feet off the water, I didn't have a chance of trying to gain altitude. I was fully aware that if I tried to gain altitude for a bail-out I would be fried in a few more seconds.
I did the only thing I could do; I switched off the mags, lowered the flaps and plowed the Corsair into the open water.
Merlin watched the battle in the airspace above the base with caution. He'd been more than aware that a global conflict was gong on. The airwaves were overflowing with data. It'd taken him only minutes to break all of the various codes that were floating around. He was aware of the turmoil the world was going through. He known about the attack on Pearl Harbor months before it took place. He could have warned the Americans but his programming and his best judgment, told him to stay out of it, That option was about to be taken away.
Merlin tracked the, what was to him, ancient fighter as it plunged down into the waters of the bay. The royal blue fighter ended up resting on the beach of the cove, the pilot slumped over the control.
Merlin scanned the downed aircraft and noted that while the pilot had sustained injuries, he was still alive but unconscious. His ethical algorithms kicked in. <I know I'm going to regret this.> he thought as he sent two of his remaining repair drones out to rescue the pilot. Balancing the absolute need for security against the survival of human life the AI dispatched two more drones. Their orders were to dispose of the aircraft as quickly as possible.
Greg's blue eyes fluttered open weakly. He tried to roll off the soft surface that he was lying on but he couldn't move anything but his head. Looking down, He found that his flight suit was missing. He'd been stripped nude.
"Relax Major. You've been injured in the crash. I'm attending to your injuries please lay still it shouldn't be more than a few more hours before you will be up and about. Once I've attended to your injuries Ill see about getting you home."
Greg struggled against the invisible straps that held him solidly, "Who the hell are you and where are my clothes."
"Who I am is unimportant," Merlin said cryptically.
Greg's head fell back against the bed. It was then that he noticed that there were no lights mounted to the ceiling. That little detail left him wondering because the room was well lit despite the lack of any obvious sources.
"You are very lucky Major. Had you landed anywhere else you would have been dead in mere hours. As it is, you will survive." Merlin was being careful. The last visitor to the island had remained there for a considerable amount of time. Merlin wasn't willing to accept that limitation again. He had to get the pilot off the base as quickly as possible with a little information as possible.
"Look at least let me radio my men," He protested.
"All in good time," Merlin was considering his options. He could keep the human on the base for the rest of its life. That however would expose the technology of Avalon and Merlin's orders were to protect the base until the Kine returned and reactivate him. That limited his options greatly. <No> calculated Merlin, <This will call for more drastic measures>
"God damnit," swore Boyington, "don't you know there's a war on."
"Major, I pray you and your people never learn what true war is about." With that said, Merlin laid his plan into action. "You may get dressed now major."
Greg felt the huge weight on his chest left and he sat up. Looking around he saw that his uniform and Mae West was lying on a counter. Suspicious of the old man he crossed the strange room, always keeping his eyes on Merlin. He dressed quickly. "Ok what now?"
"Now I see about getting you a ride home. If you would follow me please" without looking to see if Boyington followed, because he was scanning the pilot the entire time, Merlin led Boyington to a small room located off the infirmary. "Please wait here while I send out a radio message." When Boyington refused to move, "I assure you that nothing will happen to you. I will send a message to your command and then come right back."
The room didn't seem anything special to Greg, so rather than make a fuss, he complied with the old man's instructions.
"Thank you Major." Merlin closed the door and quickly flooded the room with a harmless gas that would render the pilot unconscious. And though it wasn't proper procedure, in fact the procedure was experimental even at the height of Atlantian culture. He began to modify the pilot's memories.
Merlin carefully planted the memory of being shot down and landing the broken craft far out to sea. He also planted in Boyington's mind that he'd be convinced that he had a concussion from the crash. Now it was just a matter of waiting for all the pieces to fall into place.
The search for the missing pilot was extensive. It took three days for the skies above Avalon to clear enough for Merlin to risk sending out on of the Orcas. That night he had the drones load the still unconscious pilot into one of the bombers and dumped him overboard. Then in Greg's own voice he sent a message in the clear to Vella La Cava with his position.
Merlin had done all that he could do. Now all he could do was wait and see if he'd calculated correctly.
The Consolidated PBY Catalina taxied across the natural harbor. With the roar of its Pratt & Whitney R1820's the large patrol bomber climbed the ramp that lead from the water onto the parking apron.
Sitting just inside the starboard gun blister still wearing the salt encrusted flight suit that he'd worn during his last mission was Major Greg Boyington and he wasn't happy.
After spending the last week lost at sea, the first three days floating in the warm south pacific and the last two on an island he wanted just two things; first he wanted to get drunk and second he wanted to get back to Vella LaCava and his squadron VMF-214, affectionately known as the Black Sheep.
(Voice over) Sitting in the Dumbo I knew I was in trouble. That didn't worry me, trouble is my middle name, what concerned me was just why Colonel Lard would be meeting me at the docks. Lard and I had hated each other for years, first in basic flight where he was a primary flight instructor and later one when the Blacksheep were formed he'd made it his personal mission in life to get me thrown out of the Marine Corps. Luckily for me, I'm smarter, faster and meaner than he is. Plus I cheat.
Greg climbed through the hatch of the PBY and even before he had both feet on solid ground, Lard, who was in full class A uniform, even in the heat of the south pacific, was yelling at him. "Boyington, do you have any idea what your little stunt has cost the Marine Corps?"
Greg decided quickly that the best defense was a good offense. "Look Lard, I was given a mission and I carried it out."
(Voice Over) Technically that was true. What I was hoping to avoid was explaining to this lard assed rear area bastard just what had happened to me. Hell I didn't even know.
Colonel Lard stood there red faced. "Not this time Boyington." He turned to the marine military shore patrol he'd brought with him, "Major Boyington is under confinement. Escort him to sick bay. When he is cleared by the doctors I want him locked up until we can convene a court martial."
The Marine took Greg into custody and hauled him away in the back of a jeep.
Riding in the back of the Jeep with the Shore Patrol was nothing new for Boyington, hell he'd feel insulted if it didn't happen at least once a week. So it was second nature to him to start plotting his escape even before the starter had turned the engine over.
(Voice Over) There are two things you have to remember about the military, the first is that they follow orders, even if they make no sense at all and second, the higher the rank the more confusion you can cause. I planned to make use of both of these rules.
Greg put on his most authoritative face, "Corporal, turn here," He pointed towards the airfield.
"But sir" the pimply faced young man answered, "Colonel Lard ordered you to report to the hospital."
"Son, how long have you been in theater, a week, a month? Its standard procedure that any rescued airman completes the Aircrew combat report as soon as he is returned." Greg leaned forward, "That order came down for COMSRVPAC." Greg let the implied threat soak into the corporal's head. He leaned closer so he could whisper in the young marine's ear. "Look son," Boyington continued in a falsely reassuring tone, "You and I both know that Lard is just a medium sized fish in a very small pond. Now you can follow his orders and in about two weeks when I get around to finishing the aircrew report someone up the chain of command is going to start asking questions. You think that Colonel Lard is gonna take the blame?
"Ssssir," the young man stammered.
"I'll tell what I'm going to do for you. I'm going to complete the aircrew report and then I'm going to forget that we even had to have this little talk, or we can go to the hospital, where they are going to want to keep me for at least a week. In that case when I finally get around to the report, you're name is going to be highlighted as the reason the report was late. It's your decision." Greg could almost see the gears turning in the marine's head, when he saw the young man's shoulders slump he knew he'd dodged another bullet.
When the jeep reached the flight line Greg spotted just what he needed, A Corsair that had a fuel truck pulling away he made a mental note of the tail number. When the Jeep made a full stop in front of the operations shack he turned to the marine. "Ok son, this is going to take about twenty minutes. Why don't you go grab some chow and meet me back here in twenty five?" With out waiting for an answer, after all he was a major and the corporal, well he was just a kid. As he walked through the door he heard the reassuring sound of the Jeep starting. Greg smiled, another plan coming together.
Bluster and attitude was the next order of business for Boyington. He marched over to the flight dispatcher and pounded on the desk. The Gunnery Sergeant that manned the desk wasn't some pimply faced recruit. No he was an old school marine as crisp folds on his utilities showed. "Morning Gunny," Greg said with a smile on his face. "Is 091 ready yet?"
The stone faced Gunny reached back and pulled a clipboard off the wall. "She should be sir fuel and ammo, but the op order said it was a 1330 take off time."
"There's been a change of plans Sergeant." Greg was thinking fast on his feet. "The original mission has been scrubbed. I'm to take her over to La Cava and wait for the updated op order. Seems some intel puke changed his mind at the last minute. You know how that goes." Greg didn't give the sergeant time to think about it. He grabbed the release and signed for the aircraft. He then sauntered over to the dressing room and casually grabbed a parachute and headed out to the line.
(Voice over) Once I got the Corsair in the air I knew I was free. Sure Lard would be coming after me with everything he had, but by that time I'd have General Moore on my side and all Lard could do is grin and bear it. I think it's fair to say that I was feeling pretty cocky. As always I'd gotten away with murder, but the joke was on me. The next day, on a fighter sweep over Rabaul I was shot down a second time. A Jap sub picked me up and I spent the rest of the war in a Jap prisoner of war camp. The strange thing was that every night I had the same dream; an island where an old man hides away from the world waiting for better days. There's no such thing as ghosts… is there?"
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