Warhawk

“Summersaulting once — maybe twice — the fall was broken by the jungle canopy below. Dangling in the thick vines and tree branches, I could feel the bouncing motion finally coming to rest.”(1)

Staring at the clump of grass still clutched in my hand, I wondered what had just happened. Not bodily injured; my pride was bruised realizing that I was now cut off from my men.

The sun was waning in the west, I quickly decided that a rescue attempt was not practical. I yelled to my platoon sergeant to take over and find or cut a path down the steep slope to the stream below after a night’s rest. We would rendezvous somewhere in the stream the next morning. Little did I know that I was at the beginning of an ordeal.

My rucksack and rifle were dropped to me. I strained to brake away from the vines. As I lowered myself down through the canopy, strewn across the ground, large car-sized boulders were at the bottom. The waterfall had washed away the earth leaving them exposed. Over time the jungle had claimed them, and now they were obscured. Only the birds and other animals and I knew about them.

I followed the small creek away from the weather fall reasoning it would lead me to the main stream shown on my map. It was darker under the canopy, and I did not want to camp out in the jungle. Most of the journey to the main stream was a high crawl. Vines clung to my gear. At several places I resorted to crawling on my stomach. It was an exhausting struggle, but in the distance I heard rushing water. It was close by. Crawling out of the jungle, I did not stop until I slid into the cool water of the stream. It was heavenly relief.

I floated until I was cold. With darkness all around, I lit the small stove I carried in my rucksack to heat a canteen cup filled with water. Warm salty freeze dried chicken noodle soup brought some cheer to my tired muscles. I enjoyed a can of pears then stripped off my clothes. The wind did the rest. I donned an extra pair of socks that I carried in my rucksack.

Remembering my boyhood camping days, spending an evening in the rainforest by a swift moving stream had it nostalgic attraction. When my belly was full, my thoughts turned to my predicament. Leader means what it says. I hoped that my platoon was resting. It was in good hands as my platoon sergeant was an experienced soldier. For me, I would endure the night alone and hopefully rendezvous with him the next day.

I had time on my hands to think. On the previous day, as we hacked and slashed through the dense jungle, we stumbled upon a crash site. Everyone was astonished by the U.S. Army Air Forces Curtiss P-40 Warhawk.(2)

A single seat and engine fighter, the right wing was separated from the fuselage as was the canopy. The control stick and dashboard gauges and rudder petals were intact as was the machine gun on the left wing. Armor piercing tracer belted ammunition was strewn around the site.

The engine had twelve cylinders and was still attached to the fuselage. Ripping back the vines we found a steel wheel strut and rubber tire shinning in the sunlight. The landing gear was pulled away from the wing. No human remains were discovered. Before moving on, we chopped the jungle away from the crash site and marked the spot with an eight-digit grid coordinate. It was here a soldier carelessly cut his leg on a machete.

It was one of those things that happens when soldiers become exhausted and frustrated. The gash needed stitching, but all our medic could do was apply direct press on the deep cut. The soldier was extracted by a helicopter (medivac) that I requested over the radio.

Resting and waiting for the medivac to arrive was a welcome halt to all, but our injured soldier. The heat and humidity had sucked the energy from our bodies. Within an hour a helicopter was hovering above our position. There was nowhere to land, so a jungle penetrator was lowered by cable to the ground.

The injured soldier was secured in the harness and hoisted upward. The process took only a few minutes. The soldier’s ordeal was over. We moved on and the crash site became property of the jungle again.

Through my reveries, I managed to rest most of the night by the soothing sound of moving water. As dawn arrived, I realized that it would take another hour for the sun to crest the ridge, but it was light enough to see how to stow away my gear in the rucksack. I ate a few crackers and cheese for breakfast. My clothes were mostly dried now, but I realized the jungle was too dense for foot traffic along the bank, and that soon I would be back in the water searching for my men down stream.

Walking in water was slow going. I fell many times as the bottom was covered with slippery rocks. After several hours the platoon and I were reunited in the stream. It was a good feeling to be in charge again. I immediately contacted my commanding officer (CO) who instructed us to return to his location on the next ridge. It would take us the rest of the day to climb to his position.

Upon reaching the CO’s command post the first priority was potable water. Although wet with sweat, our bodies needed hydration after hours of climbing up the mountainside.

Reporting to the CO was next. He was not pleased about my fall from the cliff and becoming detached from the platoon, but he was happy I was not hurt. He agreed with my decision to remain separated until a safer route was found. He gave me an update on the injured soldier, who was stitched up and resting back at Schofield. I briefed him on our discovery in the jungle.

Leadership lessons are learned by doing. Leaders must be willing to take risks in pursuit of goals. Training in the jungle was the perfect classroom for high adventure learning. Stresses from fatigue adds to the mix of discriminators, but with enough training, experience builds self confidence — the mark of a strong leader.

Notes: (1) The original Jungle Classroom was published by the Military Order of the World Wars, OFFICER REVIEW, in 2016; (2) Over a period of four years in the late 1980s, the crash of the P-40 was removed from the jungle. “This aircraft survived the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, as it was in a maintenance hangar undergoing repair. The plane was wrecked on Jan. 24, 1942, while on patrol over Ko’olau Range, Oahu, when it spun in. The pilot was killed. The plane was restored by the Curtiss Wright Historical Association.