The Ghost Mountain Boys - James E. Campbell [71]
Below, everyone—the soldiers, the native carriers, and the villagers of Natunga—watched in horror as one of the parachutes opened sooner than it should have. It billowed out of the cargo door and became entangled in the plane’s tail assembly. The plane wavered and then plunged nose-first into a nearby hill. Not everyone saw the crash, but they all heard the explosion. Hoping that maybe someone had survived the crash, Smith sent out a salvage team.
While the salvage team was out, Smith learned from regimental headquarters that Colonel Quinn had been aboard the plane that had crashed. Privates, corporals, and officers alike wept when they learned that Quinn was one of the casualties. Medendorp, upon learning of the colonel’s death, captured the mood of the entire regiment. “To our sorrow,” he wrote, “our magnificent Colonel was killed.”
When Sam DiMaggio heard the news, he trembled. Back at Camp Livingston, Colonel Quinn had asked him to be his personal runner, and DiMaggio had seriously considered the offer. All the men knew that Quinn was a “stand-up guy.” He was a regimental commander who really cared about his soldiers. There was another attraction, though. As Quinn’s personal runner, it was likely that if a war broke out, DiMaggio would be spared front-line duty. In other words, he would have a better chance of making it home alive. Joining Quinn, however, would have meant leaving his buddies in Company G. As a draftee, it had taken a long time for him to gain the acceptance of the Muskegon boys from G Company, but they had become his family. So when Quinn presented the idea, DiMaggio respectfully declined. There were times when he kicked himself for passing on the offer. On November 5 in Natunga, DiMaggio realized that had he accepted the invitation, he probably would have been aboard Quinn’s plane.
Jim Boice must have been devastated by Quinn’s death. Initially, they had both been outsiders in the 126th—Boice was an Indianan; Quinn was an Oklahoman, ten years his senior, who had fought in World War I and had been awarded the Silver Star and a Purple Heart. Both were family men. Boice had one son and Quinn had a daughter, June. Perhaps because of a similarity of circumstance, they developed a friendship, which is reflected in the messages they traded as Boice was making his way toward Buna.
On October 23, Quinn sent Boice a message that had a paternalistic quality: “You have done a grand job and we are all proud as hell of you.”
Two days later, on October 25, Quinn sent Boice another one: “My Birthday ninth November. Would like very much have tea with you in Buna that day. Good luck.” It was vintage Quinn—funny, encouraging.
Later that day, Boice responded, “Please have faith in us. We will lick [the] hell out of them.”
A few days later Boice received another message from Quinn, which Quinn asked him to read to the troops. The colonel wrote: A few weeks ago this force was assigned a mission described by many as “impossible.” You have advanced with your arms and equipment over the “impossible” Owen Stanley range. You have overcome almost unsurmountable obstacles. You have proven yourselves to be rough and rugged field soldiers of the highest order. Today I am especially proud of you.
Now comes the second phase of this “impossible” operation, the advance to contact, the attack and the destruction of the enemy. I know you are tired…but I also know that your morale is high and that your spirit of never say die is stronger than ever…I know you will advance boldly, destroy the enemy wherever you meet him and once again accomplish the “impossible.”
Yet despite the sense of loss Boice must have experienced when he learned of Quinn’s death, he mentions it only briefly in his diary: “Col. Quinn killed.” The entry says less perhaps about Boice and his relationship to Quinn than it does the nature