The Battle of Borinquen

By Harry E. Goldsworthy

Wailing sirens shattered the lazy Sunday of our gentle tropical island. Grumbling Army Air Force troops straggled in from the beaches to listen in stunned disbelief to an announcement of the bombing of Pearl Harbor and Hickam Field by the Japanese. We were at war! Senior officers grimly reminded us that we occupied a position of great strategic importance which must be defended at all cost; and, that under no circumstance, could the United States afford the humiliation of another surprise attack.

As we moved numbly to transition from the casual military life of the tropics to a condition of wartime alert, we had few illusions as to the combat capabilities of our ill?equipped troops and obsolete airplanes, but we armed the plodding antiquated bombers and initiated search patrols. The astounding ease with which an enemy had been able to take our largest and best-defended overseas base by complete surprise, inflict near mortal damage, and escape without being struck in retaliation, whetted our sense of insecurity. Tension on our island airfield was magnified by repeated night alerts. We were working hard, flying hard, not getting enough sleep, and living with the knowledge that in the end we couldn't do much about it anyway.

On the night of 10 December our waiting was over. Roused from deep, exhausted sleep around midnight by the irritating wail of the sirens, I stepped out of my quarters to see the moonless sky laced with tracers.

The "thunk" of lead in a coconut palm over my head and the whine of bullets ricocheting off the buildings of our compound brought the chilling realization that the practice was over.

I joined several others groping their way through the heavy blackness, hanging close to buildings as shelter from the gunfire, which seemed to come from all directions. There was frantic activity as we approached the flight line. I could hear the imperative tones of our commanders shouting directions over the noise of machinegun fire. Jittery guards were adding to the confusion by challenging every moving form and firing an occasional round to back their authority. I don't recall any specific briefing as we gathered, but it wasn't necessary for us to be told that we were under attack. As the men went about their jobs as they had been drilled during practice alerts, senior officers passed along the information that an enemy force had slipped through our patrols and was landing on the beach that bordered the base. A larger force, probably the main attacking body, had landed several miles to the south and was working toward the airfield. The infantry was deploying to defensive positions and the urgent job of the Air Force was the launch of every airplane that could possibly be flown. The planes that were armed would search out and attack the enemy. The unarmed planes would be flown to rear bases where they could be loaded with bombs and returned to support our defense. We didn't have to be urged into action. We were all too aware of the fight for survival taking place on other bases like ours.

Hampered by the blackout and a general confusion that seems to attend any combat action, particularly with troops facing enemy fire for the first time, crews struggled to get the planes in the air. Radio silence had been ordered and without lights or help from the control tower, pilots were having problems getting their planes out of the parking area. One loaded alert plane, which had been dispersed to the far end of the runway away from the parking ramp was the first to start take?off. The plane was hurtling down the blacked?out runway, approaching lift?off speed, when the pilot picked up the faint sight of the exhaust flames of another plane rolling up the runway directly in his path. Instinctively he yanked the yoke back to full control and pulled his heavy bomber into the air in a sickening stall that gained just enough altitude to leapfrog over the oncoming plane. It was a perfectly timed maneuver that never could be repeated under perfect conditions. The few who witnessed what took place had no time to marvel at what they had seen but knew that the loss of a major part of our defensive potential had been averted by the narrowest margin.

All men not essential to launching planes were ordered to back up the infantry in a line of final resistance on the cliff that overlooked the beach. There were no rifles and only enough handguns to equip about every third man. Those who did not receive guns were told to act as lookouts and to take over the weapons as they came available. I can recall vividly the bitter frustration of those poorly equipped men ordered off to face a relentless and well-armed enemy. There was little talk as the troops moved toward the cliff, each pondering the irony of a situation which brought him, an airman, into ground combat. The men moved quietly into positions of shelter on the brink of the cliff, eyes straining for any sign of movement below. Weapons were cocked and ready.

At this point our ultimate fate did not seem to be in question. Incredibly we had been caught by surprise and there was faint hope that reinforcements could arrive in time to be of help. We did not know how many casualties we had suffered, or how much time we had before the final assault or where it would come from. The stark, brutal, senseless nature of war was suddenly very real.

But our airfield did not fall to the enemy that night, or at any time during World War II, not due to an heroic defense, but because it was situated some 900 miles southeast of Miami. It was Borinquen Field (later to become Ramey AFB) in Puerto Rico; and the only enemy forces that ever approached its beach were the German submarines that skulked around the adjacent waters preying on Allied shipping. But logic did not prevail that night, and it was only by a forgiving whim of fate that the emotions that gripped the base garrison weren't translated into a great tragedy.

A search of military records indicates that the embarrassing incident was never recorded or that unit diaries were conveniently lost. It is difficult to reconstruct the events with accuracy because the accounts of people who were there suffer from the affliction of time, which betrays the memories of all tellers of old war stories. The following is based on the best recollections of many people, interwoven with incidents indelibly traced in my memory by a fear born of certainty that the airfield was under attack by an unidentified enemy.

On Pearl Harbor day, Borinquen Field was an emerging Army Air Force base. Units stationed there were equipped with antiquated B?18 bombers, which fortunately never saw combat beyond the mission of sub patrol. Declaration of war by enemies on opposite sides of the world thrust Borinquen Field and the other air strips of the Antilles into a role of strategic importance as a line of defense east of the Panama Canal. The threat to the Canal, which was so vital to the flexibility of the United States war potential, seemed very real. We occupied a key defensive outpost and suffered from a general uneasiness stemming from the implausible events of the time.

The senior officer on Borinquen Field was Col. Caleb V. Haynes, one of the most respected officers in the Army, and a pioneer of heavy bombardment aviation. He later became a General Officer and commanded the First Air Force. On the night of 10 December, just three days after Pearl Harbor, he was pacing the cliff outside his quarters, which overlooked the Caribbean. It was near midnight and he was intrigued by the outline of a large ship, barely visible several hundred yards offshore. The blacked?out ship appeared to be stationary, and it was unusual that a ship of that size would be in so close to the rocky coast. As he watched, he noticed that the larger ship was not alone. There were boats around it, boats too small to be visible but which could be spotted by light signals to shore. The signals were obviously in code. He felt no particular concern but decided that he would summon his second in command, Col. A.L. Harvey, an old friend and also a highly regarded airman, who had been the pilot selected by Washington to fly W. Averell Harriman on his trip to represent President Roosevelt in the first Moscow conference.

At this point, the calm was interrupted by an urgent call from a highly excited duty officer. He said that Puerto Rican military officers were in the command post with a report that the city of Mayaguez, some 30 miles to the south, was under attack from the sea, that an enemy had overrun the port, and that the city authorities were pleading for assistance. With this information, the unusual proceedings which Colonel Haynes had been observing took on new meaning. He ordered an alert and called for his friend Al Harvey to "Strap on your gun and come with me. We've got troubles."

It is unclear what orders were issued following the alert, and the confusion over this point would not be clarified the following day with the sheepish principals present. It is completely clear, however, that for several hours the base garrison acted in the firm belief that the airfield was under attack and that our security was in grave jeopardy. Someone issued an immediate order for the machine guns sited around the base perimeter to open fire and lob their rounds over the base onto the beach where the enemy landing was reported to be in progress. Due to an error in elevation, much of that fire fell in the base living area. This, more than any other occurrence in the unforgettable charade, led to a state of mind which rejected rational thinking. The frightening sound of hot lead whining around us and the sight of tracers looping high overhead or stitching through our compound like orange comets joined in our sub?conscious with recollections of the astounding attack on Hawaii a few days before. Acceptance that our base was under attack came all too easily. There was a dearth of logic exercised for an hour or so; and if there were men on the base who did not think the attack real or who pressed for restraint, I did not see them.

This was the explosive situation we created. While bursts of machine?gunfire laced through the base, members of the Puerto Rican 65th Infantry Regiment, armed with rifles were cautiously probing the dense palm grove off the beach in search of the landing party. Several hundred Air Force men, with weapons cocked and ready, lined the cliff unaware that infantry troops were below. One shot, one light, one sound from the beach area would have drawn a fusilade of fire from the cliff, and it can only be speculated that a sharp firefight would have followed. Two B?18 bombers were searching the darkness for an enemy transport offshore ready to expend bombs in its destruction. Incredible? Yes, in the retrospect of even a few hours, but all too believable at the time.

Here, as best I can reconstruct it, is the sequence of events which fate timed with such precision as to lead to this strange and dangerous situation. The large ship was a freighter, the American Press, bound for San Juan. On declaration of war, all ports were closed during hours of darkness and the ship's captain had reduced speed so as to arrive in port after daylight. The small boats were those of fishermen out of the nearby village of Aguadilla and they were using lights to signal information about their arrival and the extent of their catch.

The final event that triggered this bizarre affair occurred when a boat tried to enter the closed port of Mayaguez. Apparently the crew had been on a smaller island since the outbreak of war and did not know that the port was closed. They persisted in landing, and in the confusion there was gunfire. City authorities, affected by the same jittery nerves that engulfed the West Coast and much of the United States in those early post?Pearl Harbor days, concluded that they were under attack and placed a frantic call to the nearest military installation, Borinquen Field, a call that could not have been received at a more inopportune time.

The results of much frenzied activity can be related with more accuracy. One airplane did locate the American Press and initiated an attack. The bombardier could not see the blacked?out ship through the bombsight so the bombs were released at low level in two attacks. Neither attack was successful and thus the aircrew opened fire with the single 30?caliber machine gun that the old bomber carried. Fortunately, there were no casualties, and the ship's perplexed crew continued to San Juan. It is unclear who ordered the plane crew to conduct the attack. Apparently it came about as a reaction to the prevailing assessment of the situation.

Fate, which so capriciously sequenced the events of that night, was forgiving in the end. The air crews avoided a fatal crash of bomb?laden planes by inches, and the bombs aimed at the American Press, which could have easily sent her to the bottom, missed by a few feet, Miraculously, no one was seriously injured by the hundreds of rounds of machine?gun fire that ricocheted through the living area, though several people received superficial wounds. A horse belonging to the son of Colonel Haynes made an untimely move when challenged and was riddled with bullets. Tragically, a Puerto Rican maid, who could speak little English and did not understand an order to halt, was shot as she ran to seek shelter during the peak of activity. But the toll of dead and injured easily could have been high.

Stationed at Borinquen Field that night were experienced and capable personnel, people who were to lead many World War II combat units. Some of our most decorated combat leaders were participants. No fewer than 10 of the officers were to reach General Officer rank during their careers. The events of that night have become known as the Battle of Borinquen and the tale is told and retold by the people who were there. As we contemplate those hours of anxiety with a mixture of humor, embarrassment, and gratitude that a tragedy was narrowly averted, it can only be concluded that we were afforded a lesson in mass psychology that should last a lifetime.

[Lt. Gen. Harry E. Goldsworthy, USAF (Ret.), was a member of the 25th Bomb Group stationed at Borinquen field, Puerto Rico, at the start of WWII and flew B-25's in the southwest Pacific. He served with the Strategic Air Command after the war and was a charter member of the Weapons Systems Evaluation Group. At the time of his retirement on 1 January 1973, he was Deputy chief of Staff, Systems and Logistics, Hq. USAF.]