When SSgt. William I. Coffeen, a marine sergeant pilot, flopped into the cockpit
of his Corsair and settled into his parachute harness, he never imagined that he
would be nearly three months before he returned to Guadalcanal, bearded and bent.
After plugging in his throat mike and earphones and inspecting the plane’s two
magnetos to determine if each engine was at full power, his plane leaped into the
wind before dawn on 13 April 1943 from Henderson Field on a routine “milk run”
to Munda. When he reached altitude and began charging and test firing his six
.50-caliber wing guns, he was reminded of the danger he always faced. This time
Coffeen and fifteen other fighters were heading west to New Georgia, escorting
twelve dive-bombers, each loaded for bear.

     Thirty minutes later, he beheld through the dawn’s silver vapor the shadowy
profile of New Georgia and its companion islets clustered together. In the early
Solomon sun, they looked like carelessly discarded, darkened stepping stones
protruding from and exquisitely serene universe of melted turquoise. Stunning.
It was the last tranquil moment he would enjoy for some time.

     As he climbed through twelve thousand feet, Coffeen’s Corsair began to belch
menacing smoke from its complaining engine and the oil pressure gauge rapidly
plunged to zero. He was in real trouble. He turned the disabled plane around and
tried to head for home, but it was no use. Losing speed, he dropped
rapidly down to three thousand feet.  With no time to curse the machine, the
sergeant cut his switches, took a deep breath, climbed out of his cockpit, and
jumped clear of the dying aircraft. His chute opened just a few seconds before
he hit the water. While floating down the last few feet, Coffeen watched as his
Corsair quietly sank beneath the waves. He hit the cold water moments later,
scared and alone.

     Trying to ignore two sharks that swam dangerously by him, he inflated his
rubber raft and began to hand-paddle toward the nearest land he could see.
Twice during the day he spotted friendly aircraft flying overhead. The flares and
matches in the boat were wet, so he fired his pistol a few times and waved frantically.
No luck.

     Soon after the last flight of planes disappeared, a turbulent rain storm blew up.
Coffeen struggled to stay afloat, but the seas easily pushed over the rim of his
boat and capsized it in the heavy swells. The mishap almost cost him all his gear.
Even worse, the tempest had pushed him farther out into open water.
Never had he felt so utterly helpless and alone.

     As darkness fell, the wind subsided and he was able to climb back into the raft.
He tried to sleep, but it was impossible. In the black void of the Solomon Sea, the
sky and the ocean became one and the dark pressed hard against him like a heavy
blanket. Fragile starlight momentarily strained to illuminate the downed pilot’s
world, but lingering cumulus soon cut it off. There was no use paddling blind.
Better save his strength for the daylight. He fell back into the raft and surrendered
to the waves, which lifted and dropped him with a rhythmic, heaving monotony.

     Day two dawned over unruffled water and brought out a fierce white sun. His
face and lips were soon badly burned. Thirst and hunger clawed at him. It
had been thirty-six hours since he last had something to drink,
and he was weakening by the hour. He knew he must make landfall, and
it had to be that day or he would perish in his black rubber coffin. With the
determination of a man facing death, he began to paddle through the glossy sea.
His only companions was a school of bonita that slid playfully under him and
an occasional king fisher that rocket from the water eight feet into
the sky only to vanish again in a splash of silver. Above him, the midafternoon
sun had lost its contour. The haze and humidity did little to shield him from the
numbing heat. Nevertheless, he ignored the pain from his throbbing shoulders
and pushed himself to the limit of his endurance, propelling the raft toward an
island about three miles away. He reached it at dusk, exhausted and dehydrated,
but alive. After refreshing himself with the milk and meat of a few coconuts,
Coffeen collapsed in his raft to sleep. To protect himself from the virulent
mosquitoes, he wrapped his feet in the sail, covered his head with a dampened
undershirt, and curled under his poncho. Maybe, he thought, his luck was changing.

     For the next two days he explored his new home looking for signs of life, but
there was nothing to be found. He set out on his raft for another island just a few
miles away. He paddled the entire day until he reached it and found abundant
wildlife, but no humans. Coffeen’s struggle for survival was complex. He was
searching for assistance from natives who were helpful to Allied pilots. But he also
knew that these islands were in Japanese-held area. If they found him he would be
quickly dispatched. Still, he had to take his chances, so he set out for what
appeared to be a much bigger island to the north.

     Spending each evening on small islands along the way, the resourceful pilot
made steady progress. One night was particularly terrifying, however. He was
awakened by what sounded like someone walking on the beach toward him. He
kept very still and gripped his knife tightly in his right hand, and held his breadth so as
not to make a sound. Suddenly, he felt the weight of a heavy body jump on his
chest. He pushed the thing off and sprinted into the water with his raft. Then, he
saw what menaced him: A huge monitor lizard stood on the beach hissing at him
as he paddled quickly away. On the other islands his sleep was interrupted by giant
swamp rats that scampered over him at night and by smaller rodents that nibbled
at his toes. These simply became nuisances in his increasingly weakened,
malnourished condition. He was living almost entirely on coconuts and was weary
from his island-to-island trek. Once a fierce storm forced him to seek shelter under
a ledge on a hillside. For five days he ate no food as the wind and rain hammered
his sanctuary relentlessly. Semicomatose with malaria fever, he drifted in and out
of consciousness while his spent, aching body screamed fro mercy after fifteen days
and nights in hell.

     Nearing his mental and physical breaking point, he summoned the strength to
make for a larger Island that was close to Choiseul. When he reached its shore he
was so feeble that he could hardly crawl out of his raft. However, he found plenty
of coconuts and rested for three days, regaining some of his strength. Then he
spotted a small house on an island across a lagoon and decided he was strong
enough to cross over to inspect it, even though it might be enemy-occupied.

     Eight hours later he dragged his raft ashore. Thin, covered with infected sores,
and totally depleted, he had survived twenty days of wandering and hardship. If
the Japanese capture him, so be it. Cautiously he approached the house. It
squatted impassively in the sand just a few yards from the beach, covered with
palm leaves and apparently unoccupied. It was. He found a precious few limes,
squeezed their juice into some water, and drank the marvelous mixture from a
coconut shell. In a crumbling chicken house he came across an old hen that was
too quick for him to snare but had abandoned her nest, which contained a dozen
or so eggs. He hungrily broke one of the eggs and swallowed it in one gulp.
Although the eggs were rotten, he consumed two a day until they were all gone.

     Three or four days later he made it to an island he thought was Choiseul. Once
again he encountered no humans, although he did find fresh water and wildlife.
By this time his teeth were so loose that he had to struggle to eat even coconut
meat. Several Japanese planes flew overhead while he was in the open, Coffeen
was sure that they had seen him, but he was indifferent to them. The war had
become indistinct and irrelevant.

     Aimlessly he paddled from island to island. Another storm tormented him and
forced him to a deserted shore, where he labored to empty his raft of water. But his
struggle had come to an end. A low cry of delirium escaped his swollen, bloody
lips and he collapsed in his raft.

     Then Coffeen caught a break. A native named Lukeane, passing by in a canoe,
heard Coffeen wailing and watched him tumble into the raft, now adrift in the
water. The islander paddled alongside of him, established eye contact, and asked
if he was an American. Coffeen managed a simple: “Me American.” That was
enough. The Good Samaritan hauled the pilot’s limp body into his canoe and
delivered him to a Methodist village on Choiseul, where they fed him yams, sugar
cane, and fish. As soon as he was strong enough, the villagers brought him to a
wonderfully cool waterfall to bathe, using lime for soap, Coffeen was slowly
beginning to remember what it was like to be human. In three days he felt capable
of making an overland trip to the district chief to make proper connections for his
return.

     This should have been the conclusion of the story, but Coffeen’s bad luck
returned. Japanese troop carrying barges had landed just a few miles from the
village with a full complement of soldiers. In order to evade their new neighbors,
Coffeen and his rescuers traveled only at night. Often they skirted so close to
Japanese encampments that they could see their fires. They kept moving until
they found a suitable sanctuary: a village five miles inland, where Coffeen
remained for a month. There, on a diet of Spam, Vienna sausages, and yams, he
gained twenty pounds. His health was returning and he was out of danger.
Finally, on 25 June, Guadalcanal was notified of his location through the island
grapevine of native and coast-watchers. A PBY was dispatched to pick him up
and whisk him back to a rear-area hospital.

     After being away for nearly three months, Sergeant Coffeen’s unforgettable
ordeal was over. A month later he was released from the hospital and reunited
with his squadron, which had just completed an enormously enjoyable leave in sunny
Australia with its adoring female population. One of his buddies assured him that
while they were there, they remembered to tell all the pretty Aussie girls about him.