He will forever gaze out at us from an iconic World War II photograph, sitting in the cockpit of his Grumman F4F Wildcat fighter with the sun on his face and his hunter’s eyes trained into the distance.
John Lucian Smith was once the leading American fighter ace of World War II, downing 19 enemy planes during the first horrific weeks of the Battle of Guadalcanal. Two months later, President Franklin D. Roosevelt presented him with the Medal of Honor at the White House.
Yet the fire that burned in him so brightly as the resolute and inspiring combat leader of Marine Fighter Squadron (VMF) 223 eventually flamed out. Thirty years later, at age 57, he walked into the backyard of his Encino, California, home and took his own life.
By any measure, he was an extraordinary man.
Smith was born on 26 December 1914 in the small prairie town of Lexington, Oklahoma. His father, R. O. Smith, worked as a rural-route carrier, delivering mail in a donkey cart. His mother, Pearl, took over the route on R. O.’s day off. John was the youngest of four brothers. The family was close.
Quiet and polite, John proved to be good at most everything he tackled, excelling at football, baseball, horsemanship, and games. His quick, orderly mind also allowed him to succeed academically, although he decided to skip his high school graduation to go on a hunting trip.
He then attended the University of Oklahoma, where he majored in accounting and joined the Reserve Officers Training Corps—shoveling coal at the university’s power plant to help pay tuition and expenses.
The Marine Corps Gains a Pilot
After graduation in May 1936, he was commissioned into the U.S. Army Field Artillery, resigning in July 1936 to join the U.S. Marine Corps as a second lieutenant. In July 1938, he began flight training at Pensacola, Florida, and earned his wings as a naval aviator. He was at an officer’s-club dance in Norfolk, Virginia, when he met Louise Outland, who had just earned her master’s degree in English literature at Old Dominion University. They were married in 1941.
The young accountant proved to be a superb pilot. First assigned to a dive-bomber squadron, he transferred to fighters. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, his squadron was part of the naval task force ordered by the Pacific Fleet commander-in-chief, Admiral Husband Kimmel, to reinforce the garrison at Wake Island. When that order was rescinded by Kimmel’s successor on 22 December due to his fear of incurring further losses, Smith’s fighter squadron remained at Midway Atoll to continue training.
Shortly before the Battle of Midway in June 1942, Captain Smith was ordered to Pearl Harbor to take command of newly created VMF-223. Most of his pilots were green second lieutenants fresh from flight school; Smith’s first task was to mold them into a fighting unit. He put his pilots into the air every day, practicing gunnery and aerial drills. When they weren’t flying, he had them studying intelligence reports from the first confrontations between Grumman Wildcats and Japanese Zeros at the battles of the Coral Sea and Midway.
Smith was fortunate to have two experienced pilots assigned to him. Captain Rivers Morrell Jr., a former standout on the U.S. Naval Academy football team, was his executive officer. Captain Marion E. Carl, who had shot down a Zero at Midway, was the engineering officer.
The younger pilots included Roy Corry, who had scored two victories at Midway. Smith appointed him gunnery officer. Charles “Red” Kendrick was a recent Harvard Law School graduate, and Smith made him the navigation officer. Noyes “Scotty” McLennan, fresh out of Yale, proved to be an excellent aerial tactician. Ken Frazier was the most aggressive of the lot. As with every squadron, there were unusual characters, including the slow-moving “Rapid Robert” Read, and newlywed Elwood Bailey, who complained that he had only been allowed one night with his bride before shipping out. All in that group were second lieutenants.
To his enlisted Marines, John Lucian Smith was “Skipper.” To his peers he wasn’t a “Jack” or a “Johnny”—just simply “John L.” He didn’t invite familiarity and he drove his men hard, but they knew that his tough training regimen might someday save their lives.
On 2 August 1942, VMF-223 left Pearl Harbor on board the escort carrier Long Island (CVE-1). Second Lieutenant Fred Gutt got acquainted with his commanding officer quickly after Smith stopped him on deck to ask if he played bridge. Gutt said yes; they began playing every night.
Sometimes one can take the measure of a man in a serious bridge game, and Gutt drew several conclusions about his CO: He was definitely decisive, and, with his mathematician’s mind, he had an amazing ability to keep track of cards as they were played. He also had the knack of being able to “read” his opponents.
Costly Triumphs over Guadalcanal
On the morning of 7 August 1942, the 1st Marine Division under Major General Alexander A. Vandegrift landed on the beaches of Guadalcanal in the first American offensive of the Pacific war, quickly capturing the Japanese airfield being constructed there. But the outcome was soon in doubt. Invasion-force commander Vice Admiral Frank Jack Fletcher, concerned about the vulnerability of his carriers to Japanese aircraft, withdrew his force from the beachhead on the evening of 8 August—before half the Marines’ supplies and heavy equipment could be unloaded.
In the months that followed, Japanese efforts to retake the airfield led to three major land battles and seven great naval clashes. At stake was Japan’s aspiration to a Pacific empire. On the same night Fletcher pulled out, the U.S. Navy suffered the worst disaster of its history at the Battle of Savo Island (see story, p. 24). Four Allied heavy cruisers were sunk and another was badly damaged; the Japanese didn’t lose a ship.
With the U.S. Navy gone, Japanese warplanes bombed and strafed the Marine positions on Guadalcanal as they pleased. Without air support, the Americans could only endure the daily pounding in their trenches and foxholes. By night, Japanese ships landed more troops to reinforce their garrison. Morale fell with each passing day.
On 20 August 1942, the Long Island launched Smith’s fighter squadron, along with a dive-bomber squadron, under the overall command of Major Dick Mangrum. Seventy-five minutes later, the planes began to land at newly named Henderson Field on Guadalcanal.
“Thank God you’ve come,” said an emotional General Vandegrift.
Smith and his pilots set up camp next to the airfield before night fell. They were barely asleep when Japanese shock troops made their first assault against the Marine defensive perimeter, losing nearly 1,000 dead in an unsuccessful attack.
The following day, Smith led four F4F Wildcats on their first patrol. Over Savo Island he spotted six Zeros heading south, and turned to meet them. The first Zero in line fired a machine-gun burst at him before diving out of sight. Smith rolled over and fired at the next Zero in line. It spiraled down. Later, when he had brought the flight home, Smith didn’t boast about that first kill. Instead he spoke to his pilots about the superior qualities of the Zero and the skill of Japanese aviators.
Unending Aerial Combat
From then on, the Marine fliers were in the air almost every day. When coast-watchers would radio that a Japanese aircraft formation was on its way, a scramble flag was run up in front of the operations tent. Within minutes the pilots were clawing their way through the air to gain altitude.
VMF-223’s assignment was to destroy enemy bombers. When Smith saw that the Japanese usually attacked in a large V formation with the bombers in the lead and the Zeros behind, he concluded that a hit-and-run strategy would give his pilots the best chance of success. He ordered them to go after the bombers with overhead or high-side attacks to avoid the bombers’ tail guns. If the Zeros engaged the Wildcats, his pilots were to fire a burst or two and disengage. The Wildcats flew in pairs. In a dogfight, the wingman would try to shoot the Zero off the element-leader’s tail.
An important victory for the Americans came on 24 August, when ten enemy bombers and six Zeros were destroyed. Marion Carl was credited with four kills, making him the first Marine Corps ace of the war. There was a cost. Elwood Bailey disappeared over the sea after shooting down two Zeros. Fred Gutt was seriously wounded in a dogfight. Roy Corry vanished after attacking a flight of Zeros. “Rapid Robert” Read was wounded when a Zero shot up his plane as it was lifting off the field. He was forced to ditch into the sea.
Outnumbered in every action, Smith knew VMF-223 couldn’t win a battle of attrition. He told his pilots it would only get rougher and that they had to pull together. The only way to stop the relentless Japanese was to knock them down and survive to fight again.
In the next three days, Smith shot down four more bombers. On 30 August, he and his wingman Red Kendrick were at 28,000 feet over Guadalcanal when he spotted 22 Zeros below them. Diving, Smith closed on one of the planes and opened fire. It exploded. Another Zero emerged from a cloud and he locked in behind it. Another quick burst and it blew up. A third Zero came at him head-on and they both opened fire as the planes closed at a combined speed of 500 knots. Flames began shooting up out of the Japanese fighter’s cockpit, and Smith saw the enemy pilot’s head on fire as he flashed past. Smith observed another Zero as he was descending to land, and closed to within 50 feet before opening fire. The Zero flew straight into the ground.
Triumphs Come with Mounting Toll
From 21 August to 11 September, the Imperial Japanese Navy launched more than 300 air sorties against Guadalcanal. The fighter pilots of VMF-223 (reinforced by VMF-224 on 30 August) claimed the destruction of 29 Zeros, 37 bombers, and 11 single-engine carrier bombers.
And Smith continued to lose pilots. On 5 September, Rivers Morrell was wounded and put out of action. On the 13th, Scotty McLennan, the Yale man who had shot down three enemy planes, disappeared after a fight with six Zeros.
Every night the airfield was bombed or shelled by Japanese planes, ships, and submarines. The pilots sat around their campsite in pajamas, sometimes sharing a bottle of whiskey. They were now contending with skin rashes, malaria, crotch rot, hives, and dysentery, while subsisting largely on Japanese rice, dehydrated potatoes, and black coffee. The whiskey helped them sleep.
By early September John L. Smith had shot down 12 Japanese planes, Marion Carl had destroyed 11, Second Lieutenant Ken Frazier 9, Second Lieutenants Gene Trowbridge and Zenneth Pond 6 each, and Fred Gutt 4. The friendly rivalry between Smith and the gentlemanly, mild-mannered Carl became legendary.
On 9 September, Carl had just shot down a Zero when his plane was hit from behind. His cockpit afire, he bailed out, landing in the ocean about 30 miles from Henderson Field. Picked up by a native in a canoe, he spent five days in an epic adventure of survival before returning from the dead. After rounding up his personal effects, which had already been “redistributed,” he reported to Marine Brigadier General Roy Geiger, the commanding officer of Guadalcanal’s newly nicknamed Cactus Air Force (for the island’s code name). Geiger informed him that in Carl’s absence, John L. had raised his victory total to 16. Carl remained at 12.
“Goddammit, General, ground him for five days,” Carl responded.
Smith kept his men focused on destroying Japanese bombers, but there were always more the next day. In the face of almost insurmountable odds, he was unwavering. They would fly until there were no planes left or they were relieved.
His pilots had started out respecting him. The ones now remaining were in awe.
On 30 September, Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, commander of the Pacific Fleet, flew to Guadalcanal to find out if it could be held. While there, he took the opportunity to personally decorate VMF-223’s Smith and Carl with the Navy Cross. Red Kendrick and Second Lieutenant Willis Lees III received the Distinguished Flying Cross.
‘I Am Sick of the Whole Mess’
Two days later, coast-watchers failed to detect a major Japanese air attack. The formation was closing when Smith led his Wildcats up to meet the threat. Bursting through the top cloud layer, he saw more than 20 Zeros above him. Before he could dive back into the clouds, they attacked.
Willis Lees was the first to go. His Wildcat aflame, he bailed out and was never seen again. Smith’s plane was riddled with bullets, but after dropping through another cloud layer, he encountered three Zeros. He destroyed one, but the other two scored hits, knocking out his carburetor.
After crash-landing, he began a five-mile trek through Japanese lines. At one point, he came upon a wrecked Wildcat. It was Scotty McLennan’s plane, his shattered body still inside. Arriving back at the airfield, he was told that Red Kendrick was missing, believed to have gone down in nearby jungle. Smith led a search party and found the plane, with Red still strapped into the cockpit. They buried him next to the wreckage.
Smith poured out his thoughts in a letter to his wife:
5 October 1942. Louise Darling . . . I haven’t the least idea of what’s going to happen to me and this squadron. . . . Have lost the best I started out with. Lost one the same day I was shot down. . . I would have rather it had been me instead of him. Hope I can see his family when I get back and tell them what a swell Marine he was. I know they will be proud of him. He just received the Distinguished Flying Cross. . . . Really no justice in war, or he certainly would have gotten through. I have gotten 18 of them so far and am getting sick of seeing them burn and blow up in my face. Several times I have had to duck to get out of the debris. . . . An Admiral pinned the Navy Cross on me the other morning. I am proud to get it, except that they think that it is good payment for seeing young pilots who are sharing my tent go down in flames day after day. I don’t mind saying that I am sick of the whole mess. . . . All my love to you, John
Only nine of the original pilots of VMF-223 were left.
Newly promoted Major Smith would destroy one more enemy aircraft before the squadron officially was relieved on 11 October 1942. By then he was the top American fighter ace of the war, and Marion Carl was number two. VMF-223 was credited with more than 100 aerial victories.
More important, the verdict on Guadalcanal was in. Although there would be bitter fighting in the months ahead, the Marines were going to hold. VMF-223 had made a difference.
The Nation’s Highest Honor
Reaching San Francisco ten days later, Smith was informed that his next assignment would be a war-bond tour. The news didn’t make him happy. When he got to his home in Norfolk, Louise was shocked at his condition. He was yellow from jaundice and in a state of emotional exhaustion.
He began the tour in November. At every rally he spoke about the real heroes of the Pacific war, the ones he had served with who hadn’t come back. A Marine Corps publicist sent Smith a message that such “negativity” was hurting bond sales. He ignored it. As he traveled cross-country, Smith reached out to the families of his squadron-mates who had been killed.
In February 1943, he was ordered to report to the White House. While he and Louise waited to meet President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Admiral John “Slew” McCain, who had commanded land-based air operations in the theater that included Guadalcanal, joined them. Louise thought McCain seemed as nervous as they were; when he tried to roll a cigarette, loose tobacco rained down his blues. A few minutes later, Louise watched proudly as President Roosevelt awarded John L. the Medal of Honor.
Smith requested another combat assignment in the Pacific and was made executive officer of Marine Air Group (MAG) 32, which was taking part in the liberation of the Philippines. Months later he became the only fighter ace in the war to command an air group. He received the Legion of Merit with combat “V” for his role in providing close-ground support for the “mud Marines” in the campaign.
When the war ended, Smith stayed in the Corps—it was his life. Not all his surviving squadron-mates from VMF-223 felt that way. Fred Gutt, who had become an ace with eight victories, had had enough. For every John L. Smith and Marion Carl he had served under, there were too many “horses’ asses” who won commands on seniority rather than merit.
Deployed to the Korean conflict in July 1953 as an air-group commander, now-Colonel Smith flew combat missions in the weeks leading up to the armistice. While keeping the unit combat-ready after the shooting stopped, he spent considerable time assisting refugee children dislocated by the war.
Renewing Family Ties
Over the next four years he served in a number of staff and operational billets, always advocating aggressively for a strengthened Marine air arm. His message was not always well received.
While stationed at Quantico, Virginia, he began to focus on his three children, John L. Jr., Caroline, and Owen. When 12-year-old Caroline showed an interest in horseback riding, he renewed his own interest, buying a big palomino and teaching Caroline how to jump. He seemed to instinctively know how to overcome her fears. Soon she was jumping four-foot fences.
At one of the Quantico parades, a horse ahead of them bolted, carrying away its female rider. Smith took off in pursuit, caught up to the galloping horse, and whisked the woman safely out of the saddle.
One year he traveled by car across the country with his son Owen. After visiting the Grand Canyon, they stopped at John’s Oklahoma birthplace, taking a photograph there in front of the sign erected to celebrate the town’s most famous son. Later, Smith went calling on some of his mother’s old friends, now in their 80s. Owen had never seen his father be deferential to any man, but around the crocheting ladies he was like a schoolboy.
In 1958 Smith took his family to a dedication ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery for the Tomb of the Unknowns of World War II and Korea. President Dwight D. Eisenhower invited Smith to join him for a brief prayer service out of the public eye.
Marion Carl, who considered Smith the finest combat leader he had ever known, was certain that his friend would make brigadier general, but in 1959 Smith was passed over for promotion. Carl concluded that he had alienated senior ground officers by lobbying too strongly for Marine air. It was a bitter blow for Smith.
Depression and Discharge
On 30 December 1959, Smith checked himself into Bethesda Naval Hospital and asked for help in dealing with depression. After being admitted, he was placed in a locked psychiatric ward. Told that the medical staff was on holiday, he then spent the next 12 days in confinement. Marion Carl visited him in the hospital, but there was nothing he could do to help his friend.
On 10 January 1960, he had his first consultation—with a flight surgeon doing temporary work in psychiatry while pursuing a career in space medicine. From 10 January to 15 February, Smith had seven 30-minute sessions with the doctor, after which he was officially diagnosed with “Depression Condition #3140.” A clinical board summary—based solely on the flight surgeon’s diagnosis—said: “He has now received maximum benefit of hospitalization and further treatment is not indicated at this time.” Aside from the seven conferences, he had received no treatment.
John L. Smith was discharged from the Marine Corps on 30 September 1960, deemed unfit for duty. During his 23-year career, he had earned the Medal of Honor, Navy Cross, Distinguished Flying Cross, Legion of Merit, Silver Star, five Bronze Stars, Britain’s Distinguished Service Order, and more than a dozen other medals and decorations.
A source of pride soon after, however, was being invited to the White House in 1962 to meet a fellow decorated veteran of the Solomon Islands campaign, President John F. Kennedy. They shared a few words in the Rose Garden.
Soon after being discharged, Smith began working as a marketing executive in the aerospace industry, spending more than ten years at the Rocketdyne Corporation in California. According to his daughter, Caroline, he didn’t enjoy some aspects of the work—it was called “marketing” but more often it was mere glad-handing. He bristled at being trotted out to play golf with potential customers and being introduced as “John L. Smith, our Medal of Honor winner.” But it was part of the job.
Rocketdyne laid him off in 1972, when he was 57. He was unable to find another job, but later that year he joined the other survivors from VMF-223 in San Diego to mark the 30-year anniversary of their Guadalcanal service. Fred Gutt, at the time a building contractor, was thrilled to see him again. “John L.” appeared to be enjoying life and looked great.
A month after the reunion, Fred received a phone call from 223 squadron-mate Conrad Winter, who told him that their beloved CO had shot himself. Both were shocked and devastated.
There was never any pretense in John Lucian Smith. From the quiet boy who grew up on the Oklahoma prairie to the celebrated war hero honored by three presidents and interred at Arlington National Cemetery, he lived his life simply and directly. His philosophy of leadership can be summed up in a statement he made to a fellow Marine officer in 1942 during the Battle of Guadalcanal: “I’m a rifleman commanding a fighter squadron.”
The material related to the personal life of John L. Smith came from interviews with his son Owen Ballard Smith and his daughter, Caroline Smith Wilson. Owen Smith provided his father’s personal wartime letters along with the official records related to his hospitalization in 1960. Peter Mersky provided the accounts of Louise Outland Smith’s wartime recollections from personal interviews.
For material related to Smith’s combat service, the author relied on interviews with Fred Gutt, who served under Smith in VMF-223; Barrett Tillman; John B. Lundstrom; Col. Joseph Alexander; and Bruce Carl, the son of Major General Marion Carl; along with written contributions from Frank Olynyk.
Books and periodical sources included The First Team and the Guadalcanal Campaign, by John B. Lundstrom (Naval Institute Press, 1993); Guadalcanal, by Richard B. Frank (Random House, 1990); Pushing the Envelope: The Career of Fighter Ace and Test Pilot Marion Carl, by Marion Carl with Barrett Tillman (Naval Institute Press, 1994); The Cactus Air Force, by Thomas G. Miller Jr. (Harper & Row, 1969); Guadalcanal Diary, by Richard Tregaskis (Penguin, 1943); A History of Marine Attack Squadron 223, by First Lieutenant Brett A. Jones, USMC (Marine Corps History and Museums Division, 1978); Life magazine, 7 December 1942; Van Nuys (CA) News, 16 June 1972; The Oklahoman, 6 January 1948. Websites included Arlington National Cemetery (arlingtoncemetery.net/johnluci.htm.) and acepilots.com.