SSgt. William I. Coffeen Coffeen
VMF 213 Pilot - Three Months MIA/Robinson Crusoe
The FSL Chronological entries and the Pilot Logs from the1st and 2nd Tours do reference SSgt. William I. Coffeen, but do not fully account for his time with VMF-213 that he was listed as MIA.
SSgt. William I. Coffeen's ordeal began with engine trouble during a mission on April 13, 1943, and ended with his return noted in the Flight Surgeon's log as being June 27. The account of his three month trek for survival through the islands is not recorded in the Flight Surgeon's log.
The Marine Corps Aviation Chronolog 1912 – 1954 states that William Coffeen, Jr., was born November 21, 1920, in Chicago, IL, enlisted in the Marine Corps June 15, 1939. He participated in the defense of Ewa Field Oahu, HI, against the Japanese attack on December 7, 1941. After flight school at Pensocola, FL, he received his naval aviation pilot wings October 1942 – Opa-locka, FL.
William I. Coffeen died November 13, 1987, and was interred at the Massachusetts National Cemetery in Bourne, Barnstable County (Cape Cod), MA. See Find A Grave>
An article regarding William Coffeen's ordeal:
Additionally, I have added a very descriptive account of SSgt. Coffeen's ordeal, below, from a book on the battle for New Georgia. I want to thank Brian Altobello for giving permission to reproduce a few pages from his book, Into the Shadows Furious: the Brutal Battle for New Georgia.
Into the Shadows Furious: the Brutal Battle for New Georgia
by Brian Altobello (pages 39-43).
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.
_________________________________________
See additional information available at U.S. Militaria Forum.