--- title: "How Two WWII Fighter Pilots Hacked Through the New Guinea Jungle for the Best Duck Hunt of Their Lives" description: "Two fighter pilots in New Guinea borrowed shotguns, hacked through the jungle, and found a swamp full of ducks to feed their hungry camp." date: "2026-11-11" modified: "2026-11-11" authors: - name: "Capt. David F. Harbour" job_title: "Fighter Pilot" link: "https://www.outdoorlife.com/authors/capt-david-f-harbour.md" url: "https://www.outdoorlife.com/hunting/wwii-veterans-duck-hunt-new-guinea/" categories: - "Duck Hunting" - "Hunting" - "Waterfowl Hunting" tags: - "Evergreen" - "News" --- # How Two WWII Fighter Pilots Hacked Through the New Guinea Jungle for the Best Duck Hunt of Their Lives ![A WWII veteran who is duck hunting crawls through the marsh.]() *\Illustration by Bob Kuhn / OL\* *This story, “Ducks Can Improve Any War,” appeared in the December 1944 issue of* Outdoor Life*.* A duck hunter is always a duck hunter. No matter how long he’s been away from the sport, he still longs for that song of the wind on the lake reeds. He craves the acrid smell of burning powder and the comfortable feel of his favorite gun. He never forgets the beauty of the cold gray mists of dawn, the hazy silhouettes of decoys, the tense, exciting wait, and finally, the sight of fast gray wings above him. You duck hunters know exactly what I mean, but I doubt if any of you ever felt the old longing as much as I did that day in New Guinea in February, 1943. Yes, New Guinea — hot, steaming, sultry. I had been in the Pacific area for eighteen months, flying a fighter. Four of those months were combat flying. I was getting in plenty of hunting — a serious kind of hunting that I enjoyed — when late one afternoon while sitting on alert, a flock of ducks, real live ducks, passed right over our pilot’s hut and lit in a near-by swamp. When those ducks flew over, two old-time duck hunters jumped to their feet and watched ’em till they’d disappeared. Then they turned and looked at each other. They didn’t say anything; they didn’t have to. One of those duck hunters was Lieut. Fred Sibley from Maine. I was the other one. And right then and there the war we were in had improved 1,000 percent. > When we opened the boxes of No. 6s we found that half the shells were bloated by the damp atmosphere, and wouldn’t fit into the guns. So we had to take our knives and patiently whittle each shell down until it would slip into the chamber. We started right in, lining things up for our next day off. We dug up a couple of old double-barrel guns from the squadron supply and, after making the rounds through several camps, found some honest-to-goodness 12 gauge ammunition a pilot had bought in Australia. We finally succeeded in heckling the officer into turning some of it over to us — by promising him a big fat duck for dinner. Now, this was really an effective offer, since his squadron had been practically living on bully beef for six months. It didn’t hurt our consciences to take advantage of the poor man, as we knew we could feed a lot of hungry soldiers if we could get him to come across. Anyway, we got back to camp with two boxes of No. 6’s. Later, when we opened them we found that half the shells were bloated by the damp atmosphere, and wouldn’t fit into the guns. So we had to take our knives and patiently whittle each shell down until it would slip into the chamber. Then we gave every shell a coat of grease to protect it from the humidity until the big day. We had found previously from wandering around in the jungle that it was absolutely imperative for a man to sprinkle himself with some kind of sulphur as a protection against the chiggers and ticks. These tiny parasites were dangerous not only because their bites caused infections which took weeks to heal in that climate, but because they were known to carry a tropical disease. We also knew it was necessary to use mosquito lotion as millions of these pests swarmed everywhere. ![Original black and white and yellow illustration showing duck hunters on leave in New Guinea during WWII looking at birds flying.]() **Illustration by Bob Kuhn / OL** Our problem, then, was to concoct something that wouldn’t wash off our bodies when we were wading through swamps and marsh land after those ducks. We hit on the bright idea of mixing the sulphur powder with vaseline, and it worked like a charm. The mosquito lotion was no problem as we could carry plenty of it along in a small bottle. For extra protection we each obtained a mosquito head net and a pair of leggings. Two canteens of water completed our preparations in the way of equipment for the unique duck hunt. We still had a couple of days to go before our day off, so we decided to do some aërial scouting. We knew we’d be doing some flying in those remaining days, and that while on our landing patterns we would have an opportunity to study the swamp and determine the best possible way of getting into it from our camp. To appreciate the importance of this, one must imagine a typical Florida swamp surrounded by the most dense undergrowth in which, every five or six feet, giant trees rear their heads. Undergrowth and trees are connected by a maze of hanging moss and tough vines, the only trails being pig runs and an occasional hidden native trail that no white man can follow. The only way a white man can get through such stuff is to cut and fight his way through. So our problem was to determine the spot where we could cut our way through with the least effort. We studied the jungle carefully during the next two days’ flying, and found that a few miles from our camp a grassy hill cut through the jungle to within about a quarter of a mile of the swamp. We could get to this hill easily from the camp, and figured that with the aid of a compass we should be able to bore through the jungle to the swamp itself in two or three hours. Our plans were now complete. The big day came at last. It dawned misty and cool — for New Guinea — as near a perfect duck-hunting day as that part of the world could have provided. And it found Fred and me hacking our way into the jungle surrounding the swamp. We looked more like a couple of jungle soldiers than we did duck hunters. We had our .45’s on our belts for use on snakes or crocodiles, and also because neither of us was sure there might not be a stray Japanese pilot hiding in the brush. We knew several had recently bailed out or crash-landed in the vicinity. > We looked more like a couple of jungle soldiers than we did duck hunters. We had our .45’s on our belts for use on snakes or crocodiles, and also because neither of us was sure there might not be a stray Japanese pilot hiding in the brush. Our heads were covered by our mosquito nets, and our canteen and ammunition belts rattled as we whacked at the undergrowth with a big jungle knife, taking turns at hacking and resting. All through the jungle we encountered many varieties of beautiful birds. Most of them were of the parrot or pigeon families, and were of every color of the rainbow. Some were as small as wrens, others much larger than domestic pigeons. Once we caught a glimpse of an Australian jungle turkey, a magnificent bird almost as large as the American wild turkey, but were unable to get a shot at it in the thick undergrowth. We also saw a couple of dark brown jungle chickens of the grouse variety. Later, in another part of New Guinea, I was fortunate enough to kill several of these birds, and they were very delicious, the meat being light and tender. But this story is about duck hunting — and *what duck hunting!* In exactly one hour and thirty minutes after the first swing of our jungle knife we broke into the swamp — and, believe me, it was beautiful to behold. “Look at them, Dave, look at them!” Fred was wild with excitement. “Gee, it’s been a long time,” I said. Ducks were everywhere — circling the swamps by the hundreds, quacking, whistling, and splashing down into the open spot among the tall reeds. We stood there just looking for a long time. Then Fred said, “Dave, you know what we’ve got to do?” > Ducks were everywhere — circling the swamps by the hundreds, quacking, whistling, and splashing down into the open spot among the tall reeds. “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” I replied. “But it’s sure going to be hard to remember all the hungry people at camp when those singles start flying over. Boy! I wish we had plenty of shells.” “Yeah,” sighed Fred, “or not such a large family to feed.” I had an idea. “I’ll tell you what let’s do,” I said. “Let’s each of us get fifteen ducks with as few shells as possible, and then use the rest of the shells for singles. That will give us at least thirty ducks to feed the sixty guys back at camp.” “O.K., Dave, we’ve got to do it, I guess,” agreed Fred. “It’s going to seem real unsportsmanlike to take pot-shots, but bully beef is sure getting tiresome. Let’s go!” Neither of us relished shooting those beautiful birds on the water, but this was one time we had to bring home the bacon. ![A WWII veteran who is duck hunting crawls through the marsh.]() **Illustration by Bob Kuhn / OL** We decided that since the length of the swamp lay north and south we would separate, Fred going south and I going north, this way keeping the ducks moving back and forth between us. So, out we started. The water in the swamp proved to be from ankle to almost waist deep. The bottom, however, was solid, so walking was not difficult. Most of the swamp was covered with thick dead reeds about six feet high that broke easily as we waded through them. In the midst of these reeds were a great many small open spots where some kind of short green water grass grew which the ducks fed upon. These openings were also the feeding grounds of many different kinds of wading birds which swarmed up with the ducks as we approached. Then there were several flocks of large white herons that seemed almost psychic, as they would take wing long before we reached their resting place, circle, climb high into the sky, and disappear into the distance. They alone seemed to leave the swamp. All other birds, including the ducks, would fly to some other clearing in the swamp and settle there. **Related:** [We Had a Week Off from Active Combat, So I Went Trout Fishing. I Got Pinned Down by a Sniper]() Hundreds of large coots were present too. They were about twice the size of any I had seen before, and looked like American birds, except they had brilliant red bills. Before I had made my way very far into the swamp I heard Fred fire twice and, looking in his direction, saw hundreds of ducks getting up. A dozen black mallards passed right over my head. How I wanted to shoot! But didn’t, remembering my promise to Fred to get my first fifteen with as few shells as possible. Most of the ducks lit about 100 yards north of me, so I began creeping in that direction, making as little noise as possible. As I crept closer through very thick reeds I came to a small opening no more than ten yards in diameter, and, lo and behold, there sat about twenty honest-to-goodness greenwing teal. They saw me and shot up like a covey of quail. I caught them just as they rose, and fired once, knocking down three. I had a tough time recovering them in the reeds, but finally found them all. At the sound of the shot the mallards got up about seventy-five yards away and circled for some ten minutes, settling back down in the same place about the time I had recovered my last teal. With the teal in my belt I crept toward the mallards, crawling through the ankle-deep water on my knees and one hand, holding my gun in the other, as the reeds were not tall in this area. > How I wanted to shoot! But didn’t, remembering my promise to Fred to get my first fifteen with as few shells as possible. When I reached the edge of the clearing where the mallards were I saw they were all about fifty yards away on the opposite side. About halfway across the clearing was a small clump of tall reeds that I thought I might be able to keep between the mallards and myself until I could get them a little more in range. I started crawling toward those reeds, making every effort to keep the ducks from seeing me but, alas, ducks seem to be as wary in one part of the world as another. Just as I got started they spotted me, and off they went in every direction. The largest bunch of them circled over the edge of the swamp and then seemed to disappear into the trees. This I believed to be an illusion — ducks don’t light on trees, especially mallards. By this time I had decided that it was too hot for crawling and that I would let Fred do the work for awhile. So I took my station in the clump of reeds in the center of the clearing and waited for him to send some ducks my way. I took off my head net, wiped the perspiration from my face, applied some mosquito lotion, and put the net into my pocket, deciding I could shoot better without it. After about ten minutes’ waiting I heard Fred open up again, firing three times, and, looking in his direction, I saw them coming. There they were, hundreds of them! And from then on, things went too fast to tell about. All the ducks seemed to want to light in the clearing I commanded — and I did command every inch of it! > There they were, hundreds of them. And from then on, things went too fast to tell about. All the ducks seemed to want to light in the clearing I commanded — and I did command every inch of it. First, a big flock of mallards tried to light within ten yards of me, and I opened up with both barrels just as they were settling, getting four of them. A bunch of pintails came in right after them; then teal, and more mallards. I was firing as fast as I could reload. I could hear Fred doing the same thing and knew he was in their favorite clearing at the other end of the swamp. I had never seen so many ducks at one time, and they were flying back and forth between the two of us. The boys at camp were all going to get a real meal. After about fifteen minutes of the fastest shooting I have ever done I took inventory. I found I had seventeen ducks — and four shells left! And I actually had four black mallards, a couple of beautiful little ducks that I couldn’t identify, three pintails, and several greenwing, bluewing, and cinnamon teal. The teal were larger than any I had seen in the states, but were exactly like our teal in every other respect. Since I had more than my quota of fifteen birds I felt I could use the remaining four precious shells for the tough shots that I have always loved so much. So I took my station and waited. [![The December 1944 cover of outdoor life.]()]() *The cover of the December 1944 issue, which contained this story. Want more vintage OL? [Browse our cover shop.]() *OL Archive** A high flying mallard came in fast and weaving. It was one of those shots you make once in a lifetime and never forget. I led him plenty and just hoped. He came down from way up there like a rock, and I felt a thrill inside I hadn’t come close to feeling for two years. A minute later two teal came in fast and low. I caught one with the first shot, but missed the second. But the first bird came down so clean I didn’t feel badly about the miss. With my remaining shell I stopped another mallard, not as high as the first, but it was a sweet shot. I gathered up my birds and started back to meet Fred. We met just in front of our trail that led back into the jungle, and as we waded through the last few yards of swamp Fred said, “Look at ’em, Dave. We’ve got thirty-five of the most beautiful ducks I ever saw!” “Heavy, too,” I said, laughing. > A bunch of pintails came in right after them; then teal, and more mallards. I was firing as fast as I could reload. I could hear Fred doing the same thing and knew he was in their favorite clearing at the other end of the swamp. We reached the edge of the jungle and sat down to rest. As we sat there we beheld a most astonishing sight — about ten black mallards flew right out of the tree we were sitting under and winged their way back into the swamp. Believe it or not! Mallards do light in trees, in New Guinea anyway. We started home and Fred said, “It’s a funny war, isn’t it? Black mallards lighting in trees; our belts loaded with ducks, and a bunch of hungry boys back at camp to appreciate them more than any ducks were ever appreciated before. I think, Dave, today has been the most wonderful day of my life.” **Related:** [I Hunted Ducks from a U.S. Naval Destroyer During the Korean War]() I was glad Fred said that, because it was his last duck hunt. Fred went down fighting — doing his bit to guarantee a free and fearless future full of “wonderful days” for all of us.