A rapid study of maps and distances showed that it might well be possible, using P-38s from Guadalcanal, to intercept the Admiral over Kahili airfield the next morning at 9.45. But only if special auxiliary tanks could be got out to them in time.
At 3.35 p.m. two signals went out, signed personally by Frank Knox. One was for General Kenney, in command of the Air Forces in the S.W. Pacific, in Australia. This one concerned the auxiliary tanks. The other was relayed by Pearl Harbor direct to the Fighter Control Centre, Henderson Field, on Guadalcanal.
The Kenney signal was passed on to the 13th U.S. Air Force Ordnance Depot at Port Moresby. Three hours later four four-engined Liberators took off from Milne Bay with eighteen 310-gallon drop-tanks and eighteen 165-gallon ones, for Henderson Field.
The signal for Henderson Field reached Guadalcanal at 4 p.m., but just then there was a raid by Japanese planes. Marine pilots took off in Corsairs to beat them off and in the ensuing battle one Corsair crashed close to the airfield and its pilot was burnt to cinders before the eyes of the appalled personnel of the airfield. In the event Major Mitchell, commanding 339 Squadron (P-38s), was only called at 5.10 p.m.
A jeep from Fighter Control collected him and his two Flight-Leaders, Lieutenants Thomas G. Lanphier and Beasby Holmes. All along the nine-mile stretch of road from Henderson to Tassafaronga there were ample signs of the fierce battles that had followed the landings.
The Navy and Army H.Q. at Tassafaronga was hidden in a palm-grove, the buildings half buried in the sand. Water had oozed in and formed puddles on the floors. Twenty or so officers were squelching about, talking eagerly. The signal received read: ‘Washington, 17.4.43, 15.35. Top Secret, Secretary Navy to Fighter Control Henderson.
‘Admiral Yamamoto accompanied chief of staff and seven general officers imperial navy including surgeon admiral grand fleet left Truk this morning eight hours for air trip inspection Bougainville bases stop Admiral and party travelling in two Sallys escorted six Zekes stop escort of honour from Kahili probable stop admiral’s itinerary colon arrive Rabaul Bucka I 1630 hours where spend night stop leave dawn for Kahili where time of arrival 0945 hours stop admiral then to board submarine chaser for inspection naval units under admiral Tanaka stop.
‘Squadron 339 P-38 must at all costs reach and destroy Yamamoto and staff morning april eighteen stop auxiliary tanks and consumption data will arrive from Port Moresby evening seventeenth stop intelligence stresses admirals extreme punctuality stop president attaches extreme importance this operation stop communicate result at once Washington stop Frank Knox Secretary of State for Navy.
‘Ultra-secret document, not to be copied or filed. To be destroyed when carried out.’
Mitchell, the flimsy still in his hand, whistled through his teeth after a look at the map covering the big table.
550 miles! 1100 miles there and back, with a probable scrap into the bargain. At least five hours’ flying, as they would have to fly at economical cruising speed. Sounded like a shaky do. To add to his doubts, the signal from Port Moresby confirming despatch of the auxiliary tanks made it clear that only eighteen planes could be fitted out. What would happen if that escort of honour consisted of forty Zeros?
The discussion over the final plan of action lasted until dinner, a frugal one on Guadalcanal—canned sausages and biscuits, plus a glass of canned orange juice for the pilots only. The Navy officers suggested waiting until Yamamoto was on board his submarine chaser, and then sinking it. Holmes retorted that a normal fighter-pilot wouldn’t pretend to be able to identify that one boat from among the hundreds dotted about the bay. Anyway, even if you machine-gunned the survivors in the sea one by one, you still would not be certain that Yamamoto had been liquidated. Besides—conclusive argument—there would be naval A.A. No thanks!
Then again, how could they make certain of intercepting him in the air? Provided Yamamoto was punctual they would have to jump him thirty miles or so east of Kahili. Counting about four miles to the minute, contact would have to be made at roughly 9.35.
At what height would he be flying? An important point as, although the met. people promised clear weather, atmospheric conditions in the tropics were pretty unstable. It seemed likely that the two bombers would fly fairly low, say 10,000 feet, to relieve the V.I.P.s on board of the discomfort of wearing oxygen masks.
Finally it was all settled, and Mitchell agreed, rather unwillingly, to lead the twelve P-38s which would fly at 20,000 feet to provide top-cover for the other six. These, the ones who would have the tricky job of making the actual interception, would fly at 11,000 feet. Take-off was fixed for 7.20 a.m.
The choice of pilots was going to be difficult. The squadron had forty, and those not chosen were obviously going to scream blue murder. In the end they decided to draw lots among the twenty-five most experienced.
At 9 p.m., just before a terrific thunderstorm broke, the four Liberators bringing the auxiliary tanks made a rather rocky landing on the small and inadequately lit strip at Henderson Field. The fitters set to work in the torrential rain and pitch darkness by the light of electric torches—the Jap bombers constantly circling the island were in the habit of dropping their bombs on any light suggesting activity; It was a hellish job fitting those drop-tanks between the two engine-booms and the cockpit. They were too big and heavy, for one thing, and everything had to be improvised. They worked feverishly, up to the ankles in mud, and surrounded by swarms of malaria mosquitoes attracted by the light of the torches.
16th April 1943
The radiant sun rose in a limpid sky. All the pilots of 339 had been at Dispersal since 6 o’clock. Those who were going hid whatever apprehension they might feel under a jaunty manner, fiddling about with their planes and making last-minute suggestions to the fitters. The moment before taking off for a trip is always poignant. You adjust your parachute as you stand on the wing, and take what may be your last look at all the familiar things—-your friends, the flight-hut with its walls plastered with pin-ups, its maps and blackboards, and the table where you have so often played poker and staked the money you hadn’t got. The fitter hides what he feels by giving the perspex of your hood an extra polish.
Major Mitchell arrived at last, his face drawn and unshaven—he had spent the night supervising the fitters’ work. He called the pilots round him, and, sitting on the bonnet of the jeep leaning on his parachute, gave them their final instructions.
‘Doug Cannings and I, each with a section of six planes, will try to protect the intercepting force from the Zeros of the escort. Thomas Lanphier, Rex Barber, Beasby Holmes, Ray Hine, Joe Moore and James MacLanahan will therefore be free for the job of going after the bombers, who have got to be brought down at all costs. Whatever happens, dive through the Zeros, take no notice of them.’
7.20 a.m.—One engine fired, coughing oil-laden smoke, through the exhausts, then another . . . three . . . seven . . . ten—thirty-six Allisons roaring. The Major’s P-38 started rolling on the steel tracking of the strip, as graceful on its three slender legs as a ballerina on her toes. One by one the heavily laden P-38s took off, with the usual shrill whine of superchargers.
MacLanahan’s plane burst a tyre at 100 m.p.h., skidded on the damp tracking, smashed its undercart and crashed at the end of the runway in a sea of flames. The pilot jumped unhurt out of the cockpit and removed himself at record speed before the final explosion.
Joe Moore switched over to his auxiliary tank, but he felt a sudden loss of power and at the same time the boost gauge showed a violent drop. No juice coming through. He quickly switched back to his wing tanks, then tried the drop-tank again, although he was low over the water. Risky, but he didn’t want to miss the trip. It was no good, the engines died on him again and, pumping like a madman, he only just succeeded in starting up again in time on the wing-tanks. He had to turn back.
The remaining sixteen P-38s in three sections, one of four planes and two of six, lost Guadalcanal behind them in the dry morning mist.
It was a picture-postcard morning—little emerald-green islands fringed with mother-of-pearl in a sea as calm as the proverbial mill-pond.
For the pilots, in spite of the danger, every trip was a holiday, as it was an escape from Guadalcanal. Now that you were away from the fetid marshes and the stench of the jungle, those islands etched in the warm, shimmering air represented an inaccessible earthly paradise with their golden sands, scarlet creepers and indigo trees.
Giving the Japanese-held archipelagos a wide berth, the pilots left on the right first Munda, then Rendova, Vella Lavelle and Shortland. They were flying too low and too far out to be picked up by Japanese radar.
The sun was beginning to beat through the perspex. Tommy Lanphier, in shirt-sleeves, was sweating. He could feel the drops forming under his armpits and trickling coldly down his sides.
Nearly two hours of flying already and strict R/T. silence all the time. The whine of the superchargers on either side of the cockpit was beginning to stupefy him. The pilots, hunched up for too long, were screwing about in their cockpits to avoid cramp.
‘We’re going to miss them,’ thought Lanphier. ‘It would be too good to be true if we didn’t. Things like that only happen on the movies.’ Below to the right, sliding under the tailplane, was the tip of Bougainville. Soon be time to start climbing.
9.30 a.m.—The 310-gallon tank was a terrible nuisance. As it had no internal partitions the petrol inside sloshed about, and the pilot had the disagreeable impression every five seconds of getting a kick in the nose of his plane. Any attempt to check the movement only made matters worse.
9.33 a.m.—There they go! Mitchell’s boys started climbing, their shadows still following them on the waves. The P-38s went up at an incredible angle, their noses pointing straight up at the sun and apparently hung on invisible threads. In one movement Lanphier opened up to 2600 revs—mixture fully rich, thirty-four inches of boost. The four Lightnings of the attack section rose. Every eye scanned the sky. Tommy swept the sky carefully up to the level of the sun, his hand shielding his eyes.
‘Not a thing. How the boys will . . .’
‘Look out! Bogys ten o’clock high!’
It was Canning’s voice, quite calm, but Tommy jumped as if he had had an electric shock. There they were, coming towards them, above and a bit to the left. The admiral was on time.
3000 revs, combat pitch, combat flaps—so many things to do with your hands, while you kept the stick wedged with your knees—petrol cocks over to wing-tanks, now then, what about the drop-tanks; mustn’t forget how you get rid of the 310-gallon one—keep that ball in the middle, no skidding . . . the plane, relieved of its load, leapt forward. It all had to be done by feel while you kept your eyes fixed on the bright dots, now immediately above.
Holmes had mucked it up and the 310-gallon tank had hit his tailplane as it fell, and on top of that he couldn’t shake off the 165-gallon one.
A turn, then they climbed, practically parallel with the enemy, who seemed to have noticed nothing yet. They must stay out of sight in the blind spot formed by the wings.
Barber was still with Lanphier, but the Holmes-Hinc section had vanished.
The two Lightnings were now only 1000 feet below the two Sallys. One of the planes was a uniform khaki colour, the other was bright grey with irregular olive-green camouflage stripes. The big red dies of the rising sun showed up clearly. This second Sally was closely escorted by six Zeros, three on each side. It must be Yamamoto’s.
A left turn to get between the enemy formation and the island, and suddenly the Zeros dropped their tanks, which went fluttering down. The three first Zeros attacked the two Lightnings head on, at a relative speed of 750 m.p.h. Long bursts of tracer crossed, and a green and yellow Zero, shaken by the stream of steel poured out by the 13-mm. machine-guns and the 20-mm. cannon, turned on its back and shot past Lanphier’s aircraft.
The two Sallys now knew the score and were diving towards the island. Tommy went after them. But the Zeros were extraordinarily quick off the mark, probably crack pilots. The three others in perfect close formation did an impeccable loop and veered to cut him off while the two first did such a tight turn that he gained little ground on them. The Zeros and the Lightning converged on the camouflaged Sally. It was a race to the death, with the bomber as prize. The brain works fast at such moments, but an experienced pilot’s reflexes work faster than thought. Like a wing forward on a football field Lanphier feinted and caught the Zeros on the wrong foot—he pretended to turn left, putting an exaggerated bank, and immediately the two Zeros swung towards him and, as they neared, the first opened fire . . . a brutal kick on the left rudder bar to slip under the tracer, and then stick hard right and over he went in a barrel roll. He shot under the two Zeros and dived towards the bombers like a bat out of hell.
Barber had kept straight on and had opened fire on the three other Zeros, who broke and faced him. Tommy went slap through them at full throttle and found himself in the slipstream of the nearer of the Sallys. It was the camouflaged one, Yamamoto’s. At 400 m.p.h. hunter and hunted roared down towards the jungle-covered island. The Sally loomed up in the sights, the two engines clearly visible with their white-hot exhausts. The gun turrets were not even manned.
Tommy trembled with excitement as he pressed the button. The recoil of the 20-mm. cannon and the four 13-mm. machine-guns between his legs made the stick shake in his gloved hand. A smell of powder invaded the cockpit.
The Sally straightened out and the Lightning went on firing, weaving from left to right to avoid the dangerous wake from the propellers . . . a long burst. . . the shells exploded in the treetops and got closer to the shadow of the plane jumping from tree to tree. A hit, on the starboard engine! First a thin dark trail then a ring of flame round the cowling. Plates flew off the wing, releasing an enormous plume of black smoke. The Sally, one wing in flames, lost speed and Tommy lowered his flaps ten more degrees and throttled right back.
A second burst to finish him off. Nobody would be able to jump, the plane was too low. The Sally brushed the tops of the trees, skidded suddenly, a wing caught and folded up in a shower of purple flames, sparks and debris. The blazing fuselage carved its way through the trees. Not much doubt about that!
A glance at the mirror—here come the Zeros! A vertical climb, which the Japanese fighters with their controls stiffened by the speed could not hope to follow without their wings folding up. The Lightning, climbing full boost, flew over Kahili airfield. Zeros were taking off in all directions in a cloud of dust.
A few haphazard bursts from 75-mm. A.A. and that was all. In the meantime Barber had been rescued by Mitchell and the covering sections from a dozen Zeros which had suddenly appeared from nowhere. He managed to overhaul the second bomber, which was making for the beach at sea-level. The bursts from the Lightning tore a strip of foam from the sea which gradually caught up with the Sally. The Jap plane crashed into a coral reef with a terrific explosion. One Lightning, an engine on fire, went down in a spin and crashed near a jutting crag. It was Hine, who had sacrificed himself to protect Holmes by taking on three Zeros in a dog-fight.
In spite of the handicap of his drop-tank and his damaged tailplane, Holmes had got one Zero for certain plus one probable. Barber was trying to finish this one off when Mitchell suddenly gave the order for immediate return. Six Lightnings were badly damaged and two had to toil painfully back on one engine, the other propeller feathered. Mission completed. The manhunt was over.
Yamamoto’s charred body was found in the debris of the Sally. The Admiral died leaning on the hilt of his Samurai sword, which was brought back to Tokio for an impressive military funeral.
Lieutenant Lanphier was promoted to the rank of Captain and received the Navy Cross and a personal telegram of congratulations from President Roosevelt. His exploit was not officially announced until 1st September 1945, as his brother Charles, who had been shot down at Bataan, was a prisoner in Japanese hands and the American government feared possible
reprisals.
History may say one day that Yamamoto’s death was Japan’s first great defeat in the 1941-45 war.
Note on the Lockheed P-38 ‘Lightning’
The Two-Tailed Devil—Der Gabelschwanzteufel, as the Germans called it—was one of the best known aircraft of the last war. Its distinctive outline and the characteristic whine of its superchargers will remain indelibly associated in French memory with the stirring weeks of May and June 1944.
The Lightning can certainly claim to have been the most discussed aircraft among Allied fighter-pilots. It was loathed by some, but by others it was put on a level with the Spitfire, which was rather an exaggerated compliment.
The story of this remarkable plane begins in 1937. The U.S. Army Air Corps had issued a schedule of requirements for a fast twin-engined single seater fighter with a large radius of action. It was at that time that vague mentions of the Messerschmitt 110 were beginning to seep through via the ultra-secret reports of air attaches with the Berlin embassies. France had already shown very pretty twin-engined fighters, the Henriot and the Potez 63 at the 1936 Air Show. Fokker in Holland was building his G.I.
In a word, the fashion—Just as exacting in aircraft design as in ladies’ hats—was for this kind of plane.
The requirements were very stiff—360 m.p.h. at 20,000 feet and a radius of action of 300 miles—and they were enough to put off the majority of American designers. Among the firms that tendered designs was Lockheeds, a small, young firm. It had a mere thousand or so workmen and technicians and had up till then produced only five types of aircraft amounting to a total of 107 light transport planes, including the successful Lockheed 12 ‘Electra’.
Business was not too good—France and Britain had not yet begun to place orders in America—and this possible contract became a question of life and death for the firm. All production ceased and the drawing-office set to work. Every possible layout, even the most revolutionary, was considered in turn—two engines in tandem, engines with indirect transmission, etc., etc.
Flames in the Sky: Epic stories of WWII air war heroism from the author of The Big Show (Pierre Clostermann's Air War Collection Book 2) Page 8