LAST TO DIE
Copyright © 2015 by Stephen Harding
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address Da Capo Press, 44 Farnsworth Street, 3rd Floor, Boston, MA 02210.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Harding, Stephen, 1952–
Last to die: a defeated empire, a forgotten mission, and the last American killed in World War II / Stephen Harding.
pagescm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-306-82339-8 (e-book : alk. paper)1.Marchione, Anthony James, 1925–1945.2.United States. Army Air Forces. Photo Reconnaissance Squadron, 20th—Biography. 3.United States. Army Air Forces—Aerial gunners—Biography.4.World War, 1939–1945—Aerial operations, American.5.World War, 1939–1945—Reconnaissance operations, American.6.World War, 1939–1945—Campaigns—Japan—Tokyo.7.Pottstown (Pa.)—Biography.I.Title.
D790.264.H373 2015
940.54‘252135—dc23
2015003486
Published by Da Capo Press
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As always, for Mari, with love
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER1SON AND GUNNER
CHAPTER2THE SECOND-STRING SUPER BOMBER
CHAPTER3CRISIS IN TOKYO
CHAPTER4CEASEFIRE, OR NOT?
CHAPTER5A DESPERATE FIGHT
CHAPTER6PEACE, OR WAR?
CHAPTER7HOMECOMING
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
Notes
Index
Maps by Steve Walkowiak
But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.
—Isaiah 40:31
Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.
—Leonardo da Vinci
PROLOGUE
JUST BEFORE SEVEN O’CLOCK on the morning of August 18, 1945, a huge, four-engined aircraft moved slowly onto the end of a 7,000-foot-long runway at Yontan airfield on the southwestern coast of the island of Okinawa. Though the machine’s long, cylindrical fuselage, tall tail, and high, narrow wings gave her a certain elegance of line, on the ground she was ponderous. Loaded with fuel and men, she rocked heavily on squat tricycle landing gear as she turned her nose into the wind, then shuddered to a halt as her crew made the last preparations for takeoff.
The aircraft, a B-32 Dominator heavy bomber of the U.S. Army Air Forces’ 386th Bombardment Squadron, was one of four scheduled to depart that morning on what everyone in the unit hoped would be a routine photo-reconnaissance mission over Tokyo. At that point in World War II “routine” should have been a given—Japan had accepted the Allies’ terms for unconditional surrender four days earlier and President Harry S. Truman had ordered the suspension of all offensive operations against Japan on August 15. Yet four B-32s flying a photo-recon mission over Tokyo two days later had been attacked and damaged by Japanese fighters whose pilots had apparently not heard of the ceasefire ordered by Japan’s Emperor Hirohito or, more ominously, had chosen to ignore it. At the early morning briefing for the August 18 mission the Dominator crewmen had been told to assume they’d be flying into what might still be very hostile territory.
With final checks completed, the pilot of the lead B-32—twenty-four-year-old First Lieutenant James L. Klein—released the aircraft’s brakes and smoothly advanced the throttles. The low growl of four idling Wright R-3350 radial engines quickly swelled to a gut-rumbling howl, and the Dominator—the racy nose art painted on the sides of her forward fuselage identified her as Hobo Queen II—rapidly picked up speed as she surged down the runway. When the bomber hit 130 mph abreast of the 4,500-foot marker Klein gently lifted the nose; the aircraft was instantly transformed from a lumbering, earth-bound behemoth into something far more graceful. Her gear coming up and flaps retracting, Hobo Queen II roared over the coral pit at the end of the airstrip and began a climbing 180-degree turn.
With the runway clear, the pilot of the second Dominator, twenty-seven-year-old First Lieutenant John R. Anderson, moved his bomber from the taxiway into takeoff position. The aircraft shook as Anderson did a last engine run-up and the acrid smell of burning high-octane aviation gasoline wafted through the fuselage. Seconds later, her huge paddle-bladed propellers clawing the already-humid air, the B-32 began the sprint down Yontan’s runway.
As Anderson’s Dominator picked up speed, four young men sat huddled on a low, cot-like settee fixed to the port side of the fuselage in the bomber’s rear cabin. Two of the men were gunners; once the Dominator was airborne they’d take their places, one in the tail turret and the other in the rearmost of the B-32’s two top turrets. The other two men—twenty-nine-year-old Staff Sergeant Joseph Lacharite and twenty-year-old Sergeant Anthony Marchione—were not members of the bomber’s crew. They were assigned to the Yontan-based 20th Reconnaissance Squadron, Lacherite as an aerial photographer and Marchione as a gunner/photographer’s assistant. At their feet rested a heavy canvas bag containing the K-22 camera they would use to record the images that were the ultimate purpose of the day’s mission.
That mission was to photograph several Japanese military airfields sited to the east and northeast of the sprawling Tokyo metropolitan area. The reason was twofold: first, to verify that Japanese aircraft were being kept on the ground in compliance with the ceasefire terms; and second, to determine whether the fields were in good enough condition to handle the heavily laden Allied transports that would help bring in the first occupation troops. On paper the mission seemed straightforward: the four B-32s were to cross the assigned recon area at 20,000 feet and two miles apart, following parallel flight lines that ran directly east and west. When they finished “mowing the lawn,” they would begin the return leg to Okinawa. The 1,900-mile round trip—roughly equivalent to a flight from Los Angeles to Seattle and back—would take eight to ten hours if all went well.
As soon as his B-32 was airborne and in her own climbing turn, Anderson headed toward Klein’s Dominator, clearly visible ahead, the already bright morning sun glinting off the lead bomber’s un-camouflaged aluminum skin. The two other aircraft soon joined up, and in loose echelon formation the four B-32s began a gradual climb toward their cruising altitude and pointed their noses toward Tokyo.
AT THAT SAME MOMENT, some 900 miles to the northeast of Yontan, Emperor Hirohito and his senior advisers were most probably wondering if another Japanese city—perhaps even Tokyo itself—would soon disappear beneath a roiling mushroom cloud.
Hirohito had been under no illusion that his August 15 radio address announcing the decision to surrender would be immediately accepted by all senior members of the government and the military, yet even he was shocked by the events that unfolded in the hours and days following the broa
dcast. The announcement had sparked an army-led coup intended to reverse the emperor’s surrender order, and naval and air units at various points around the country were still in open revolt, vowing to fight on to the last man. Should such pointless and ultimately futile military action convince the Allies that Hirohito was unable to enforce his surrender decision or, worse, that his government’s agreement to the Allied ultimatum was simply a delaying tactic meant to give Japan more time to organize its defense against an Allied invasion, the consequences for Hirohito’s much-diminished empire could well be catastrophic.
AMONG THOSE DIEHARDS ABOUT whom Hirohito should have been most worried were several of the finest fighter pilots in the Imperial Japanese Navy. On the morning of August 18 the men—members of the elite Kokutai (Air Group) based at Yokosuka, just twenty-four miles south of the emperor’s Tokyo palace—had agreed to commit mutiny for the second time in as many days.
The Yokosuka Kokutai’s primary purpose by this point in the war was the development and testing of naval aircraft, which meant that among its members were some of the most experienced, talented, and successful pilots in what was left of Japan’s naval air service. As a result, the unit was also tasked with aiding in the air defense of the greater Tokyo–Yokohama region. Over the preceding months the Yokosuka Kokutai pilots had joined in the fierce defense of the east-central part of their homeland against the hordes of American B-29 Superfortress bombers and Allied land-and carrier-based strike aircraft that had been systematically reducing the military facilities, harbors, industrial centers, and key cities of eastern Honshu to smoking rubble.
The willingness of the Yokosuka Kokutai pilots to launch themselves continually at the overwhelming numbers of enemy aircraft appearing daily, and nightly, over their nation implies a level of patriotic dedication verging on fanaticism—and Hirohito’s August 15 announcement of his decision to surrender to the Allies did little to dampen that nationalistic and professional fervor. Despite official orders from Imperial Japanese Navy headquarters to cease attacks on Allied aircraft, many of the Yokosuka Kokutai pilots felt—as did other army and navy aviators elsewhere in Japan—that the nation’s airspace should remain inviolate until a formal surrender document had actually been signed. That belief had led several Yokosuka pilots to attack the B-32s engaged on the August 17 mission, and the passage of twenty-four hours had done nothing to cool their martial zeal. They were ready once again to disobey direct orders and punish any Allied airmen who came within range.
ALTHOUGH THEY COULD NOT have known of the political turmoil in Tokyo or the mood of the Yokosuka Kokutai pilots, the men aboard the Dominators winging ever closer to the coast of Honshu on August 18 were only too aware of the mission’s potential for disaster. Most had seen enough combat in the past months to have an inherent, visceral distrust of their enemy, an emotion validated in their minds by details revealed at the morning’s preflight briefing of the Japanese fighter attacks on the B-32s involved in the previous day’s mission. Adding to the airmen’s underlying unease was the fact that their own defenses had been reduced by half; about five hours after that morning’s takeoff from Yontan two of the Dominators had aborted the mission due to mechanical problems and returned to Okinawa. Adding insult to injury, both Klein’s aircraft and Hobo Queen II were dealing with balky turrets and inoperable guns.
Sadly, the mission would ultimately play itself out in ways that would exceed even the most pessimistic crewmember’s fears. Before the day ended there would be one last desperate air combat between Americans and Japanese. That combat would come perilously close to reigniting a war that seemed all but over and a young man would quietly bleed to death in the bright, clear skies above Tokyo, in the process gaining the dubious distinction of being the last American killed in air combat in World War II.
CHAPTER 1
SON AND GUNNER
THE AMERICAN AIRMAN WHO would suffer most from the decision to send B-32s back over Tokyo despite the August 17 fighter attacks was born almost exactly twenty years earlier—on August 12, 1925—in Pottstown, Pennsylvania.
Anthony James Marchione, or Tony, as he was always known to family and friends, was in many ways the embodiment of the millions of young Americans who left their homes and families to serve in the nation’s armed forces in World War II. Indeed, Tony’s personal history—a loving, all-American son of immigrant parents who grew up in a small town, dreaming of a career as a musician until war drew him far from home—might make him seem almost like a caricature of the clean-cut, self-effacing, and resolutely brave servicemen portrayed in the scores of rousingly patriotic movies made during the early 1940s.
Yet, by all accounts Tony Marchione was exactly the fine, upstanding young man that he appeared to be. And much of the credit for that rightly goes to his parents, who themselves traveled far from their childhood homes to make a new life in the New World.
ITALY IN THE EARLY twentieth century was a land of widespread economic inequality, with the northern parts of the country vastly better off in most respects than the central and southern regions. The nation’s population was growing rapidly, and many people emigrated to avoid what they saw as a future of crushing poverty. Among those who made the momentous decision to leave their ancestral homes for the promise of a better life abroad were two young people from the Abruzzo region on Italy’s Adriatic coast: Raffaelle Marchione and Emelia Ciancaglini. Though born in the same week of June 1897 and in villages only nine miles apart—he in San Buono and she in Scerni—the young man and woman who would become Tony Marchione’s parents never knew each other in Italy.1
Raffaelle was the first to arrive in America, sailing into New York harbor on September 30, 1913, aboard the SS Ancona. He was just sixteen, and spent his first few years living with his older brother, Nicola, who had already established himself in the sprawling Little Italy section of New York City. America’s 1917 entry into World War I prompted Nicola to join the Army and Ralph, as he was now known, followed his brother into that service in January 1918. Assigned to the Army Medical Department, Ralph served in France before being honorably discharged in October 1919. After leaving the Army the young man settled in Pottstown, where he lived with a cousin while apprenticing as a shoemaker.
It may well have been in a shoe-repair shop that Ralph first met Emelia. The young woman had arrived at the port of Philadelphia in May 1921 on the SS Taormina, and was met by an aunt and uncle who lived in Pottstown. It was while staying with them that she first encountered Ralph. The two obviously hit it off, for they were married in the city’s St. Aloysius Roman Catholic church on June 25, 1922. The newlyweds settled in the heavily Italian south end of Pottstown, and Ralph continued to work for other people until he was able to open an independent shop in the mid-1930s. By that time the couple had three children—Tony; Theresa (Terry), born in 1927; and Geraldine (Gerry), born in 1932.
At about the same time that Ralph opened his own shop—Peoples’ Shoe Repair on High Street—he and Emelia bought a modest three-level rowhouse at 558 King Street in central Pottstown. The rhythms of life in the Marchione household were dictated by work—six days a week in the shop for Ralph, every day in the home for Emelia—and school for Tony and his sisters. The elder Marchiones were devout Roman Catholics; though they sent their children to public schools, they ensured that Tony and the girls went to catechism at St. Aloysius on Saturday mornings and to Mass on Sundays. The family didn’t have a car when the children were young, so parents and children walked wherever they needed to go.
The 1930s were economically challenging for most American families, and the Marchiones—like many others—lived frugally. Ralph had a backyard garden in which he grew tomatoes and peppers, and when the season was right Emelia would can the produce for later use. In addition to her long hours cooking and cleaning, Tony’s mother also made a few extra dollars by knitting socks at home for a local company. She turned the heels by hand, and was paid for every pair she completed. Despite her workload and family responsibil
ities, Emelia maintained what her children later remembered as a generally cheerful disposition, singing Italian songs at the top of her lungs while she worked. Nor were songs the only Italian heard in the home—unlike Ralph, whose time in the Army and work in the shop had allowed him to become fluent in English, Emelia was far more comfortable in her native tongue and generally spoke Italian to both her husband and her children.
As the only son and oldest child in a traditional Italian-American family, Tony was doted on by his parents. This could have been a recipe for disaster, in that many children in similar situations grow up self-centered and spoiled, but Tony was devoted to Ralph and Emelia and by all accounts did all he could to ease their hard lives. He would often scrub the floors in the home so that his mother wouldn’t have to do it, and from the age of fourteen he worked after school at a local bakery to earn the family a little extra money. He occasionally brought home leftover desserts, a trait that endeared him to his sisters.
Fortunately for their hardworking parents—and likely because of the loving and nurturing atmosphere Ralph and Emelia created in the home—Tony and his sisters got along well together. Eighteen months older than Terry and five years older than Gerry, Tony was an easygoing and supportive brother. Although he took his family responsibilities seriously, he was always ready with a smile or a joke and would often pull out his trumpet to play Terry and Gerry new tunes he’d heard on the radio.
Music was a huge part of Tony’s life. He’d started taking trumpet lessons while in elementary school, and by the time he entered Pottstown Senior High School as a sophomore in 1940 he was so accomplished with his horn that in addition to playing in the school orchestra he was asked to join the swing band made up almost entirely of juniors and seniors.2 The group played at school dances and during halftime at football games. Tony and a few of the others also got the occasional paid “gig” at local churches and, in the summer, at Pottstown’s community swimming pool.
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