The Last Fighter Pilot

by Don Brown

  At three thousand feet, a clearing finally broke below, giving Scamara enough airspace to operate between the bottom of the clouds and the ocean. The pilot reset his course for Japan.

  Many other American pilots that day were not so lucky.

  By mid-afternoon, it was apparent the Seventh Fighter Command had suffered its most devastating loss since Pearl Harbor. A total of twenty-seven pilots had vanished, their planes at the bottom of the sea. The 506th had been the hardest hit fighter group.

  Moore dispatched rescue planes to go search the seas for pilots who may have bailed out. Miraculously, air-sea rescue units spotted two additional pilots from the 506th in life rafts and battling horrid weather conditions. A submarine was dispatched to rescue the two stranded Americans.

  But by sundown on June 1, a pervasive sadness set in among the survivors of the afternoon’s tragedy. Scandrett had been killed, along with his second-in-command, Captain Edmund M. Crenshaw. Of the twenty-seven pilots lost overall, only two had been from the Seventy-Eighth, which had some of the most experienced pilots on Iwo Jima. One of the Seventy-Eighth’s casualties had been First Lieutenant Jack Nelson of Oklahoma.

  The other was Danny Mathis. He’d died just two days before his twenty-third birthday.

  Reports came back to Jerry that the Dorrie R had been involved in a mid-air collision inside the storm and had plunged out of control down through the clouds. Slowly, the young pilot processed the loss of his friend and his plane on one devastating mission.

  Torment set in. If he’d been able to make that flight, Danny would likely still be safe on Iwo Jima. Jerry had gone into the service straight out of high school; he’d been flying fighter planes while Danny was at Clemson. He felt instinctively he could have climbed out of the weather front. Now, questions would follow him for the rest of his life: What if? What if he’d been flying instead of Danny—would his friend still be alive?

  As Jerry wrestled with his own queries, more arose among other fighter pilots about the failed mission. Why did the B-29 navigators lead them into such deplorable weather? Why hadn’t they diverted, as Colonel Thomas requested? Why the bad communication between the B-29 navigators and the P-51s?

  An investigation followed. General Hap Arnold, chief of the Army Air Force, arrived on Iwo Jima to help lead it. But as it often happened in the military, there was a finding of no fault. To Jerry, meanwhile, the reality was already as bleak as possible: his friend was never coming back.

  CHAPTER 17

  Five Hours over Chichi Jima

  July 3, 1945

  On July 3, 1945, the day before the United States’ 169th birthday, there was no celebration on war-torn Iwo Jima. A little over a month had passed since Danny’s death, yet the sting had not subsided for Jerry. It was hard to feel festive anyway, knowing the day might be your last on earth, or your buddy’s last.

  They weren’t the only ones troubled that July 4 eve. Back in the States, a handful of American scientists were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. One of those scientists was physicist Leo Szilard, who had worked closely with Albert Einstein on the concept of nuclear physics and who had been credited with discovering a nuclear chain reaction. Szilard was working on a top-secret assignment known as “The Manhattan Project,” started in 1942 to produce the first atomic bomb. American scientists had worked round the clock on the weapon out of fear that the Nazis would build it first and use it during the war. The U.S. program was first based in Manhattan, New York (hence, the project’s name), but most of the work was soon transferred to Oak Ridge, Tennessee, while the testing facility was established in Los Alamos, New Mexico.

  But after helping invent the bomb, Szilard had become afraid of its use. He disbelieved the military’s assurance that it would be used only against military targets, and he also worried that its great destructive power, even if aimed directly at such targets, would consume far more than the targets alone. To Szilard, warning against the bomb’s use became a moral imperative; he believed that he and his fellow scientists, if they did not speak up, would be viewed no differently than Nazi exterminators in the court of world opinion. Perhaps they would even be treated in the same vein as Nazi war criminals and face trial with possible execution.

  Thus concerned, Szilard circulated a letter and petition among several scientists working with him on the project. The documents ultimately asked President Truman not to use the bomb against the Japanese. The petition’s first version, passed about on the eve of Independence Day in 1945, was more strongly-worded than later versions and concluded that atomic bombs would become “a means for the ruthless annihilation of cities.”

  Meanwhile, half a world away, Jerry and his fellow pilots continued prosecuting an air war that seemed to have no end in sight. After the disastrous fiasco of June 1, the command had lost two pilots the rest of the month, neither in Jerry’s squadron. One of these was First Lieutenant John V. Scanlan of Kentucky, a member of the Forty-Seventh, whose plane had taken fire from a Japanese Zero. Scanlan bailed out, and, soon after landing, was taken in by a group of Japanese ladies, who sheltered him in safety. Eventually, however, a young, angry mob surrounded the women and demanded Scanlan be turned over to them. The women complied, and the mob murdered him. Earlier that month, Second Lieutenant Arthur Zellweger of the Seventy-Second had been killed over Chichi Jima by antiaircraft fire while strafing the enemy airstrip.

  The morning of July 3, from the cockpit of his new plane, the Dorrie R II, Jerry had led a squadron of eight P-51s to Chichi Jima. Over the past four months, the Americans had been consistent about firing on the airfield there every few days, trying to keep it inoperable. Each time they struck, however, the Japanese would patch it up just enough to make it functional. And an operational Japanese airfield, left unchecked and so close to Iwo Jima, could be catastrophic to the Army’s air operations there. Thus, no matter what the secondary target was for American pilots at Chichi Jima— and there were always secondary targets—the airfield got hit first. It was also part of a strategy to keep Japanese fighter planes out of the sky during the American attacks. Facing their antiaircraft fire was dangerous enough, and the repetitive pattern of attack, repair, attack, meant that the Japanese weren’t going to be surprised when the Mustangs arrived. They would be waiting and ready to deliver heavy antiaircraft fire, which made the close-in attack runs by the P-51s extremely dangerous propositions.

  Led by Jerry, the eight Mustangs arrived on time: eight a.m. His wingman that day was another good friend, Richard Henry Schroeppel, known to his squadron mates as Dick. Like Jerry, Dick hailed from New Jersey, about twenty miles from the little house on Bond Street where Jerry had grown up. Born on December 23, 1923, Dick was only fifty-four days older than Jerry, whose birthday fell on February 15, 1924. Given their Jersey roots and closeness in age, the two developed a special bond and were often discussed by their fellow pilots as if they were a single package. Around the squadron, they were affectionately known as “Joiseyites.”

  With the early-morning sun glistening off the waters to the east, the American planes circled the airspace of Chichi Jima to feel out their targets. On this mission, the secondary target was shipping in Futami Harbor. First, as usual, came the airfield.

  Banking the Dorrie R II and with Dick Schroeppel on his wing, Jerry led the P-51s into attack formation. He began his descent from eight thousand feet, angling down at the airfield, his eyes focused on the target. Bullets and tracers from Japanese antiaircraft fire whizzed past, inches from his glass cockpit.

  Jerry squeezed down on the trigger of the Mustang’s .50-caliber guns. Six streams of lead shot out from his plane and rushed to the earth, tearing up everything in their path. He kept his guns firing, strafing the length of the airfield and sending plumes of smoke and dust into the air.

  He pulled up over the harbor as Dick followed him in for a second round. But when Jerry turned around, he saw Dick’s plane in flames. The aircraft had been struck by the torrid stream of Japanes
e bullets flying up from the ground.

  Dick was at low altitude, which meant he didn’t have much time to bail. Yet somehow, he managed to pull up and jump out as the burning plane shot out over the harbor.

  Jerry circled around again, keeping his eye on his friend as he floated down, hanging at the bottom of his parachute over enemy territory. Jerry radioed for help, then circled again, still monitoring Dick’s descent. Dick was losing control of the parachute, but he didn’t have far to drop. His Mustang, meanwhile, still burning and smoking, flew out to sea and soon crashed in the ocean near the shoreline, where rocks protruded out of the water. Jerry noted his chronometer. It was 10:06 a.m. when Dick’s plane went down.

  Dick, having landed safely, quickly cut the chute, then removed his C-2 life raft pack away from the chute and stripped down to his skivvies. He got his life raft inflated and pushed it out into the surf. Every pilot watching from overhead knew that Dick’s only chance for survival was to paddle like hell and move as far as possible away from the shore before the Japanese could get their hands on him. Jerry watched as Dick jumped into the raft and started paddling furiously with his hands against the raging surf.

  But as Dick pushed his raft out farther, Japanese gun batteries from the shore opened fire, their bullets splashing in the water all around the downed American pilot.

  Jerry’s call for help over the radio, meanwhile, had not gone unnoticed. The U.S. Navy already had a PBY Catalina—capable of landing in the sea—patrolling the area. Iwo Jima also radioed that a B-17 rescue plane was on the way to drop a larger boat for Dick to use. And a P-51 squadron headed for Japan had diverted toward Chichi Jima to relieve Jerry’s squadron. Within minutes, more firepower would be arriving.

  Jerry was still circling overhead, and as the Japanese opened fire on Dick, he pushed down on his throttle, broke out of his orbit, and opened fire in the direction of the gunfire. Other members of the squadron followed suit, pouring bullets down on the rocky coast, trying to provide cover for Dick.

  The P-51 fire seemed to slow down the enemy onslaught for a moment, but the Japanese were everywhere, firing from unseen places in the crevices of the rocks. In fact, the source of the bullets fired at Dick wasn’t always clear.

  But Dick was still alive and managed to paddle out a good distance from shore. He struggled, however, to fight the strong, inbound currents. Japanese machine-gun fire and now mortar fire splashed all around him. He tried staying low to dodge the onslaught while his friends in the sky continued to pound the shore.

  For two hours, a furious battle ensued, with P-51 Mustangs circling and firing into the beaches and cliffs of Chichi Jima, and Japanese infantry ducking behind rocks, then coming out to take shots at Dick.

  Jerry’s squadron began running low on fuel. With the rest of his men, Jerry was forced to begin a return flight to Iwo Jima as Dick remained in the water below. More fighters, however, had arrived to provide air support. In fact, some forty P-51s were now buzzing through the air, trying like hell to save their comrade.

  Around noon, the wide wingspan of a B-17 bomber, known as a “Flying Dutchman,” appeared from the south. Modified for long-range search and rescue missions over the ocean, these particular B-17s carried an A-1 Higgins lifeboat under their fuselage to rescue downed pilots. Twenty-seven feet long and weighing thirty-three hundred pounds, these lifeboats could be dropped by parachute from the B-17s to air crews floating in the Pacific. The boats were made of laminated mahogany with twenty waterproof internal compartments, rendering them unsinkable if swamped or overturned. The lifeboat was also supplied with sufficient water, clothing and food for up to twelve men to last twenty days on the ocean. There was even a survival radio with a kite for an antenna, small sails, and two small engines that would propel the boat up to eight miles per hour, with enough fuel to cruise fifteen hundred miles. If the B-17 could drop the boat, and if Dick could manage to get aboard, hopefully he could crank the engines and at least get out of range of Japanese fire, giving the U.S. Navy a solid chance to pluck him from the water.

  As the B-17 approached, however, a weary Dick had been pushed by strong swells up against a wall of rocks protruding from the water. But those rocks—at least for the time being—protected him from the sight of Japanese gunners and their bullets.

  P-51 pilots circling overhead kept an eye on Dick and reported that he appeared exhausted.

  As the B-17 moved into the area, a P-51 flew out to escort the bomber in and provide protection against Japanese shore fire coming from Chichijma. Other P-51s stepped up, again pouring fire onto the coasts and cliffs to provide cover for the B-17 to work. The pilot of the B-17, First Lieutenant Claude L. Bodin Jr., passed low over the bay, trying to get a visual on Dick. But Dick was still up against the rock barrier, and Bodin did not see him on the first round.

  More Mustangs arrived on the scene, filling the air like a swarm of hornets. As the Mustangs and the Japanese continued to exchange fire, the big B-17 made another pass over the water, trying to locate the downed flyer among the rocks just offshore. This time, Dick had managed to release a dye marker into the water. Bodin got a visual on Dick and maneuvered into position to launch the lifeboat. At 12:40 p.m., with the Mustangs fending off heavy Japanese fire, Bodin pulled the release lever. The boat dropped from the underbelly of the B-17, and three parachutes deployed. Dangling below them, the Higgins floated down to the ocean, then splashed a hundred yards or so out at sea, south of the protective rocks under which Dick was taking cover.

  It was now or never for the young pilot.

  Dick hesitated for a second, then jumped into the surf and started swimming toward the floating lifeboat. With incoming swells crashing into his face and Japanese bullets flying at him from behind, he swam hard, as his fellow pilots kept up the battle for his life from overhead.

  A moment later, he broke out of the swells and made it to the boat, pulling himself up and over the side, which set off a torrent of furious Japanese machine-gun fire into the craft. From the air, Dick appeared to be lying still in the bottom of the boat.

  His countrymen were uncertain: Had he been hit? Or was he lying low to stay below Japanese bullets?

  Meanwhile, the U.S. Army OA-10 Catalina, the Army’s version of the Navy’s famous “Flying Boat,” was on patrol a few miles out and had been monitoring the radio traffic about the ongoing rescue efforts. The Catalina had a flying boat hull and was capable of landing in water. The plane’s pilot, twenty-one-year-old Captain Robert B. Richardson of Irvine, Kentucky, radioed in and announced that he had a flight surgeon on board. Base command told Richardson to “land at your own discretion.”

  Between the rocks and reefs all around the Higgins boat, the rough swells and Japanese bullets and mortars still flying in, it was practically a suicide mission. But Richardson and his men were in agreement. They would sacrifice their lives, if necessary, to save a fellow countryman—one they did not even know—if at all possible.

  “We’re going in,” Richardson announced.

  As the Catalina approached Chichi Jima, a flight of Mustangs that had been attacking the island flew out to the Catalina to provide cover. Ten of those Mustangs then accompanied it into the battle zone.

  With the shore and cliffs rapidly approaching through the windshield of the cockpit, Richardson turned the Catalina for a water-landing attempt. Exposing himself to direct Japanese gunfire, the flight surgeon aboard the aircraft entered the glass-bubble, gun-mount “blister” on the fuselage, hoping to get a look at Dick. Richardson started a landing run, his eyes on the Higgins boat holding the downed pilot. The pilot came in too low on the attempt, however, and the Catalina bounced along the water near the lifeboat, which was about a hundred yards offshore.

  The pilot pulled up, circled around and tried again. This time, he succeeded. The Catalina floated in the water. With bullets splashing all around, Richardson idled the Catalina over towards the lifeboat, coming so close that the pontoon scraped against its hull.

  T
he flight surgeon looked down from the glass bubble into the boat. Dick was riddled with bullet holes in the head, chest, and leg. The body was not salvageable.

  Now, at least, they knew. Dick was gone.

  It was time to get out of there, lest Richardson and his crewmen also fall victim to the Japanese. With the Mustangs providing cover, Richardson pushed the throttle forward, and the Catalina cut through the water, but it was now under heavy fire. Mortars splashed in the sea around the plane, spraying water over the outside of the cockpit. Neither Richardson nor his co-pilot could see anything but the water being thrown up against their windshield. It would be a miracle if Richardson were able to get the plane airborne.

  He pushed down on the throttle.

  More mortar fire. More spraying water. The Catalina picked up speed. More mortar fire. Richardson could still see little—except the spray of bullets trying to end his life. A few seconds later, he felt the nose of the Catalina lift up, and the wind set under the flaps of his wings. The angry spraying water was gone. A blue, mid-day sky dominated his view.

  As Richardson put the Catalina into a steep climb, taking it far outside the reach of the Japanese shore batteries on Chichi Jima, word spread over the pilots’ radios of Dick’s death. The Seventy-Eighth had lost another good man.

  Filled with grief, the pilots of the P-51s circled overhead, looking down at their fallen comrade in the bottom of the boat. It was their brief chance to say goodbye. As painful as this next step would be, they had no choice, for there was one thing they knew for sure: hell would freeze over before they let the lifeless body in the boat fall into the hands of the Japanese.

  The pilots circled back in attack formation and made a run at the Higgins boat. A barrage of machine gun fire and rockets blew the craft out of the water and sunk it to the bottom.

  Now, at least, their friend’s body would never be cannibalized by the enemy.

  Back at Iwo Jima, word reached Jerry about Dick’s death. The news took his breath away. The twenty-one-year-old had lost yet another dear friend.