by Bob Drury
As Johnnie Able later explained, he spoke for every man when he said, “We thought so much of Captain Zeamer and had such trust in him and his ability that we didn’t give a damn where we went, just so long as he wanted to go there. Anything okay by him was okay by us.”
Or, as Jay heard the collective response from his crew that morning, “Oh, what the hell. Let’s take their G.D. reconnaissance photos, we’ve done it before.”
Then Jay announced that if any crewman wanted to don his cumbersome 30-pound flak suit, now was the time to do it. No one did.
THEY APPROACHED BUKA FROM THE northeast. At 25,000 feet the sea-horse-shaped spit of sand looked like a dangling appendage of Bougainville, separated from the larger landmass by only the narrow passage of water. Streaks of pale sunlight illuminated the waves building over the serrated reefs and breaking on its white sand beaches.
Jay had been briefed on what to expect. He saw the airstrip running adjacent to the island’s southeast coast, surrounded by a honeycomb of earthen revetments carved out of the jungle. From five miles above the rutted roads connecting the aircraft hidey-holes gave the impression of a large spider’s web encircling the crushed-coral runway that stretched for almost half a mile. Then, with Old 666 nearly on top of the strip, a peculiar shiver ran up Jay’s spine. Below him he counted more than 20 enemy fighters parked wingtip to wingtip, with what looked like perhaps another dozen protruding from their revetments. The risks of the mission suddenly increased exponentially. Questions flooded his mind. Why had he accepted those bogus orders? Had he made a deadly mistake? Why hadn’t he trusted his first instinct?
Jay had no way of knowing that the planes he saw had arrived from Rabaul only the previous evening, deploying to Buka in preparation for a strike on Halsey’s vessels assembled at Guadalcanal. Nor did he know that their Japanese pilots belonged to one of the Imperial Navy’s most decorated units, which included two aces with a combined total of nearly 30 “kills.” Within seconds, Forrest Dillman’s voice crackled over the interphone. They’d been spotted. Pilots on the ground were scrambling into their cockpits.
According to the log maintained by George Kendrick, it was precisely 8:30 when a string of 15 enemy aircraft began lifting off in flights of two and three to intercept Old 666. For a split second Jay considered turning and running, scrapping the Bougainville mission altogether. They’d gotten the photos of Buka; the mission would not be a complete washout. At the very least Halsey could be warned of the flights massing against his vessels. The Zekes might chase him for a bit. But from experience he knew that Japanese pilots did not like to press attacks over the open sea at too great a distance from their home airfields or carriers. He could lose them. He knew it.
But there were 37,000 Marines and GIs preparing for the Bougainville invasion. Jay pictured them in their landing craft on the day they would hit the beaches after being transported for days at sea, their stomachs queasy, their packs laden with enough “battle rattle” to drown a dolphin. Even in the unbearable heat they would be overwhelmed by the clammy-cold sweat that drenches every man the nearer he comes to combat. He imagined their LSTs hung up on the jagged reefs of Empress Augusta Bay. Thousands of Japanese soldiers and a battalion of construction workers had labored for weeks to complete their defense systems, to dig in on those beaches awaiting the inevitable American assault. The Marines and GIs would be ducks on a pond for the machine guns and mortar tubes ringing the invasion site.
In the smoky war rooms and corridors of power where risks were calculated on a far grander scale, those leathernecks and dogfaces were simple numbers to be sacrificed for a strategic and tactical goal. But for Jay they were men with mothers and fathers and wives and sweethearts back home. He could see in them the faces of Bill Benn and Ken McCullar and the scores of good men he had known, now dead. He gripped the yoke and torqued the bomber south. Bougainville lay before him like a green mirage in a sea of blue.
The Flying Fortress’s four big engines churned the air at a steady 200 miles per hour as Jay set a southern course along the island’s west coast. Back in the waist George Kendrick snapped photo after photo; down in the nose Joe assisted Ruby Johnston with monitoring the aircraft’s drift, airspeed, and altitude. And up on the flight deck Jay and J. T. Britton watched as all cameras clicked like clockwork on the cockpit’s intervalometer, the stopwatch-like device, set by speed, altitude, and interval, which triggered the cameras’ lens shutters for time-lapse exposures. Every man recognized that it was only a matter of time before the Zeros from Buka caught up with them.
A minute that seemed an eternity passed before Pudge Pugh in the tail reported another fighter squadron lifting off, this time from Bougainville’s Buin airdrome. He counted perhaps a dozen attackers. In a dogfight a lone B-17 could reasonably expect to hold its own against six enemy bogeys, maybe seven or eight on a good day. With all its extra guns, Jay was confident that Old 666 could even take on 9 or 10 in a pinch. But 20? With more likely to follow in their wake? Again the thought occurred: suicide.
28
“GIVE ’EM HELL!”
CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER YOSHIO OOKI of the 251st Imperial Air Squadron scanned the cloudless sky. The searing equatorial sun appeared to float on the eastern horizon, a red dahlia with blossoms ablaze. Ooki could not believe his good fortune. The pilot of a lone Boeing had dared to intrude into the airspace over Buka. It was if he were asking to be sent flaming into the sea.
The drone of the American bomber miles above had caught everyone on the Japanese airbase by surprise this morning. And now, as the prop wash from the engines of Ooki’s Zero raised a curtain of dust on the Buka airstrip, the big B-17 was already a mere speck in the sky far to the south. Within moments he and his squadron were in the air, nursing every ounce of speed from their humming engines. Ooki and his pilots knew from simple geometry that they would eventually reel in the bomber. Most of them, at any rate. Just after takeoff one Zero’s engines gave out and its pilot was forced to ditch into the Solomon Sea.
As Ooki and the remainder of his group gained altitude, they could not have failed to notice a mass of clouds far to the west. These were certainly thick enough for the American aircraft to duck into and hide. But the Boeing’s pilot exhibited no inclination to make for the cover. The aircraft did not dive; it did not bank. It did not even seem to be taking advantage of all of its engine speed. It merely continued on a straight and level southern heading. It was obviously taking photographs. Ooki estimated that they would overtake the plodding bomber within 30 minutes.
FAR BELOW JAY THE SLANT of the morning sunlight was causing Bougainville’s stunted eucalyptus trees to dapple the flowering frangipani thickets with long, misshapen shadows. In another half hour, he knew, small clouds would be forming in the foothills climbing toward the rim of the volcano Mount Bagana, which was spewing thin streams of gray smoke into the sky. But for now visibility was clear, with just a shading of ground haze that the infrared camera filters would cut through with ease. Old 666 flew past the island’s wasp waist at the 11-minute mark, right on schedule. Jay was surprised, and relieved, not to hear the telltale echo of anti-aircraft guns.
There was no wind to speak of, and Jay kept Old 666’s heading straight and true as George Kendrick focused his cameras on the ribs of coral shimmering just below the bay’s surface. After ten minutes Kendrick’s voice broke the cockpit’s droning hum. “Give me forty-five more seconds.” The words were barely out of the waist gunner’s mouth when Jay spotted the first wave of bogeys climbing straight at them on a 45-degree angle—four Zekes and a twin-engine fighter he took to be a “Dinah,” which the Japanese employed predominantly as a long-range reconnaissance plane. Some, however, had been modified with cannons. Each was painted in a dark green or brown camouflage pattern.
Forrest Dillman in the belly ball and Pudge Pugh in the tail turret unleashed a stream of .50-cal rounds from their four guns. The screening fire forced the enemy aircraft to swerve out of the tracers’ paths. Then they r
egrouped and resumed their climb.
Jay could sense they were maneuvering for a frontal attack. It was what any experienced fighter pilot would do: go for the Fortress at what was considered its weakest point. When the Zeros passed Old 666 on either side, near enough for Jay to get a good look, he was taken aback. The planes had stubbier wings and larger engines than he had ever seen on enemy fighters. No wonder they had caught him so fast. He had no idea that the Japanese had moved groups of the newer A6M3 fighter plane into the area.
Within seconds five of the aircraft covered his Fortress like a shroud, at twelve o’clock, two o’clock, four o’clock, eight o’clock, and ten o’clock. They were indeed looping around for a coordinated run. Again Jay was astonished. By now he, like most B-17 pilots, was of course used to enemy fliers coordinating their snap-roll attacks. But he had never seen the Japanese stage such a deft assault with more than two or three aircraft.
YOSHIO OOKI AND HIS TEAM had caught the Boeing. The tracers from its stinging tail had swept over his canopy as he maneuvered his Zero wide of the American bomber. His men had followed his lead, their timing and precision impeccable. Now they had it surrounded in a nearly closed circle, staying clear only of the aircraft’s lethal tail guns.
The Americans must still be shooting their photographs. The pilot did not deviate from his airspeed. He took no evasive action. They would attack him head-on and annihilate him.
THE ZERO AT TEN O’CLOCK made his run at precisely the moment George Kendrick asked for another 15 seconds. Through his port window Jay watched the Zeke go into a shallow skid turn and flip onto its back. He caught the bright yellow strobes from the twin 7.7-millimeter machine guns in the plane’s nose, and then saw the larger red flare from one of the two 20-millimeter cannons fitted to its wings. Jay held his course steady as Joe Sarnoski hollered “Give ’em hell!” over the interphone and the bombardier, navigator, and top turret gunner responded with a barrage of machine-gun fire. Acrid black smoke filled Old 666 as it vibrated from the violent recoil.
From the flight deck Jay followed the red tracers from Joe’s nose gun as they cut bright curving paths before ripping into the first bogey. This Zero had a series of vertical red stripes slanting across its fuselage. Jay marked it as the squadron commander’s. The bullets appeared to pass straight through the enemy aircraft.
Then Joe’s firing ceased as a three-inch cannon shell crashed through the Greenhouse’s thin Plexiglas and exploded in the bombardier’s compartment. Joe was catapulted 15 feet backward. He landed facedown with a bone-jarring thud on the aluminum deck almost directly beneath the flight deck.
The concussion from the blast also knocked Ruby Johnston off his feet, but he was able to recover and crawl on all fours toward Joe. He rolled him over and flinched. The shell had lacerated Joe’s neck and ripped a hole in his side the size of a bowling ball. He was nearly cut in half but, incredibly, he was still breathing. Johnston ripped open a packet of sulfa powder and doused Joe’s wound. Joe’s eyelids fluttered, then flipped open. His eyes were red and beginning to swell from the Plexiglas dust they’d absorbed when the Greenhouse shattered. He gurgled, “I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.” Gouts of blood mixed with the words.
Johnston poured more sulfa. It was now freezing in the open nose cone, the cold air rushing in through the gash left by the cannon shell, and the blood on Joe’s face and torso was coagulating into a slushy sheen.
In the cockpit above Joe and Johnston, Jay watched the enemy squadron leader whom Joe had raked spin out toward the sea.
CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER YOSHIO OOKI was fighting for his aircraft’s life. The bullets from the bombardier’s nose gun had holed his fuel tank, and fire shot from his exhaust stacks, a sure sign that he was leaking aviation fuel. It was only good fortune that somehow prevented the vaporized propellant drizzling from his wings from igniting and detonating his plane. He was still 80 miles from Buka, and as he raced for home one of his wingmen fell in beside him as if by sheer force of will his escort could coax his limping plane back to its base. Perhaps it was working. As the Buka coastline grew larger, Ooki knew he would make it. His Zero would never fly again. But he would.I
RUBY JOHNSTON HELPED JOE TO his knees, and the bombardier crawled along the catwalk back toward his shattered station, like a snail leaving a trail of gore. Joe gripped the stock of one machine gun with both hands, pulled himself into a crouch, and resumed firing just as the twin-engine Dinah banked into a head-on run. The gale-force winds rushing through the broken Greenhouse slammed the empty shell casings from the heavy gun back into Joe’s face. Yet he continued to switch off from one .50-cal to another, firing as continuously as he could without burning out their barrels.
From above Jay again watched the tracers from Joe’s nose gun, this time as they ripped into the second fighter plane. Small sparks erupted on the enemy’s wing roots. The pilot lost control, and Jay was worried that the wounded aircraft would crash through his windshield. Then, at the last possible moment, the Dinah’s fuel tank exploded in a halo of fire and it disappeared somewhere beneath the Fortress.
Now Jay found himself staring into the coal-black eyes of a third Japanese pilot. He had seen a few Japanese soldiers up close, prisoners of war passing through Port Moresby. Despite their defiant strutting, they were damaged human beings, shamed to have broken their vow to die for the emperor’s cause. This was the first time Jay had ever looked into the eyes of a man who not only intended to kill him, but had the means to do so.
He booted his rudder, pinned the Zero on his vertical crosshair, and pressed his thumb hard onto the button on his wheel. The burst from the bore-sighted .50-cal streamed across the sky at the same moment the Japanese pilot sprayed Old 666 with his own machine-gun fire. Jay fired again. Another hit. The Zeke was crippled, fuel streaming from its tanks, about to fall into a death spiral. Just before it did Jay saw a small puff of white smoke emanate from its wing. Cannon blast.
* * *
I That same afternoon, June 16, 1943, Yoshio Ooki took part in the air armada that attacked Adm. Halsey’s convoy assembling at Lunga Point off Guadalcanal in preparation for the invasion of New Georgia. The Japanese lost 28 aircraft during the assault. Ooki and his fighter plane never returned from the action.
29
THE DESPERATE DIVE
JAY’S EYES WERE STILL FOLLOWING the Zeke he’d blasted as it twirled toward the water when his cockpit erupted into an effulgence of colors—white, magenta, tangerine, a rainbow of acute pain, followed by an acrid smell thick enough to slice. Suddenly filling his mind was an image of his mother, Marjorie. He saw her face as clearly as if she were sitting there beside him in the copilot’s seat. Staring into her eyes, Jay wondered, “Is this it?”
Machine-gun fire from somewhere above him snapped his reverie. Johnnie Able in the top turret. Jay stiffened, and forced his brain to assess the damage to the flight deck. J. T. Britton was slumped forward in the right-hand seat, his body straining against his seat belt. His eyes were closed and his chin rested on his chest. Jay saw no blood.
The cannon shell that had pierced the cockpit had blown away Old 666’s instrument panel and severed the control cables connecting the rudders and horizontal stabilizers. The force of the explosion had also torn away the left window and peeled back the plane’s aluminum skin beside him. His bucket seat was open to sky above and sea below; it was like riding a motorcycle, “sitting out in the breeze.”
For a brief instant Jay thought his eardrums would burst. The roar of the Wright Cyclone engines, the machine-gun reports, the clatter of hot brass shell casings bouncing off metal floors, the wild rush of the 200-miles-per-hour slipstream through the torn-away skin beside him, the crash of enemy cannons—all formed a deafening cacophony that seemed to squeeze his brain down to the size of a fist. He glanced up and was shocked to see the windshield still intact. But the shell had opened a gaping hole in the bulkhead between the cockpit and the navigator’s compartment below. He could see Ruby Johnst
on firing short, frantic bursts through his open window and, beyond, Joe slumped over his machine gun. He wondered if Joe was in much pain. Then the initial shock wore off, and Jay felt as if the bottom half of his body was on fire.
He lowered his gaze. His boilersuit was shredded and his left leg was sliced from the calf to the thigh. It was a carnivore’s delight—thick ugly slabs of blackened flesh, like rashers of seared Canadian bacon, dangled from his exposed shinbone and his left knee resembled a mound of raw hamburger meat. It took him a moment to realize that the machine-gun rounds had also torn through his right leg and both of his arms. Each time his heart pumped, a thin stream of pinkish liquid from a nicked artery spurted from his ruptured left wrist and began to pool in his lap. Though Jay did not know it, the exploding cannon shell had propelled nearly 150 pieces of shrapnel—including chunks of the plane’s rudder pedals and its control cable—into his body. It occurred to him that had he not pulled his flight boots back from the pedals at the beginning of the mapping run in order to keep the bomber at a perfectly level altitude, he might have lost both feet.
He lifted the interphone mouthpiece with his bleeding right hand to ask for a damage report. Nothing. The shell had also destroyed the bomber’s communications system. He cursed under his breath as Ruby Johnston’s head and shoulders popped up through the hole in the bulkhead left by the explosion. Johnston was covered by purplish ooze—Jay recognized it immediately as the plane’s hydraulic fluid. The navigator reported that the hydraulic reservoir was completely destroyed. They could still lower the landing gear with manual hand pumps, but there was no manual alternative to the hydraulic brake system. They’d need an awfully long runway to put down on. If they even made it that far.