Exultant, the Japanese pilots claimed twelve B-29s destroyed, nine by the 4th Sentai alone. One of Kashiide’s squadron mates, Master Sergeant Tatsuo Morimoto, was credited with three kills and four damaged, and received a rare citation.
In the four-mile-high shootout, Saunders’s gunners claimed seventeen Japanese planes plus thirteen probably destroyed. But twelve Superfortresses were lost—a galling 22 percent of the bombers that reached the target. In exchange, ninety-six tons of bombs wrecked two coke ovens.
It was a poor bargain.
Back in China, 20th Air Force analysts consulted their debriefing notes. In addition to Clinkscales of the 468th, the 462nd Group lost Colonel Richard H. Carmichael. Continued loss of senior leaders could not be sustained for long.
From the American perspective the Japanese fighters had been relatively ineffective. It looked as if five B-29s were lost to enemy action, including one to flak. Half a dozen crashed in China and one crew bailed out in Russian airspace.
Meanwhile, some important administrative changes occurred that month. On August 28, Possum Hansell assumed command of the new XXI Bomber Command at Colorado Springs; he was succeeded as 20th Air Force chief of staff by Brigadier General Lauris Norstad.
The next day in India, Major General Curtis E. LeMay took over XX Bomber Command.
The Ice Man Landeth
Curtis LeMay was living proof of the Jungian concept of synchronicity—“meaningful coincidences” that put the right man in the right place at the right time. Once committed to combat, LeMay rocketed up the promotion ladder so fast that he outranked two of his prewar squadron commanders.
LeMay had won his commission through Army ROTC in 1929 and spent his early years as a fighter pilot. But he saw the budding potential of bombardment aviation and got the assignment meant for him: Langley Field, Virginia. When he arrived there in 1936 he was already an expert pilot and accomplished navigator, exactly the kind of talent that the 2nd Bombardment Group needed to bring the new B-17 into service. LeMay navigated the group’s silvery Boeings to headline status on record-setting flights to South America and pinpoint interceptions of ships hundreds of miles at sea. Along the way, he taught himself everything worth knowing about the Norden bombsight.
As a professional airman, LeMay had very few peers, if any. Possessing an intimate knowledge of his craft mated to an icy intelligence, he left his mark wherever he landed.
In early 1942, LeMay was a newly minted lieutenant colonel who found himself in command of a green-as-grass bomb group. He built the 305th literally from the ground up: trained it according to his own rigorous standards, took it to England, and rewrote the manual on bomber tactics. His innovations included straight and level bomb runs to improve accuracy, a box formation to maximize defensive firepower, and lead crews with navigators and bombardiers specializing in selected targets.
Promoted to wing commander, LeMay still flew “the rough ones,” including the epic August 1943 double strike against Regensburg and Schweinfurt. Losses were appalling—sixty bombers and 600 men written off in a day—but LeMay stood out. His reputation soared as his command achieved new heights: he pinned on his first star in September, and five months later, at thirty-seven, he became the youngest major general since Ulysses S. Grant. Beyond that, LeMay was five years younger than his nearest counterpart in any of the armed services.
To staff officers such as General Lauris Norstad, LeMay was the ultimate operator. Stocky, terse, and blunt, he spoke little and listened much. Inevitably he is described as “cigar-chomping” though he preferred a pipe (tobacco alleviated the effects of an infection contracted during a prewar posting in Panama). But beneath the hard-as-nails exterior, the foreboding edifice that would earn him the postwar epithet “caveman in a bomber,” Curtis Emerson LeMay wrestled his own demons. He had risen so far so fast that he realized he barely grasped the essentials of one job before tackling the next. Consequently, he maintained an open-door policy. He was receptive to any suggestion that seemed to increase efficiency, and therein lay the key to Curt LeMay: he was about results, and hang the regulations.
Upon LeMay’s return from England in 1944 there was only one place to send him: the China-Burma-India Theater. But he refused to go until he learned the Superfortress inside out. He said, “If I’m going to command a bunch of airplanes that are strange to me, I’m going to learn to fly one of them first.” Even for a fast study like LeMay, that took time.
When he arrived in India in August 1944, Curt LeMay was warmly received by Blondie Saunders, an old flying school classmate. But the new commander had barely stowed his bags at Kharagpur when Saunders disappeared on a farewell flight in the local area. The next day LeMay himself helped locate the crash and directed rescuers to the site; Saunders survived with the loss of a leg.
LeMay was appalled at what he found at Kharagpur. His sympathy for his predecessor only increased, as LeMay described the logistics as “utterly absurd” and declared that Wolfe “had been given an impossible task.”
LeMay chafed under the restriction imposed by 20th Air Force that prohibited him from flying missions. Finally he wangled permission for a one-time good deal, riding on a major strike against Anshan, Manchuria, on September 8. The perfectionist was not pleased with what he saw: incompletely trained crews, loose formations, and poor bombing. He resolved to do better and sent his sixteen squadrons back to school. He stood down the command for remedial education: improving operating techniques, standardizing procedures, and identifying potential lead crews in all four groups. Among other things, he ditched the four-plane diamond in favor of squadron-size formations of up to twelve Superfortresses, making better use of their formidable firepower.
The stand-down was no loss to operations. Because of perennial logistics problems, the 20th had only flown two missions per month since June. LeMay used the three weeks after Anshan to teach his air force his way of flying, and slowly the results began to show. Fuel management improved, permitting greater ordnance loads, and bombing accuracy began tightening up. With designated primary bombardiers an entire formation could “drop on lead,” taking advantage of the most skilled operators available.
Perhaps LeMay’s greatest success was achieved on the ground. He restructured maintenance by disbanding the dedicated support units, spreading the most knowledgeable mechanics and technicians throughout the bomb groups, and streamlined groups from four squadrons to three. It worked. Before he left China in January 1945, LeMay had nearly doubled the monthly sorties, reduced the aborts, and raised bomb tonnage on primary targets by 300 percent and on all targets by 250 percent.
But problems persisted. There was never enough information: not on weather, maps, or targets. Some charts were demonstrably wrong, leading LeMay to resort to the old airmail pilot’s formula: add 2,000 feet to every mountain for oneself and 3,000 more for the wife and children.
As if those complications weren’t enough, in September, Japanese forces overran several Allied airfields in southern China and threatened areas slated for the construction of other B-29 bases. The wisdom of building the remote Chengtu complex loomed larger: China’s best defense was its enormous size.
While LeMay and company struggled with the CBI’s myriad problems, events pushed forward in the Pacific. In October the advance echelon of Brigadier General Emmett O’Donnell’s 73rd Wing landed on Saipan and logged XXI Bomber Command’s first mission, hitting the Caroline Islands on the 28th. Four weeks later, O’Donnell’s Superfortresses struck Japan from the Marianas for the first time.
The message was clear: the B-29’s future lay in the Central Pacific, not on the Asian mainland.
With a harbor and airfields, the city of Omura remained XX Bomber Command’s destination of choice in Japan. The target most often attacked was the “aircraft plant,” actually part of the 21st Naval Air Arsenal. It was a relatively minor facility that mainly produced small quantities of second-line fighters, floatplanes, and engines. Nevertheless, that was the target on October
25.
The fifth homeland mission began inauspiciously when a 40th Group aircraft crashed on takeoff in China, killing all aboard. Of the other seventy-seven Superfortresses, fifty-nine struck the primary and eleven found targets elsewhere. Nevertheless, for once the bombardiers had a shot at their briefed objective in decent visibility. Hunched in the nose of each B-29, peering through their rubber-lined eyepieces, bombardiers twisted the knobs of their Nordens, compensating for wind drift as well as they could while the sight’s twin pointers ticked toward one another in their tracks and the contact points finally touched. Green lights extinguished on the armament panel as each bomb was released.
In contrast to the initial Omura strike in July, the October mission did the job; the B-29s left the aircraft plant a wreck.
But over the island of Kyushu the 40th Group’s Heavenly Body was shot up by fighters. The flight deck suffered explosive decompression; “Damage to the plane was severe. In general, the whole right side was a mess,” recalled the aircraft commander, Captain Jack C. Ledford. He had been severely wounded when a heavy bullet ripped a six- by two-inch gash in his right side, clipping his spine and leaving him without control of his legs. Additionally, the bottom of his parachute was shredded. Nonetheless, he was concerned about Master Sergeant Harry Miller, the flight engineer, comatose from a head wound. Ledford turned over control to First Lieutenant James V. DeCoster and ordered himself moved to the engineer’s station to manage fuel and power settings—the right inboard engine was dead. He refused morphine for nearly an hour in order to keep a clear head despite continuing blood loss. All the while, Heavenly Body limped toward China.
With the Body losing fuel from battle damage, it was not possible to reach Chengtu. Therefore, Ledford ordered a bailout over central China. The crew tied a shroud line to Miller’s ripcord and dropped him successfully, as his parachute opened. Fitted with a spare chute, Ledford was released through the nose wheel well. He fell perhaps 5,000 feet before pulling his own ripcord. He alit in a rice paddy where he was found by friendly Chinese. The crew regrouped in a nearby village, where a Norwegian missionary informed them that Miller had died. En route to base, the crew was hosted by a hard-drinking Chinese general who asked the Americans for tennis balls. He had rescued another 40th Group crew, which had promised to deliver the balls and he expected payment.
The Body’s crew members remained together and named their next B-29 in honor of Harry Miller. Captain Ledford recovered stateside, received the Distinguished Service Cross for his extraordinary heroism, and retired as a brigadier general in 1970.
The next homeland mission was launched on Armistice Day twenty-six years after “the war to end all wars.” Nearly 100 bombers departed the Chengtu complex for Omura again, but weather forced an abort. However, twenty-nine planes never received the recall message and continued on to make a radar attack above a cloud deck. The results were described as “negligible.” Forty more bombers diverted to Nanking and other Chinese alternates, without significant effect. The effort cost four B-29s destroyed. Another, damaged over Omura, was unwillingly delivered to the Russians—a 468th Group aircraft named The General H. H. Arnold Special, after the Air Forces chief.
The seventh homeland mission was XX Bomber Command’s largest: 109 Superfortresses launched against the usual target, Omura’s air arsenal, on November 21. Sixty-one bombers reached the objective, releasing nearly 200 tons of bombs. Meanwhile, a baker’s dozen hit Shanghai and some others attacked targets of opportunity. Seven Superfortresses were lost plus one that diverted to Vladivostok, the last of three B-29s retained by the Soviets. In January the crew of Ding How and the other interned B-29s were permitted to “escape” through Persia.
The 58th Wing’s gunners submitted claims for twenty-seven kills but the American losses were heavy. One plane was wiped out in a runway collision while another crashed on takeoff, killing all but one of the crew. The 444th Group wrote off two planes including one in a crash landing; five men perished. Actual mission losses on the 21st included a 40th Group bomber whose crew bailed out over China, while a 462nd aircraft crashed in the China Sea with its entire crew.
The 462nd Hellbirds also lost a plane in combat. Returning near Hankow, Captain Richard McMillan’s aircraft was shot up by a skillful Japanese pilot. With two engines out, McMillan rang the bailout bell at 13,000 feet and four men jumped safely. Of the others, the central fire control gunner’s parachute was damaged and no spare was available. The remaining crewmen stayed aboard, attempting a belly landing alongside the Hankow–Peking railroad. The crippled bomber drew heavy ground fire that killed three men including McMillan. The badly wounded copilot, First Lieutenant Vernon Schaefer, was pulled from the wreckage and recognized his three remaining companions. Unable to move, he was thrown into a filthy cell and left untended by the Japanese. Surprisingly, he recovered and survived.
The Japanese took the others into brief captivity. The flight engineer, radar operator, and primary gunner were paraded in Hankow and publicly abused by Japanese masquerading as Chinese in a propaganda effort to discredit the Nationalists. Then secret police strangled the exhausted fliers and ordered their bodies cremated. But instead of dumping the ashes in a lake as directed, the Chinese buried the remains, knowing that eventually friendly forces would return. In 1946, eighteen Japanese military, police, and Hankow civic officials were indicted for war crimes, including the major general who ordered the sham parade and executions. He and three others were executed.
Meanwhile, the four who had bailed out were picked up by Communist leader Mao Tse-tung’s guerrillas and returned to safety, beneficiaries of LeMay’s cordial relations with the Communist leader.
That night of the 21st the Japanese sent bombers against Chengtu Airdrome, damaging a grounded B-29 named Typhoon McGoon III, but American night fighters were up. In an hour of nocturnal stalking, a P-61 Black Widow claimed one raider confirmed and one probably destroyed.
* * * * *
If there existed any doubt about Washington’s view of LeMay’s methods, it vanished with arrival of a letter from Arnold, dated November 17. The AAF chief’s “Dear Curt” message was effusive, saying that he was passing around 58th Wing strike photos from Formosa and Japan, and had endorsed LeMay’s methods to Possum Hansell in the Marianas. Arnold added that Hansell had admitted “he would have to push his people pretty hard to stay in the same league with your Command.”
That same month Hansell’s XXI Bomber Command launched its first attack against Japan from the Marianas—further proof that the B-29 campaign had turned a corner. But in December came disquieting news: in addition to the enemy thrust northwest from Liuchow in south-central China, aerial reconnaissance showed 100 Japanese transport aircraft on fields in the Hankow area, 600 miles east of Chengtu. The latter seemed to fit with “persistent reports of several thousand Jap paratroops in enemy held China.” Consequently, XX Bomber Command admitted the “very definite possibility of a Japanese paratroop attack on the B-29 bases.”
Meanwhile, missions continued. On December 19, the 58th Wing launched a “minimum effort” against Omura. Thirty-six bombers took off but weather permitted just seventeen to hit the primary target, an aircraft factory. Thirteen were unable to reach Omura and unloaded over Shanghai, 500 miles short of Kyushu. Three planes never returned: two 40th Group crews abandoned ship with mechanical problems over China, and a 468th aircraft was rammed by a Japanese fighter over Mukden. The latter’s crew was listed as missing; the others found their way to safety.
China Farewell
As LeMay had predicted upon arrival in India, XX Bomber Command was burning a short candle. In October 1944, with additional B-29 bases being completed in the Marianas, the new American CBI commander, Lieutenant General Albert Wedemeyer, asked that LeMay’s organization move to the Pacific. At least from that same month, policy advisers in Washington had expressed serious doubts about continuing the CBI Superfortress operation.
Since his command could barely sustain it
self, with no room for growth, LeMay had already declined the 73rd Wing when offered to him. Consequently, America’s military high priests bowed to the gods of war. In mid-January the Joint Chiefs issued a warning order, directing consolidation of all 20th Air Force operations in the Central Pacific. LeMay was to move his entire operation to the Marianas by mid-April while conducting some farewell missions. Actually, he flew to Saipan in January, leaving Brigadier General Roger Ramey to close up shop.
The command’s ninth and last mission against Japan was a disappointment. On January 6, 1945, forty-nine Superfortresses winged away from Chengtu, aiming at the Omura urban area generally and the naval aircraft plant in particular. Only twenty-eight bombers reached the briefed objective. Thirteen more attacked an alternate target at Nanking and six others found targets of opportunity. One B-29 was lost against claims of four Japanese fighters downed.
The impending end of CBI operations did not guarantee safety. At Chakulia on January 14, 1945, the 40th Group anticipated a concert by conductor Andre Kostelanetz and soprano Lily Pons. Around noon the 44th Squadron was ordered to download cluster bombs from two standby aircraft. However, the ordnance crew was concerned about handling the notoriously sensitive M47s, which were armed. The armament officer suggested expending the weapons in a practice mission but the orders stood.
In removing a cluster from the first B-29, one of the bands securing the bundle worked loose, allowing a weapon to fall. It exploded on impact. Nine men were killed, twenty-one wounded, and another B-29 was damaged beyond repair.
Minutes later a message arrived from the Army ordnance office in New Mexico, declaring the M47 unsafe and ordering its immediate retirement. Said Captain Frank Redler, group armament officer, “The barn door was locked, but too late.”
On January 27, the first Chengtu Superfortresses headed for India to begin the long trek to the Central Pacific. Kharagpur to Tinian in the Marianas is a straight-line 3,832 miles or seventeen and a half hours by B-29. It equaled the distance from Seattle to the Panama Canal.
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