Retaliation was not long coming.
On November 27, the Japanese launched a long-range attack of their own. Two night-riding Mitsubishi Bettys from Iwo Jima attacked Isley Field, Saipan, reducing a B-29 to rubble and damaging eleven more before getting away cleanly. But that was just the preview. That morning, led by two navigation aircraft, a dozen Zeros left Iwo for Saipan, flying more than three hours literally at sea level. One damaged its propeller on the waves and diverted to Pagan, north of Saipan, where it was downed by prowling Thunderbolts. Meanwhile, the other eleven swept over Isley Field, achieving complete noontime surprise.
Brigadier General Hansell had a front-row seat to the drama, even as mission San Antonio 2 was winging to the Musashino factory. While the Zeros strafed, torching three B-29s, Hansell sped to the scene in his jeep with his operations officer, Colonel John B. Montgomery. But one Mitsubishi bored in low, well positioned to kill the head of XXI Bomber Command. Hansell bailed out of his jeep and threw himself beneath it, only to find the smaller, more agile Montgomery already there. Then Hansell looked up with unbelieving eyes as the Zero passed overhead, wheels coming down. The Japanese pilot landed, braked to a stop, and jumped out. Pistol in hand, the enemy flier picked a gunfight with GIs on the flight line until killed in a hail of rifle fire.
None of the intruders survived, so the name of Hansell’s heroic assailant remained unknown. But if nothing else, the suicide raid on Saipan was testament to how much the Superfortresses threatened Japan.
For sheer distance the little-known “battle of the islands” had no precedent—720 statute miles one way. There had been previous interisland air battles, but the 1941–42 aerial siege of Malta was conducted by Axis aircraft from Sicily only fifty-five miles away. Far greater distances typified the Solomons campaign of 1942–43, when Japanese bombers flew 650 miles down the chain from New Britain to Guadalcanal. However, the longest stretch between those islands was 180 miles, and most lay within fifty miles of one another.
There was almost nothing between Saipan and Iwo Jima.
The industrious Japanese observed December 7 with another surprise attack. Mitsubishi Bettys from Iwo Jima staged two raids on Saipan: one at four in the morning and the second ten hours later. The raiders did more strafing than bombing, but that was bad enough. Though six Bettys were downed, they destroyed three B-29s and badly damaged three more. Obviously something had to be done—and it was.
The next day more than sixty B-29s joined 100 7th Air Force B-24s in Sledgehammer 1 to smother Iwo’s three airfields beneath 800 tons of bombs. The Liberators carried most of the weight during the ensuing campaign, though the Christmas Eve Rockcrusher mission added thirty more Superfortresses. Three more B-29 missions in January and February knocked out one field and further damaged the remaining operational base.
Providentially, no Superforts were lost during the preventive efforts against Iwo, though a few B-24s succumbed. The Bonin Islands were among the worst places for Americans to be captured: at least one Liberator crewman who survived his shootdown was killed by Japanese who used him for bayonet practice.
Meanwhile, on December 3, Hansell put up eighty-six Superforts for the third Tokyo mission, again hitting Target 357, the Musashino plant. Though 85 percent of the attackers attempted to bomb the primary target, just 2.5 percent hit it.
Many of the Japanese interceptors concentrated on the 500th Group led by Colonel Richard T. King in the Rosalia Rocket. Major Robert Goldsworthy’s plane was shot down with just three survivors, including Colonel King, a prize catch for Japanese intelligence.
Lieutenant Hugh Mcnamer’s unnamed plane was running in to the target when it was swarmed by interceptors. They hit the bomber repeatedly, causing the landing gear to extend and the bomb bay doors to open prematurely. The crippled aircraft drew unwanted attention—as many as fifty Japanese pilots smelled blood, making pass after pass. They shot large pieces off the sturdy B-29, which was unable to drop its bombs. Nevertheless, Mcnamer and his crew shoved up the power and slowly outpaced their tormentors. At length the bombardier salvoed his load and the crew began lightening ship. After dumping everything not fastened down, the crippled bomber reached Saipan, making an emergency landing on the B-24 runway.
The mission lost five bombers and most of four crews, including those that ditched from battle damage or fuel shortage.
In early December O’Donnell convened a meeting of his brain trust to discuss progress of the 73rd Wing’s operations. The 200 or more airmen included his squadron and group commanders plus the lead crews. Despite their cautious relationship, O’Donnell also invited Hansell and some of his staff officers to attend.
Sitting quietly, Hansell listened with growing disbelief at Rosie O’Donnell’s rosy assessment of the wing’s performance to date. When O’Donnell invited his boss to address the assembly, Possum Hansell unloaded both barrels of his verbal shotgun.
“I’m in sharp disagreement because in my opinion you people haven’t earned your pay over here,” he began. “Unless you do better, this operation is doomed to failure.”
Hansell’s bluntness shocked those who knew him as a good-humored optimist. However, aside from his doctrinal differences with O’Donnell, he had previously declared his dissatisfaction with results to date, acknowledging that there was still much to learn. Now, openly contradicting his subordinate merely broadened the two leaders’ differences, but it was hard to disagree with Hansell. In the first three major missions to Japan, no more than moderate damage was inflicted. Largely that was because merely one-third of the sorties attacked primary targets. Though only nine B-29s had been lost, the 19 percent abort rate was distressing—and it was not improving. Perhaps at that point Hansell began rethinking his previous insistence to Arnold that Ken Wolfe be replaced after only three China-based missions.
On December 27, O’Donnell tried again to deliver a knockout blow against the Musashino complex. The 73rd Wing put up seventy-two bombers in the command’s last mission of the year, another daylight effort. However, the abort rate went through the hangar roof—a staggering 28 percent. For those crews that reached Japan, low clouds and the jet stream conspired once more to thwart their effort. As usual, the Japanese had plenty of warning and positioned four fighter regiments to intercept, plus one naval group flying a menagerie of single- and twin-engine types.
Some B-29s got above the interceptors, climbing to nearly 34,000 feet. But altitude ruined accuracy, and the bombing was miserable—only six hits within 1,000 feet of the aim point. Furthermore, the fifty-two attackers trickled into the target area for more than an hour, diluting the bombers’ defensive firepower against some 270 fighter passes.
The Americans were lucky to escape with just three losses, two operationally. All were from the 498th Group, whose Uncle Tom’s Cabin fell to savage fighter attacks. The beleaguered Boeing went down fighting, having been rammed twice. Other interceptors pursued the crippled bomber, hammering away with cannon and machine gun fire. Finally Major Thomas Krause’s plane spun into Tokyo Bay. Three of the crew bailed out, and though all survived captivity, Major William Walker died one day after liberation.
* * * * *
XXI Bomber Command had launched five missions to Japan in December, totaling 415 sorties with nineteen losses. That equaled a 4 percent casualty rate, which was acceptable for B-17s and B-24s but was heavy for the much costlier Superfortresses. Bombing results were assessed as “good” on only two occasions, both against the Mitsubishi plant in Nagoya. In the eight homeland missions since November 24, no target had been destroyed.
Almost every major mission cost Superfortresses lost at sea, and back in Washington Hap Arnold took note. In 1944 a B-29 cost $605,000, nearly three times a B-17, and the noncombat loss rate was a constant concern. Consequently, Arnold wrote Hansell, “In my opinion the B-29 cannot be treated in the same way we treat a fighter, medium bomber, or even a Flying Fortress. We must consider the B-29 more in terms of a naval vessel, and we do not lose naval v
essels in threes and fours without a very thorough analysis of the causes and what preventive measures may be taken to avoid losses in the future.” Hansell certainly knew that his efficiency was subject to close scrutiny, and likely suspected that his command was at stake.
A New Year
While cynical GIs rhymed that they would see “The Golden Gate in ’48,” Hansell’s command struck Japan four times in the first nineteen days of January 1945, beginning on the 3rd. Mission 17 sent the B-29s to Nagoya’s port and industrial area, but of ninety-seven dispatched, a disappointing eighteen aborted—nearly one in five. Dropping through six-tenths cloud cover, the bombing was rated “fair” as reconnaissance showed 140,000 square feet of docks and urban area destroyed, and crews reported seventy-five fires throughout the area—the product of an increasing proportion of incendiary bombs. Though the Japanese were far more active than before with 346 fighter attacks, they only downed one bomber while B-29 gunners claimed fourteen kills. Three other bombers went missing, cause unknown.
One flier survived a horrifying experience. Japanese fighters attacked the 497th’s American Maid, wounding the tail gunner and shooting out the left side blister at 29,000 feet, where the pressure differential sucked the waist gunner through the portal. Only Sergeant James B. Krantz’s improvised safety harness saved him from a nearly six-mile fall. Dangling in the 200 mph slipstream at nearly the height of Mount Everest, exposed to frigid temperatures, he spent a punishing fifteen minutes slamming against the fuselage, unconscious from lack of oxygen. Two gunners were unable to haul him inside until the copilot and radar operator lent their weight to the struggle. Krantz was retrieved and, though suffering broken bones and frostbite, survived to return to Kentucky.
Meanwhile, early in January LeMay made a quick trip to survey the Marianas operation, as he knew that his XX Bomber Command eventually would transfer there. While on Guam—headquarters had recently moved from Saipan—he consulted with Hansell and Lieutenant General Lauris Norstad, the 20th Air Force chief of staff from Washington. LeMay and Norstad had a professional relationship, largely devoid of warmth. After serving together in Hawaii in the 1930s they had taken separate tracks, Norstad as a staff man, LeMay as an operator. Now Norstad dropped a verbal bomb on LeMay and Hansell: the entire B-29 operation would fall under the umbrella of XXI Bomber Command, and holding that umbrella would be Curtis LeMay.
Obviously, Hansell was on the way out. By all accounts Hap Arnold respected Possum, especially as one of the miracle workers who had produced AWPD-1 in nine days in 1941. But despite Arnold’s pixieish appearance and cheerful demeanor, he could be a ruthless throat cutter, often impatient to a fault. (His expectations for the immature B-29 in the primitive China Theater and Wolfe’s precipitous dismissal were but two examples.) LeMay hastened back to India, bearing orders to return to Guam in about two weeks.
In LeMay’s absence Hansell continued operations, targeting Tokyo’s Musashino aircraft plant by night on the 9th and Nagoya’s Mitsubishi factory by day on the 14th. Neither mission accomplished much, largely due to poor weather over the targets. However, Musashino’s searchlights made an impression on the fliers. A navigator wrote, “About 50 lights—some on us momentarily. Pretty lonely up there all by ourselves.” The two missions cost eleven B-29s, mostly through ditchings.
Meanwhile, the new 313th Bomb Wing arrived at Tinian’s North Field in mid-January. Brigadier General J. H. Davies, a two-tour veteran of the Southwest Pacific, arranged for his groups to fly four warm-up missions before tackling Japan in early February. The Marianas bomber command was stretching its wings toward maturity.
Among Davies’s four groups was the 9th, which included a pilot who granted unusual recognition to his ground crew. While most bombers displayed the names of the airmen assigned to each aircraft, those who “kept ’em flyin’” were seldom acknowledged. An exception was recalled by Sergeant Chester Ziel, who worked on a B-29 named The B.A. Bird.
Upon seeing their first B-29, Ziel’s friend Gerald Vining had remarked, “Boy, that’s a big ass bird.” Ziel added, “When we got to Tinian with all those other big ass birds and our flight crew hesitated to give our plane a name. . . . Jerry and Ray Snyder took it upon themselves to approach Captain Wendell Hutchinson, aircraft commander of the unnamed plane.” Hutchinson agreed to have his bomber called The B.A. Bird. More than that, however, the name of each engine mechanic was lettered on the appropriate cowling with names of wives and sweethearts. “As far as I know, we were the only ground crew so honored,” Ziel said.
Official recognition of ground crews also was rare, though citations were issued to mechanics with outstanding records. A case in point was Sergeant William J. Owens, who kept the 6th Group’s Gravel Gertie flying. His citation said, “Sergeant Owens was crew chief at a base in the Marianas Islands supervising the maintenance of a B-29 aircraft. Working under adverse conditions which frequently involved new problems never before faced in aircraft maintenance, he directed the ground servicing of his plane so effectively that it completed 22 combat missions without a mechanical malfunction necessitating early return. Displaying indefatigable zeal, he devoted exceptionally long hours to keep the plane operational, sometimes leading his crew in repairing battle damage suffered in one raid while simultaneously readying the bomber for its next mission.”
Under New Management
Curtis LeMay returned to Guam on January 19 and, in pilot talk, “shook the stick” to signal “I’ve got it” the next day. He landed in an awkward situation, relieving an old and valued friend, but he was senior to Hansell and had already proven himself a rare innovator. In a well-meaning but unworkable gesture, Arnold tossed Hansell a bone, offering him a slot as LeMay’s deputy, but the Possum declined to chew it. As he later said, LeMay “didn’t need any ‘assistant commander’ and I . . . would not be content to stay completely in the background.”
LeMay asked Hansell to remain awhile to help with the transition, and he agreed to stay for several days. Fortunately, Hansell’s chief operations officer was well known to LeMay: Colonel John Montgomery, one of the early B-17 fliers from Langley Field, Virginia, in 1937–38. LeMay was pleased to have his old colleague onboard; they would work closely in the months to come.
On January 19, the day LeMay arrived from China, Hansell launched Mission 20 against the Kawasaki aircraft factory at Akashi, on the coast west of Kobe. Of eighty Superforts dispatched, sixty-two bombed the primary target and nine opted for alternates. An abort reduced the 499th Group’s deception force (drawing attention of enemy radar) to just two planes, which drew twenty fighter attacks. One navigator confided, “This was a nail biter for us.”
Flying in decent weather for a change—less than three-tenths cloud cover—the B-29s inflicted serious damage on the plant with nearly 40 percent of the complex’s roof area totally or partially destroyed. Furthermore, all the bombers returned—the first time that had happened since operations began almost two months before.
However, the success of the 19th proved short-lived. The next mission, four days later, was the first flown under LeMay’s aegis, and it did not please him. Eradicate No. 3 targeted the Mitsubishi factory at Nagoya, and only twenty-eight of seventy-three planes attacked the primary from above a nearly solid undercast. Despite extremely heavy fighter opposition—nearly 700 fighter passes were counted—only one bomber was lost to enemy action and one operationally. (B-29 gunners claimed thirty-three kills for their biggest day so far.) But the greater concern was the abort rate and negligible damage to the engine plant. With 18 percent aborts and fewer than half the effective sorties bombing the designated target, Curt LeMay reckoned that he had much to do.
The January 27 mission produced more drama with a two-tiered battle against the weather and the defenders, in that order. Two B-29s provided advance information on conditions over Musashino and Nagoya, deeming the best chances were offered by Target 357—the resilient Nakajima plant at Musashino. However, by the time the main force of some sixty plan
es arrived an hour later, the clouds had closed in with a ten-tenths carpet. There was no option except radar drops on the Tokyo urban area, with no bomb strikes observed.
Meanwhile, nobody had trouble seeing Japanese fighters, which were up and waiting. In addition to a huge increase in interceptor sorties, there were also more ramming attempts, some of which succeeded. Attacking between 24,000 and 30,000 feet, the B-29s had lost much of their previous altitude sanctuary as crews counted a jaw-dropping 984 fighter attacks.
On each Superfortress, central fire controllers handed off turrets to waist gunners and bombardiers, depending upon the direction of the threat. Gunners swung their controls, placed their sighting reticles on each fighter in turn, and opened fire as far out as 800 yards—nearly half a mile. The .50 calibers chattered incessantly, spewing a stream of half-inch slugs that arced away in their ballistic trajectories at 2,700 feet per second.
In an aerial gunfight lasting nearly an hour, five bombers were chopped down while the Superforts’ claims were pegged at sixty, nearly twice the previous record.
Amid the flak and fighters one pilot swore, “If I ever get out of this one I’m through flying—and at that moment I really meant it.”
Nine B-29s were lost, including two destroyed in collisions and perhaps a third. Taking the brunt of the defenses was the 497th Group, with one squadron led by Lieutenant Colonel Bob Morgan of Memphis Belle fame. In the formation was Lieutenant Lloyd Avery’s Irish Lassie, which was selected for destruction by a flock of Tojos. Lassie’s gunners threw out a .50 caliber barrage at the misidentified Zeros, claiming three for starters, but the Japanese pilots were suicidally motivated. Elements of the JAAF’s 244th Regiment bored in, and one fighter survived the bomber’s gunfire to crash the left wing behind the outboard engine, puncturing a fuel cell. Moments later Captain Teruhiko Kobayashi dived in from astern, trading gunfire with tail gunner Sergeant Charles Mulligan. Grimly determined, Kobayashi drove his Nakajima into Lassie’s tail, clipping the left stabilizer. The impact knocked him unconscious but he recovered to bail out, confident he had destroyed his prey.
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