Whirlwind

by Barrett Tillman

  When Colonel Bryan B. Harper’s 506th Fighter Group arrived in mid-May, it lifted some of the burden on the first two groups. The 506th alternated with the others in escorting bombers to the home islands, so one group usually could ease pilot strain and catch up on maintenance.

  Like Harper, some 506th pilots were self-confessed “escapees from Training Command” who had languished in the States most of the war. Many possessed more experience than their 15th and 21st colleagues, as Lieutenant Neil Smith, Jr., recalled. “I had about 500 hours of fighter time in P-39s, ’40s, and P-47s, and another 150 in ’51s before arriving at Iwo. Probably a third of the pilots in our outfit had that much ’51 time.”

  Pilots received nearly all the publicity, but they got nowhere without flyable aircraft.

  The universal comment from Sunsetter pilots was, “Maintenance on Iwo was tops.” If a flier wanted a new carburetor, he needed only mention it. Many crew chiefs kept their planes waxed for extra speed, though some joked that there was nothing better to do. The mechanics conscientiously changed spark plugs after every VLR mission to avoid fouling, as prolonged low-RPM cruising could burn up the plugs. Lieutenant Harve Phipps of the 72nd Squadron recalled, “We had practically no aborts because of bad maintenance.” Pilots deeply appreciated such diligence: the last thing they wanted to worry about was engine failure 600 saltwater miles from home.

  A far greater concern than mechanical failure was the North Pacific weather. Three to five fronts usually moved south daily from the Japanese coast, and that made mission planning difficult. High, dense cloud formations were often a factor.

  The Mustangs seldom penetrated a front but tried to fly between the thunderheads. When possible, they remained in the clear to avoid major turbulence, as the eighty-five-gallon tank behind the pilot became a critical factor. In rough weather “the ’51 with the fuselage tank full didn’t fly like anything resembling an airplane,” Harry Crim said. Before entering weather, standard procedure was to run the tank down to forty gallons to put the center of gravity on the near side of controllability. Even then it was no fun flying a P-51 in turbulence. When the under-wing drop tanks were partially empty, the gas sloshed from front to back, creating a roller-coaster sensation. It was almost impossible to fly straight and level visually; far less so on instruments.

  On one occasion, escorting bombers, Crim took his squadron into a light spot in a full thunderstorm. With his canopy cracked three inches for ventilation, he was guiding on a bomber when abruptly it disappeared and his lap was covered in snow. There was only one option: he called for a 180-degree turn, descending at 500 feet per minute. “After what seemed like 20 minutes, we were back in the clear. My whole squadron of 16 planes was tucked into the tightest formation I’ve ever seen. I looked back a couple of times and couldn’t even see my wingman, so I don’t know how they flew formation.”

  Such events were not unusual. From late April to late June, 832 P-51 strike sorties were dispatched but fewer than half (374) reached their targets. Four missions were completely spoiled by heavy clouds, and the Mustangs were grounded for ten days in early May.

  The worst weather problem occurred on June 1 when the command launched 148 Mustangs only to encounter a solid front from sea level to 23,000 feet. B-29 weather recon planes that preceded each strike had reported the front thin enough to penetrate. But the Mustangs hit a severe thunderhead and had no option but to make an immediate turn out of “the soup.”

  Flying completely blind in extreme turbulence, several P-51s collided and others fell prey to violent winds. Twenty-seven fighters were lost with all but three pilots. The 506th Group, operational for only two weeks, lost fifteen planes and twelve pilots. Eventually twenty-seven Mustangs broke through to escort the bombers over Osaka. On another mission, a 21st Group pilot stuck it out through the weather to find himself the sole escort for about 400 B-29s.

  The pilots insisted that if there was a cloud in the Pacific, it sat on Iwo Jima. Ground heat and the presence of sulfur in the salt air made Iwo even more prone to cloud formation than other islands, often producing a ceiling of fifty feet. Consequently, Iwo received one of the early ground control approach (GCA) radars. It was established on the main runway of Airfield Number 1, presenting an instrument approach within 100 feet of Mount Suribachi’s northwest slope. “It takes a lot of good-weather practice approaches before you’ll trust the thing,” observed more than one pilot.

  Flying single-engine fighters on 1,500-mile round-trips over a vast ocean with minimal navigation aids required a confidence born of experience. It was a task few pilots were experienced enough to attempt on their own. The standard P-51D had a magnetic and gyro compass plus a radio compass—the latter of limited range. Voice communication was available on one VHF four-channel radio, and that was all. “You lose your radio or dynamotor and you have to dead-reckon 600 nautical miles to a spot in the ocean less than four miles in diameter,” said Harry Crim. “Coming back, if your radio worked you could get a steer for the last hundred miles from radar, if it was working. That’s why you didn’t want to be alone.”

  Fortunately, help was available. Six B-29 navigation planes in three pairs led about 100 Mustangs on each mission to a designated point off the Japanese coast, circling while the fighters flew inland. When the Mustangs began to return to the rendezvous point, the first pair of B-29s waited until about half had arrived, then set course for Iwo. The other two pair of bombers departed the coast at ten-minute intervals to allow latecomers to latch on to one navigation group or another. The last B-29 to depart transmitted Morse Code letters permitting stragglers to get their bearings. When on the correct heading the fighter pilot heard the letters U (..–) and D (–..) overlapping into a steady hum.

  The bare statistics of what was involved in one VLR mission do not begin to tell the story. In round numbers, nearly 100 Mustangs, whose combined 1945 value was a little under $6 million, took off with 57,000 gallons of high-octane fuel and some 230,000 rounds of .50 caliber ammunition. The round-trip distance was equal to halfway across North America, from Los Angeles to Little Rock. Except for the time spent over Japan, the entire mission was flown above water. Seven-hour sorties were routine; eight hours were not unknown.

  Unlike the procedure in Europe, VII Fighter Command Mustangs did not escort specific bomber formations but guarded a stream of B-29s as much as 200 miles long. One fighter group was assigned target cover near the bomb release point while another provided withdrawal support. Usually flying 2,000 feet above the bombers, the three covering squadrons flew two on one side of the bomber stream and one on the other, with four-plane flights about half a mile apart. The three squadrons were staggered line astern, flying in the same direction as the Superforts that were approaching the drop point. The most likely point of interception was near the beginning of the bomb run, so the escort concentrated there, ready to pounce.

  Flak was the most frequently encountered resistance, but 90-degree course changes with slight altitude variation allowed the fighters to remain under antiaircraft fire for nearly an hour with little damage.

  Enemy fighter opposition could be fierce and determined, but generally the Sunsetters had little respect for their opponents. The biggest problem was locating Japanese in the air, and actual engagements were rarer. In more than four months of combat the Mustangs clashed with Japanese only fifteen times. “Finding enemy aircraft was difficult,” Crim recalled. “They weren’t interested in tangling with us, and the only aggression I saw was when they thought they had us at a great disadvantage. Some of the pilots were skillful, but there weren’t enough of them to make much difference.”

  The first VLR escort, a Tokyo mission on April 7, was an exceptional occasion. It featured beautiful weather and plenty of bandits. The 15th and 21st Groups escorted 107 B-29s, and during the fifteen minutes over the target encountered stiff opposition. Pilots estimated seventy-five to 100 Japanese fighters were seen and claimed twenty-one downed for the loss of two Mustangs.


  The 15th Group saw the most combat that day, returning with claims of seventeen destroyed. Major James B. Tapp was belle of the brawl, tangling with four aircraft types and bagging three. First he damaged a twin-engine fighter, then he downed a Kawasaki Tony, a Nakajima Oscar, and a Nakajima Tojo. Harry Crim headed the 21st’s score column with two of the group’s four kills. Tapp and Crim became two of Iwo’s four aces, Tapp being first to achieve that distinction when he bagged a Mitsubishi Jack on April 19.

  Nothing else over Japan had the Mustang’s speed, and nothing could match its acceleration or high-altitude performance. The Mitsubishi Zero (“Zeke”) was some 80 miles per hour slower, and could only hope to out-turn or out-climb the P-51 at low to medium altitudes. Among the fastest enemy fighters, the Nakajima Frank gave away 40 miles per hour to the ’51, but it climbed and turned better. Still, a Mustang using maneuvering flaps could stay with a Frank long enough for a kill if the ’51’s speed was not excessive.

  Nevertheless, Mustang jockeys could not always take the opposition for granted. During sweeps of Yokohama and Atsugi on May 29, the Sunsetters claimed twenty-eight victories, but not without loss. A twenty-three-year-old Kentuckian, Captain R. Todd Moore, Iwo’s leading ace, shot down three planes but was more impressed with one enemy pilot. A lone Zero waded into the 15th Fighter Group, shot down a Mustang, and got away clean. It was Temei Akamatsu, the boozing, brawling rogue of Atsugi. Moore declared that an American duplicating the feat would have received the Medal of Honor.

  Few pilots fired their guns at airborne bandits on more than five missions; top gun Todd Moore got eleven kills in eight engagements over the home islands. A handful of others added to previous records, most notably Colonel John W. Mitchell, who took over the 15th Group that summer. Highly experienced, he had led the 1943 interception resulting in the death of Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, who directed the Pearl Harbor attack. Mitchell downed four planes over Japan to run his total to eleven, and would down four MiGs in the Korean War.

  Despite the fame accorded top scorers, “ace fever” was relatively rare in World War II. Most pilots simply wanted to do as much as duty and honor required, and return to their civilian lives. But a few were like First Lieutenant Robert Scamara. The husky Californian had grown up reading the exploits of Great War aces, and he wanted to earn that title for himself. Assigned to the 15th Fighter Group, he notched his first kill on June 1 and was 20 percent toward his goal. Then he launched on a fighter strike near Tokyo on the 23rd.

  Two dozen Mustangs were inbound to Shimodate Airfield northeast of the capital when the roof fell in. Attacked by seventeen defending fighters, the Americans were immediately forced on the defensive. The first Scamara knew of his peril was when the radio became a babble of shouts and warnings. Then tracer bullets snapped past him, from astern.

  After the initial tussle, Scamara and wingman John V. Scanlan broke free and headed for the rendezvous point. Passing over a lake, they drew the notice of several Imperial Navy pilots who pounced on the vulnerable P-51s. Scamara watched, appalled, as Scanlan ignored his screams to turn away. Apparently suffering radio failure, Jack Scanlan flew straight and level as the Japanese opened fire, scoring repeated hits. Bob Scamara fought to protect his wingman but the odds were entirely lopsided: Scanlan abandoned his stricken fighter and parachuted near the beach.

  Heartsick, Scamara turned south for Iwo. He had just experienced the best day of his combat career, and the worst. His gun camera film showed three kills and seven enemy planes damaged, but Jack Scanlan was never seen again. After the war, U.S. investigators determined that he had suffered multiple injuries and, after surviving a severe beating, was briefly held at an army headquarters. Then that afternoon he was thrown to a civilian mob that beat him to death.

  Time over Japan

  Always fuel-conscious, the Mustang pilots crossed the coast at a fairly high power setting to keep their spark plugs clean and their aircraft in fighting trim. They wanted the fuselage tank to contain less than forty gallons because in a steep turn, shifting fuel weight could cause the aircraft to roll violently.

  To some pilots, the twenty to sixty minutes over Japan were just the thing to shake off the lethargy of the long northward flight. Harve Phipps recalled, “I think the combat break midway in the missions served to stimulate you enough that you didn’t get bored. The main problem was the cramped cockpit space for the time involved.”

  For the return flight, Harry Crim explained, “We dropped our external tanks, shot up all our ammo, and tested the relief tube.” Then it was a matter of managing fuel for the 750-mile flight home. Cruising at forty gallons per hour could burn up a set of plugs but the hardy Merlin engines did not seem to mind.

  In addition to bomber escort, the Mustangs flew an increasing proportion of strike missions. Their primary targets were Japanese airfields or industrial facilities, and P-51s were often loaded with five-inch high-velocity aerial rockets. Six HVARs added about 700 pounds to takeoff weight but they packed a tremendous punch—equal to a destroyer’s broadside—and proved effective against shipping and reinforced buildings.

  Two coast-in points normally were used for sweep-strike missions. One was Inubo-Saki, a spit of land eighty miles east of Tokyo (Jimmy Doolittle’s crews had used it as a checkpoint). The other, more circuitous, route was fifty miles north of there at Kawagaro. The latter allowed P-51s to enter the Tokyo area from the northeast—an unexpected direction.

  The first strafing mission was intended for April 16 against Atsugi, Japan’s largest airfield, but the P-51s were diverted to the Kanoya base, and in the confusion and poor visibility only fifty-seven of the 108 that took off actually attacked. Later missions were more successful, and from April 7 to June 30, VII Fighter Command claimed 666 enemy planes destroyed or damaged, mostly on the ground.

  The standard strafing technique involved a squadron in close line astern flying at 1,500 feet and 200 mph. When the last flight leader was abreast of the field, he called for a 90-degree turn inbound. Each pilot then flew low across the field, shooting anything in front of him. At 200 mph there was time for careful aiming, and the sheer volume of fire from sixteen Mustangs’ ninety-six guns was often enough to suppress flak. “You could really put a lot of ammunition into a place” Crim remarked.

  After the first pass, a smart fighter pilot kept going. Returning to an alerted, angry target did not enhance longevity, and nobody relished the thought of becoming a prisoner of the Japanese.

  The Sunsetters’ last aerial combat occurred near Tokyo on August 10, when the 15th and 506th Groups claimed seven victories. In all, Iwo’s Mustangs were credited with 236 Japanese planes shot down between April and August 1945–80 percent of all Pacific Theater P-51 aerial victories.

  Search and Rescue

  In some crucial ways the Japanese represented the lesser enemy for American airmen in the Marianas and Iwo Jima. Flying vast distances over the North Pacific meant that losses at sea were unavoidable. In that immense expanse, the task of finding the minuscule yellow dot of a life raft approached the nearly impossible. Yet it was done.

  Air-sea rescue began almost as an impromptu enterprise but grew into a thoroughly professional, joint-service operation. Before March 1, 1945, forty-eight Marianas Superfortresses ditched with 528 crewmen. All of the 164 located were retrieved, but that represented fewer than one in three. The first commander of the Marianas bombers, Haywood Hansell, had noted divided responsibilities between finding downed fliers and rescuing them—generally along Army-Navy lines, respectively. He was working toward integrating the operation when LeMay took over, and the situation improved thereafter. By the end of May, eight fliers in ten were being saved from the sea.

  Three means of rescue were available to downed fliers: seaplanes, submarines, and destroyers. Destroyers were generally stationed at 100-mile intervals from Iwo to Japan, while submarines and amphibious aircraft worked in enemy coastal waters.

  From start to finish an airman’s chances of rescue from t
he Pacific were just about even. Overall, 654 of 1,310 Army fliers known down at sea were saved. Of those, half were aboard bombers that ditched, demonstrating that water landings afforded greater survival prospects than the risk of drowning under a waterlogged parachute.

  The Mustang pilots faced an additional problem. The P-51 handbook warned that the aircraft would float for perhaps two seconds after hitting the water, so standard procedure was to bail out rather than ditch.

  Fear of capture prompted some crews to exercise excess caution, to the point of shunning use of radios or even flares. But gradually the situation improved. The AAF and Navy achieved fully joint operations with B-29 men riding submarines from Guam, and naval rescue personnel flying in Superfortresses. Thus, each side of the team learned firsthand about their opposite numbers.

  Once a man was down in Empire waters, at least one flight “capped” him, orbiting overhead to guide submarines or “dumbo” seaplanes and to disrupt Japanese attempts to capture him. In extreme cases, Mustang pilots spent ten hours in the air on such a mission, abandoning their briefed targets and circling a squadron mate for four hours before heading home. On one occasion pilots saw an American submarine within a half-mile of shore trying to pick up a flier. Later a submarine skipper tired of the game, went in close to shore, sank a harassing patrol craft, scooped up the airman, and departed. At one time the 21st Fighter Group had ten rescued pilots on the duty submarine.

  Some B-17s and B-29s were employed as rescue planes, specially modified to drop large motorboats to downed bomber crews or even to a single pilot. Based on Iwo Jima, the “super-dumbos” circled fifty to 100 miles off Japan until called in, with as many as eight assigned at a time.