Meanwhile, the Navy contribution was considerable. Fleet Air Wing One based four patrol bomber squadrons ashore and seven flying boat squadrons at Kerama Retto north of Okinawa. Also within range were nine Mariner and Privateer squadrons at Iwo and the Marianas.
Seventh Air Force Thunderbolts had begun night heckler missions against Kyushu airfields in mid-May, a month before Okinawa was fully secured. Better-suited Black Widow night fighters then took up the mission, and day fighter sweeps began. During the second week of June the 318th Group encountered 244 Japanese planes, claiming forty-eight downed against three Thunderbolts lost.
Activity on Okinawa accelerated from July onward. Morale peaked that summer, best illustrated by the 43rd Bomb Group’s motto of WAR: “Willing, Able, Ready.” Seventh Air Force Liberators and Mitchells logged their first Okinawa missions in early July, as did the new A-26 Invaders of the 319th Bomb Group. However, Colonel Joseph Holzapple’s Douglas bombers represented far more than a new aircraft in the Pacific. The 319th had flown its last mission from Italy in December 1944, returned to the United States, and in May began the long trek to Okinawa. Thus it became the first group to redeploy from Europe, earning battle honors against both Germany and Japan.
With air supremacy readily achieved, 5th Air Force fighters “quickly turned to general hell raising” by bombing and strafing rail links, bridges, shipping, and targets of opportunity. On occasion the latter included individual Japanese.
On August 5, 325 Army planes attacked Tarumizu in southern Kyushu, which intelligence had fingered as a source of rocket-powered “Baka bombs,” fast suicide planes. From high, medium, and low level, 179 bombers and 146 fighters pulverized the place with high-explosive bombs and napalm. Five days later fifty-three Liberators attacked the city of Kurume and, with the aid of a stiff northeast wind, burned down 28 percent of the houses, rendering 20,000 people homeless. That same week low-flying AAF pilots reported Japanese civilians waving white cloths at the uncontested Americans.
At the end, as General Ennis C. Whitehead wrote, “The enemy could decide that enough Nips had been killed or he could commit national suicide.”
Meanwhile, the Marianas got reinforcements. The last wing to join LeMay was the 315th under Brigadier General Frank Armstrong, an old flying school classmate. A founding member of the 8th Air Force, in 1942 he had led the first B-17 mission in Europe, flying with then Major Paul Tibbets.
Armstrong had assumed command of the 315th in Colorado in November 1944. Equipped with the brand-new B-29B, his wing would become the ultimate expression of conventional-bombing Superfortresses. The main distinction was the Eagle radar, optimized for precision targeting rather than navigation. It was externally mounted beneath the fuselage, resembling a small extra wing, but the minor speed loss was more than offset by exceptional accuracy.
Armstrong had put the 315th’s four groups through “one of the most intensive training programs ever undertaken by an air combat unit.” The wing left the States in May, arriving at Guam for the last three months of hostilities.
On the afternoon of June 26, Armstrong led the wing’s first mission. He firewalled his throttles and forty-two seconds later lifted Fluffy-Fuz III (named for his wife and child) off Northwest Field’s active runway. Thirty-seven other B-29s followed him, bound for the Utsube River oil refinery in central Honshu. The plant held the dubious distinction of a number one priority in Japan’s petroleum industry, boasting an oil storage and hydrogenation plant for aviation fuel. It was a precision target—just the kind envisioned for the Eagle radar.
Thirty of the thirty-eight bombers crossed the target in less than twenty-three minutes, sustaining no losses. Post-strike photography showed 30 percent of the facility destroyed or damaged, but that was deemed insufficient. Thirteen days later, on July 9, the 313th returned to Utsube and finished what remained.
Meanwhile, Armstrong’s crews maintained a standard of almost eerie efficiency. On July 6–7, two groups attacked the Maruzen oil refinery near Osaka and left it a smoldering rubble, 95 percent destroyed. LeMay, never easily impressed, was delighted: “This performance is the most successful radar bombing of this command to date.”
Armstrong led the wing’s first five missions, then followed doctor’s orders to recuperate from persistent dysentery. (Repeated doses of “medicinal brandy” did not cure the malady, although they did improve the patient’s morale.) The 315th’s well-trained groups continued without him, leading to one of the most peculiar mission summaries in aviation history. After breaching the dikes surrounding a synthetic oil plant, the photo interpreters concluded, “This target destroyed and sunk.”
In six weeks during July and August, Armstrong’s groups were credited with shutting down what remained of Japan’s oil industry.
Meanwhile, the Army asked Halsey for preventive air attacks on Misawa in northern Honshu, where the Japanese had gathered an unusual number of twin-engine bombers. The presence of parachute units at Misawa led American analysts to conclude that an aerial commando operation was being planned against Okinawa. A similar mission had been mounted in late May, when a Japanese army bomber crash-landed at Yontan Airfield, delivering troops who destroyed nine aircraft and blew up two fuel dumps.
The new Japanese plan was far more ambitious, combining airborne commandos and low-level attack bombers. Wearing American uniforms, the raiders would crash-land on Saipan, Guam, and Tinian, destroying everything in reach. Though planned for late July, Operation Tsurgi (Sword) was interrupted by air strikes in mid-month when Third Fleet aviators wrecked Misawa and dozens of aircraft. By the time replacement bombers were available in August, with sixty Bettys with 600 navy and army troops, it was too late.
Meanwhile, in four conventional bombing missions from August 1 to 14, LeMay launched over 2,600 B-29 sorties, losing only ten bombers. And there was more, as Lieutenant General Jimmy Doolittle’s re-formed 8th Air Force began arriving in mid-July. Though none of the fabled organization’s units deployed from Europe, its headquarters and Doolittle’s aura were enough to garner attention. Most of a B-29 wing and a full P-47 wing were established on Okinawa before the end of August.
Japan was increasingly faced with an apocalyptic aerial armada that truly could deliver Harry Truman’s promised “rain of ruin.” But still Tokyo hung on.
On Tuesday, August 14, the Marianas command put up 749 Superfortresses—the second highest figure of the war—and got all of them back. The world’s most destructive bombing campaign had become so routine that it operated with little more risk than most airlines. LeMay dispatched seven missions in two waves. In the first three missions, 418 Superfortresses struck urban arsenals and rail yards that afternoon.
The other four missions lifted off their island bases about the time the first wave arrived over Japan. The 315th Wing’s target was the Nippon Oil Company refinery at Tsuchizaki (also Tasuchizaki), nearly 300 miles north of Tokyo. The mission had been briefed and canceled while Tokyo and the Allies engaged in peace negotiations, and combat crews grew edgy. They lived in a twilight world, suspended somewhere between war and peace, hearing rumors both dire and dear. Finally the word came down: launch the mission.
That afternoon Frank Armstrong led again in his personal B-29, Fluffy-Fuz III. He took 141 bombers into the air of which 132 bombed the target. It was the longest unrefueled combat mission of the piston aircraft era: 3,740 miles from Guam to Tsuchizaki and back.
Ignoring inaccurate flak between 10,000 and 12,000 feet, the wing bombed by radar through a heavy undercast. By 3:40 that morning the last B-29s were on course for Guam, seven hours away.
At sea that night, in Shangri-La, Corsair pilot Dick DeMott recorded, “Rumors and reports all day that Japan has broadcast and has accepted our peace treaty. We still have not accepted it or acknowledged so we don’t know what the hell is going on. . . . I wish to hell we could find out if the Japs are surrendering before we go needlessly groping around over Japan again and lose more pilots needlessly. This routine is
getting harder to take each time.”
August 15
Sunrise over Japan came at 4:35 A.M. on August 15, revealing a cloud-pocked sky with scattered showers. Task Force 38 carriers began launching combat air patrols and assembling two strike missions. Meanwhile, 336 B-29s were still southbound from the night’s missions.
Frank Armstrong later wrote, “As we returned from our strike, we listened to a stateside broadcast as an excited announcer described the victory celebration in downtown San Francisco. The war was over! Having led the first daylight bombing raid in the European Theater and the longest bombing raid the last night of the war, I had opened and closed the affair like a fan.
“Every man aboard our aircraft was outwardly jubilant, but inside each experienced mixed emotions. We wanted no more of war, but it was difficult not to think of those who had not lived to see the dawn of this day. These thoughts brought waves of sadness, irony and gratitude. Too, there was a sudden surge of awe. Some of us had been in the business of killing for nearly four years. How would we adapt to a peaceful existence, and how much would we regret the havoc we had wrought, even though it had been absolutely necessary?”
Emperor Hirohito had finally decided to override his war cabinet, but not all of his warriors received the word—or heeded it. Consequently, some Allied naval pilots paid with their lives.
The fast carriers planned two strikes on the 15th, keeping the pressure on Japanese airfields. The 103 planes of Strike Able were overland at 6:35 A.M., attacking their assigned targets. A dozen Ticonderoga fighter-bombers struck military and industrial facilities on the Choshi Peninsula when Shangri-La broadcast, “All Strike Able planes, this is Nitrate Base. All Strike Able planes return to base. Do not attack target. The war is over!”
Still in his dive, Lieutenant (jg) John McNab was the twelfth Hellcat pilot in line. He dropped his 500-pounder just as the message came through—probably the last aviator to bomb Japan.
Shangri-La pilot Dick DeMott was leading a search for downed aviators in the Tokyo area. “On our way to the target area, word was passed of the official announcement from Pearl and CinCPac of the end of the war. What a time to hear it—en route to Tokyo!” Upon return to the flagship DeMott reported to McCain, noting the admiral was “slightly burned up at the Japs for continuing to send their planes out after us. He’s a funny little guy. Everyone is all smiles and happy aboard, although it’s almost too hard to believe the news.”
From mirthfulness, DeMott turned reflective. “Brother, I am thankful that I am alive this day and got to see the end of the war from the front seat. I hope to spend the rest of my life enjoying everything and being at peace with the world. Kick me if I don’t.”
Hancock pilot Lieutenant Richard L. Newhafer, a future novelist and screenwriter, said the broadcast contained “all the hope and unreasoning happiness that salvation can bring. It brought tears and laughter and a numb sense of unbelief.”
Nevertheless, some of Newhafer’s squadron mates had to shoot their way out of Japanese airspace. Lieutenant Herschel Pahl’s four Hellcats outfought seven enemy pilots, downing three en route home to Hancock. But others were not so fortunate.
Lieutenant Howard M. Harrison was leading six Yorktown Hellcats when they were ganged by as many as seventeen Japanese fighters. The lopsided combat degenerated into a series of close-range hassles with losses on both sides. Minutes later Lieutenants (jg) Maury Proctor and Theodore Hansen were the only Americans still flying. They returned to base, mourning the last-minute deaths of four of their friends in a senseless final act.
Nor was that all. Eight of HMS Indefatigable’s Supermarine Seafires were escorting carrier bombers over Odaki Bay when a dozen Japanese navy fighters bounced the Royal Navy planes from above and behind. Outnumbered and caught at an altitude disadvantage, the British fought for their lives. Sub-Lieutenant Fred Hockley was shot down on the Zekes’ initial pass. He bailed out but there was no time to watch him. However, in the biggest combat of its career against three Axis powers, the Seafire outdid itself. Keeping their speed up and avoiding the urge to dogfight, the Royal Navy pilots claimed eight kills, led by Sub-Lieutenant Victor S. Lowden, who, despite a jammed cannon, scored two and split another with his wingman. (Available Japanese records indicate loss of at least four planes and three pilots.)
Four Zekes got past the Seafires to attack the bombers, badly damaging one Avenger. Despite a small fire onboard, Petty Officer A. A. Simpson remained in his turret and opened up on the closest assailant. He scored several hits and claimed a probable kill.
Lieutenant (jg) Tadahiko Honma of the 304th Naval Squadron reported downing an Avenger before his plane was flamed by a Seafire, likely by Sub-Lieutenant Randy Kay. Honma bailed out, surviving with burns.
Now unescorted, the six Grummans continued to the target and bombed accurately. However, the crippled Avenger could not make the task force, so Simpson’s pilot, Lieutenant L. W. Baldwin, splashed down in a safe water landing near a destroyer.
The Seafires had scored a notable victory but their joy was deadened when the fliers learned the fate of their leader. Freddie Hockley survived the shootdown but his captors almost immediately decapitated him.
The young Briton was not the only victim of condoned murder. That same day, following the emperor’s surrender speech, officers at the Western Military District headquarters took seventeen B-29 crewmen from their wretched cells and, one by one, the prisoners were murdered.
None of the killers was ever punished.
Despite the emperor’s broadcast, some Japanese die-hards rejected the idea of surrender. In fact, an army faction had attempted a coup at the palace, seeking to prevent broadcast of Hirohito’s announcement. Offshore, Imperial Navy fliers launched sporadic attacks upon the Allied fleet during the early afternoon, entirely without success. The thirty-fourth and last U.S. Navy shootdown of the day went to a Belleau Wood pilot, Ensign Clarence A. Moore. The Judy dive bomber he destroyed at 2:00 P.M. officially ended aerial combat in the Second World War.
Throughout the task force, sailors took turns blowing ships’ whistles while others shot off flares and star shells. Those plugged into the intelligence network pondered the arcane verbiage of Hirohito’s capitulation.
The Imperial rescript was an amazing document, containing outrageous lies (“it being far from Our thoughts . . . to infringe upon the sovereignty of other nations”) and gross understatement (“The war situation has developed not necessarily to Japan’s advantage”). Nevertheless, it urged the Japanese people (subjects, not citizens) to “continue as one family from generation to generation.”
Aside from the war developing “not necessarily to Japan’s advantage,” Hirohito cited “a most cruel bomb, the power of which to do damage is indeed incalculable.” Since only the B-29 could deliver the new weapon, the enemy head of state acknowledged the Superfort’s pivotal role in ending the war.
After initial outbursts, surprising quiet descended upon Allied bases. On that day the victors alternately expressed joy and regret. Some of the new fliers realized that their eighteen-month journey to combat had been cut short at the last possible moment. Having worked harder than they had ever done before—and some never would again—they saw their commitment to their nation end with a whimper.
At le Shima off Okinawa, the veteran 348th Fighter Group had just received some new P-51 pilots. They included Lieutenant Robert Stevens, who relished the prestige of a Mustang jockey. He sported a .45 pistol in a shoulder holster, vowing, “The Japs will never take me alive.” But somehow he had not gotten around to testing his weapon.
On V-J night, Stevens reckoned that he would never have a better reason to shoot his pistol. Loading the big Colt, he raised it in the Ryukyu darkness and pulled the trigger. He confided, “All I got was a very loud click.” Six tries later his magazine was empty but not a shot had been fired.
The next day a chagrined Bob Stevens took his pistol to the armorer’s shop for a diagnosis. The verdict: a broken
firing pin. Decades later he was able to laugh at himself: “The Japs would’ve got me after all.”
On Guam the victors cut loose in a spontaneous eruption of pure glee. For most men it meant an end to years of drudgery, the unavoidable and most common wartime experience. For the combat crews, it meant more: it meant they were young and alive and had a future.
Joyous youngsters shot rifles and pistols into the air; others ran about shouting, waving their arms, and exchanging heartfelt handshakes. A few admitted to crying.
But far sooner than anyone would have suspected, silence settled over Guam and the other islands. Engines fell silent; bombs lay inert; lights were dimmed; and, in Churchillian terms, young men slept the sleep of the saved.
Interregnum
Almost immediately General Carl Spaatz ordered a “display of air power . . . continuous and increasing between 19 August and V-J Day,” slated for September 2. The intent was to demonstrate America’s absolute military superiority beyond any possible doubt to Japan’s bitter-enders. Toward that purpose, Marianas-based B-29s and fighters were to rotate flying show-of-force missions in the Tokyo area, armed with machine gun ammunition but no bombs. However, weather and logistics interfered until the 30th.
Though the enemy had agreed to surrender on the 15th, there ensued a tentative testing of the waters by the Japanese, coupled with the Americans’ lurking dread that something might go wrong. Two days later it did.
On August 17, four brand-new B-32 Dominators from Okinawa photographed the Tokyo area and three were intercepted by Imperial Navy fighters. The Japanese were led by veterans: Ensign Saburo Sakai and Warrant Officer Sadamu Komachi, both multiple aces. In a prolonged shootout both sides scored hits but sustained no losses.
The next day, the 18th, two more unescorted B-32s again were attacked by Komachi’s flight. Gunners in Lieutenant John R. Anderson’s bomber claimed two definite kills but the defenders also scored. Anderson’s plane was badly damaged with an engine knocked out and three men badly wounded. On the return flight a photographer, Sergeant Anthony Marichone, bled to death. He became the last American combat fatality of World War II.
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