“I don’t want to set the world on fire—just Tokyo,” someone scrawled in chalk on one bomb. Other inscriptions read, “You’ll get a BANG out of this!” and “Bombs Made in America and Laid in Japan.” Marine Corporal Larry Bogart, the skipper’s orderly, honored his girlfriend and his parents. “This one is from Peggy,” he wrote on one, and on another, “This is from Mom and Pop Bogart.” “We painted them all up with slogans and almost everybody autographed them,” recalled Robert Noone, a signal officer on the Hornet. “We were proud to take part in the venture.”
Men from the extra bomber crews pleaded to get on a flight, waving fistfuls of cash. “One of the most vivid memories I have of the Tokyo raid is of a group of men who were willing to pay $150 apiece to die,” Thad Blanton later wrote. “These men tried every way they knew how to beg, borrow or steal a seat on the raid.” None of the sixteen crews would give up a spot, a feeling well captured by Reddy in his diary. “It would take more than money could buy to secure my place on this trip.”
Doolittle held a final meeting with his men in the wardroom. He kept his instructions brief, warning that takeoff could happen at any moment. Under no circumstances were the men to fly to Vladivostok. He reiterated his demand that no one target the emperor’s palace or any other nonmilitary target. “If all goes well,” Doolittle told his men, “I’ll take off so as to arrive over Tokyo at dusk. The rest of you will take off two or three hours later and can use my fires as a homing beacon.”
He gave his men, as always, a final chance to bow out.
None did.
Doolittle concluded with a promise.
“When we get to Chungking,” he told them, “I’m going to give you all a party that you won’t forget.”
The men dispersed, and Lawson climbed into bed the night of the seventeenth. Across the task force others did the same; the risk of sudden danger prompted many to slip beneath the sheets still in uniform.
“Listen, you fellows, there’s going to be no card playing in here tonight,” one of Lawson’s naval roommates ordered the others. “Lawson’s got to get some sleep for a change. He might need it.”
LIEUTENANT COLONEL EDWARD ALEXANDER and Major Edward Backus lifted off on April 13 from Chungking in a twin-engine DC-3 cargo plane to make final preparations for the Chinese airfields to receive Doolittle and his men. The Army aviators planned to fly first to Chengtu and swap the lumbering American cargo plane for two Chinese fighters, before pressing on to Kweilin, Kian, Yushan, Chuchow, and Lishui. Special Aviation Project No. 1 remained a guarded secret. Rather than risk making arrangements via radio, the Army wanted Alexander to personally brief airfield commanders on the operation. Even the use of two Chinese fighters as opposed to a single cargo plane was designed to prevent any enemy spies from questioning why an American plane had visited such remote airfields. “My instructions were to maintain absolute secrecy,” Alexander wrote in his report. “Therefore this flight was undertaken without advising the Chinese Air Force or any one in China of the intended destination.”
Alexander’s orders were to make sure local airfield commanders assembled everything necessary to help the Tokyo raiders. The airfield at Kweilin would need 10,000 gallons of 100-octane fuel and 100 gallons of 120-grade lubricating oil; each of the other stations would require just 5,000 gallons of fuel and 100 gallons of lube oil. Alexander also would have to instruct local personnel on how to rapidly refuel the bombers, allowing Doolittle and his men to remain on the ground as little as possible in a region that straddled the front lines with Japanese forces. Furthermore, local commanders would need English-speaking personnel, landing flares, and radio transmitters to broadcast homing signals to help guide the raiders. “Signal transmitted will consist of figure 57, key held down 1 minute, figure 57, key held down 1 minute, figure 57, then off for 1 minute,” advised a cable from Chungking. “This signal will be repeated continuously for 2 hours before daylight on the date you specify.”
That date was April 20.
The message traffic that filled folders in Washington and Chungking indicated that preparations in China progressed smoothly. Stilwell had requested a range of details, from the size of bomber fuel openings down to whether the fliers would need food and water. But those messages proved little more than a bureaucratic veneer over the ragtag efforts to make arrangements in China, driven in part by Arnold’s refusal to brief Stilwell on the true nature of the operation. The forced secrecy, poor communication, and distrust of Chinese leaders and the remote and unsecure airfields at the mission’s terminus combined to create a possible disaster for Doolittle and his men, a likelihood that only increased as the Hornet steamed closer to Japan. As evidence of those challenges, Alexander’s mission to inspect the airfields was not the first such attempt. Stilwell’s air operations officer, Colonel Clayton Bissell, had ten days earlier dispatched a lieutenant in an aged C-39 cargo plane, instructing him to swallow his notes if captured. “Neither Lieut. Spurrier nor the C-39 are considered suitably equipped for the execution of the assigned mission,” Bissell confessed in his report, “but there is no alternative.”
Bissell’s assessment proved sadly accurate. Spurrier’s plane crashed before he could complete the mission, but Alexander drew an important lesson from Spurrier’s failure—he elected to use two fighters this time, in part to double the mission’s chances of success. Aside from logistical problems, other challenges arose that also threatened the operation. Japanese bombers accompanied by fighters twice blasted the two most eastern airfields on April 1, destroying 4,500 gallons of gasoline. Bombers returned the next day and targeted the three most eastern airfields, though this time inflicting negligible damage. The airfield at Lishui came under Japanese attack on April 3. Tokyo claimed in radio broadcasts to have launched the raids because America had lengthened the runways so as to be able to use them to bomb Japan. This struck Vinegar Joe as more than just a coincidence. “Three essential fields have all been bombed,” Stilwell confided in his diary. “Leak? Or just precaution by the Japs? Suspect talk in Washington.”
Alexander and Backus landed the DC-3 at Chengtu, departing again at 4 p.m. in two Curtis Hawk fighters. Weather reports predicted poor conditions around Kweilin. Alexander pressed on, only to find that the low-lying clouds over the mountains and valleys made it impossible to land. “The surface weather conditions at the place and time were approximately zero zero. The top of the overcast was at 12,000 feet,” he wrote in his report. “The pursuit aircraft are not equipped for night flying or with radios.” The pilots had no choice but to turn back toward Chungking. Arriving over the Chinese capital at 6:30 p.m., they found the area buried in clouds. Alexander dove through the clouds and managed to land his plane on a sandbar in the Chia-ling River, though his fighter struck river boulders and wrecked the landing gear. Backus refused to risk it and bailed out with his parachute. The men rushed by the fastest means possible to the nearest airfield, at Sui-ning, arriving there three days later.
Alexander and Backus set out again from Chengtu on April 17, this time in a DC-3 carrying four Chinese radio operators to be stationed at Kian, Yushan, Chuchow, and Lishui, each one conversant in English. Poor weather combined with radio failure, however, forced the plane to put down for the night at Kunming. The Army airmen refused to give up, taking off again the next morning. The urgency to complete the mission led Alexander to arrange through the Chinese air force for homing signals as well as radio assistance to help with the landing. Flying at times on instruments, the DC-3 finally reached Kweilin, circling for half an hour above cloud-covered peaks that reached up to fifteen thousand feet. Efforts to raise the ground by radio failed. Alexander had no choice yet again but to turn back. “It is to be particularly noted that concrete procedures and understandings had been arrived at with the Chinese as to radio assistance at Kweilin,” he stressed in his report. “Yet, none was available.”
Struggles continued to mount on the political front as well. Chiang Kai-shek had initially agreed to the use
of the five airfields in late March, though he did not know the bombers would arrive after a raid on Tokyo. War conditions in China, however, continued to deteriorate, prompting Chiang to urge American leaders to postpone the operation until the end of May, a move he argued would give his ground forces time to protect Chuchow from possible Japanese occupation. The generalissimo further requested that the bombers be diverted to attack Japanese forces in Burma and in the Bay of Bengal. General Marshall fired off an urgent message on April 12 to Stilwell. Delay was not an option: a sixteen-ship task force and ten thousand sailors steamed toward Japan. “Execution of first special mission is so imminent that it is impossible to recall,” Marshall cabled. “Their arrival at field agreed upon should be immediately anticipated and all arrangements perfected.” Arnold followed up the next day. “First project cannot be stopped,” he cabled. “We are depending on your assistance as regards flares for landing and guidance and supplies for refueling.”
Stilwell met with Chiang on April 14, reporting that the generalissimo still pressed for a delay. The general followed up the next day with news that Chiang demanded that officials voice his concerns again to senior leaders in Washington. The generalissimo refused to allow the bombers to land at Chuchow, but reluctantly consented to the use of the other four airfields as well as one at Heng-yang. An astute politician as well as warrior, Marshall hastened to prevent any political fallout, directing Stilwell to explain America’s position to the generalissimo. “We regret the apparent misunderstanding concerning the timing of the first special mission,” Marshall instructed Stilwell to tell Chiang. “It appears that we must have failed to make our intentions sufficiently clear to the Generalissimo because we have understood for some weeks that the project was desired by him. The necessity for absolute secrecy did not permit reference to the matter except in the most guarded language.”
Marshall framed the operation as though it were motivated by American altruism to help the generalissimo, noting that airmen and bombers would remain in China afterward to fly other missions. American leaders therefore assumed Chiang would want the operation to take place as soon as possible. Absent from Marshall’s message was any mention of what the United States hoped to gain or of the horrific fallout everyone from Marshall down to Doolittle knew would soon befall the Chinese. “The project is now so far advanced that it is impossible to recall,” Marshall concluded. “Please inform the Generalissimo that I deeply regret the lack of a complete understanding with him on this point and sincerely hope that no embarrassment will be occasioned to him by the incident.” Marshall’s final words were for Stilwell. “Please report to the War Department promptly,” he ordered, “the first news you may have of the accomplishment of this special project with the strength of the detachment completing the task.”
Chiang’s repeated objections caused enough alarm that General Arnold ordered a one-page memo sent April 16 to Roosevelt. Marshall followed up the next day with a message to Chiang, directing Stilwell to present it personally. “I want personally to express to you my deep regret that this matter was not brought to your attention in detail, at its inception,” Marshall wrote. “The president is fully appreciative of your difficult situation and is particularly anxious that all our operations in your region be under your complete control and in conformity with your desires. Since he has learned that you consider the execution of this mission undesirable at this time he would be very glad to cancel it if this were possible and he regrets that he cannot now do so because of the imminence of execution. He is therefore especially grateful to you for the very effective measures you have directed to be taken to make the venture a success.”
Marshall messaged Stilwell on April 18. This time his concerns focused not on Chiang but on the actual operation. America wanted to keep the mission a secret. “Desire that there be no repeat no publicity of any kind connected with the special bombing mission,” Marshall ordered. “It is our purpose to maintain an atmosphere of complete mystery including origin, nationality, destination, and results of this type of effort. So far as public information is concerned you are directed to deny all knowledge of the incident and of any connection therewith. You are directed also to make earnest request upon the Generalissimo to observe this policy and to cooperate with you in the effort. As quickly as you obtain any definite information of this affair, either through survivors or otherwise, you are directed to render a report by urgent message to the War Department.”
CHAPTER 10
Measures now in hand by Pacific Fleet have not been conveyed to you in detail because of secrecy requirements but we hope you will find them effective when they can be made known to you shortly.
—FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT TO WINSTON CHURCHILL, APRIL 16, 1942
THE DARKENED TASK FORCE cut through the swells at twenty knots in the predawn hours of April 18, 1942, more than eight hundred miles from Tokyo. The Hornet led the armada on a course almost due west at 267 degrees trailed by the carrier Enterprise. The cruisers Northampton and Vincennes steamed off the Hornet’s starboard bow while the Nashville and Salt Lake City covered the port. At 3:10 a.m. Enterprise radar operators reported two surface craft off the port bow at a range of 21,000 yards, or twelve miles. Two minutes later a distant light appeared on approximately the same bearing. General quarters immediately sounded, and throughout the carrier sailors sprang from bunks and darted to battle stations, readying ammunition and yanking off gun covers. The news broadcast to the crew was short: “Two enemy surface craft reported.”
Though Halsey’s four cruisers and two carriers far outgunned the enemy vessels, the veteran admiral knew better than to engage and ruin the element of surprise, if radar had not already alerted the enemy. The overcast skies void of moon and stars shrouded his force in darkness at a time when he needed to push on as far as possible, even if that was only until dawn. Every hour—every mile—now mattered. Halsey ordered the task force via a high-frequency, short-range radio to come right ninety degrees. The contacts faded from the Enterprise’s radar at 3:41 a.m. at a range of fifteen miles. The ship relaxed from general quarters, resuming a westerly course at 4:15 a.m. At first light three scout bombers roared off the Enterprise’s flight deck to patrol two hundred miles west while three more bombers and eight fighters took off for combat and inner air patrols.
Dawn revealed how much the weather had continued to deteriorate as the task force closed in on the enemy’s homeland. Low broken clouds swept across the empty horizon, peppered by frequent rainsqualls. Winds of as much as thirty knots whipped up white caps that broke across the bows of Halsey’s force. Journalist Robert Casey on board the Salt Lake City captured the scene best in his diary. “Went on deck at 5 o’clock to face a howling wind. Sky gray. Sea pitching,” the Chicago Daily News reporter wrote. “Water is rolling down the decks, sometimes a couple of feet deep. It’s hard keeping upright.” Doolittle raider Ken Reddy ventured up top of the Hornet, recording a similar scene that morning in his diary. “The sea was rough and the airplanes were pulling against their ropes like circus elephants against their chains.”
Lieutenant j.g. Osborne Wiseman was patrolling the skies ahead of the task force at 5:58 a.m., when he spotted a small fishing boat bobbing atop the dark waters. The naval aviator, following orders, did not attack, but attempted to avoid detection. He circled back and buzzed the carrier, alerting Halsey via message drop of the boat forty-two miles ahead. Wiseman noted that he believed enemy lookouts had spotted him. Halsey again chose not to engage, but ordered the task force to swing southwest, a move that gave him only a brief reprieve as Hornet lookouts spotted another patrol at 7:38 a.m. at a range of more than eight miles. Radio operators on the ninety-ton Nitto Maru No. 23, part of Admiral Yamamoto’s defensive net, fired off a message to Tokyo: “Three enemy carriers sighted. Position, 600 nautical miles east of Inubosaki.”
The time to fight had arrived.
The Nashville sounded general quarters and via flag hoist requested permission to fire. Halsey gave the order
at 7:52 a.m. The cruiser opened fire one minute later with its main battery at a range of nine thousand yards, or about five miles. The fifteen six-inch guns—mounted three to a turret—thundered across the open sea, each capable of hurling a 130-pound projectile almost fifteen miles. The guns barked again and again. Armor-piercing projectiles pounded into the waves around the target at 2,500-feet per second, throwing up so much spray that the Nitto Maru appeared to vanish.
The Nashville ceased fire at 7:55 a.m. to allow the spray to settle and then resumed the assault one minute later. Even firing at a rate of almost 150 rounds per minute, the hail of projectiles continued to miss. Heavy swells with a height from crest to trough of twenty feet obscured the trawler, leaving only the mast tops visible. Furthermore, many of the wave tops shielded the Nitto Maru, intercepting the cruiser’s fire. The Nashville increased speed to twenty-five knots and closed to 4,500 yards, swinging to port in order to shoot straight down the wave troughs.
The cruiser’s heavy gunfire sparked excitement throughout the task force as anxious sailors, airmen, and journalists all struggled for a glimpse of the battle. “Terrific barrage with 15 six-inch guns. Shells are tossed like machine-gun bullets—eight salvos in the air at once,” Casey wrote in his diary. “Flashes run around ship like lights on an electric sign.” The scene likewise amazed Life magazine editor John Field. “Her guns blazed big and red,” he wrote, “and rolled like thunder.”
Hornet fighter pilot John Sutherland found the experience surreal. “I remember thinking that it was a very curious way to watch my first active engagement,” he recalled. “We stood out on the flight deck watching the fire between our ships and the meager return from the Japanese, much in the manner of tennis players that you see in the newsreels with their heads going back and forth watching the action.”
Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor Page 21