“I’m sorry about that,” Farrow supposedly answered. “We are only temporary personnel and did not receive full training, so we cannot be sure of hitting the target. Moreover, at the time the Japanese Army was firing anti-aircraft guns at us so all I cared for was to drop the bombs as quickly as possible and go. This is why homes were destroyed and civilians were killed.”
“You fired at the children in the primary school on your way out to the sea after leaving the city of Nagoya, didn’t you?”
“Really, I’m sorry about that,” the South Carolinian repeated. “There was a place which looked like a school, with many people there. As a parting shot, with a feeling of ‘damn these Japs,’ I made a power dive and carried out some strafing. There was absolutely no defensive fire from below.”
The Japanese likewise cast Harold Spatz as a gunner bent on revenge. “I aimed at the children in the school yard and strafed,” he supposedly said. “My personal feeling at that time was to feed these ‘Japs’ their own medicine.”
The raid had in fact killed civilians and some children, which the Japanese used as a political weapon. Just as Roosevelt had capitalized on the mission’s success to help bolster American morale, the Japanese used the attack to outrage and unite the rattled public. The bogus confessions served as the perfect tool to ignite that fury—and set the stage for a trial that could land the captured airmen in front of a firing squad.
Although many of the bogus confessions incriminated the aviators, the Japanese used others to tar senior American leaders, particularly Doolittle—the nation’s new hero. That was the case with Jacob DeShazer’s confession. “We thought that it would be permissible to drop the bombs as rapidly as possible, killing, injuring, and confusing as many as possible,” the bombardier said. “Col. Doolittle and other senior officers, and of course, the pilot, too, did not give us any special precautions. Of course, the original target was the oil tanks; though the civilian homes around the tanks were also sought.”
Bob Meder’s confession went even further, not only blaming Doolittle but also pointing out that this savage new form of warfare was how America fought. How else could the United States weaken Japanese resolve?
“You bombed many homes of civilians and killed many of them, besides hitting the factories; what do you think about that?”
“We didn’t mind their casualties too much because Col. Doolittle, in his order, did not specially caution us to avoid bombing them.”
“Don’t you even feel sorry about injuring innocent women and children?”
“As an individual, I personally feel sorry, but I think that it is inevitable in modern warfare. We cannot help but ignore such conditions because demoralization of the people achieves one of our objectives.”
ONE OF THE OBJECTIVES of William Standley, America’s ambassador to Russia, was to sort out the diplomatic mess caused by Ski York and his crew. Standley had been shocked by the news that one of Doolittle’s crews had landed in Vladivostok—information the Russian government failed to disclose for three days. The first report the ambassador had received was that the Russians planned to intern the raiders near Khabarovsk, a decision made without consultation with the American authorities—just as the crew had suspected.
A four-star admiral who had served as chief of naval operations from 1933 to 1937, Standley had arrived in Russia to begin his ambassadorship barely two weeks earlier. He sat down for his first meeting at the Kremlin with Soviet leader Joseph Stalin two days later, on April 23, a meeting that touched on the fate of the raiders.
“Of course, Mr. Ambassador, they should not have landed on Soviet territory,” Stalin said. “We’ll have to intern them in accordance with International Law.”
To Standley’s relief, Stalin displayed “no annoyance” over the matter and “regretted” the need to intern the crew. The Soviet leader said the airmen were safe and would be well cared for in Russia, adding that the pilot claimed to have run out of fuel and been forced to divert. Standley told him that the other bombers had flown to China as ordered and that this one must have been unable reach Chinese territory.
The United States still hoped to smuggle the aviators out—a plan that involved assigning them to the embassy as assistant military attachés—since so far only the Russian and American governments knew of the bomber’s diversion. That hope was dashed the following day in a press conference in Kuibyshev, Russia’s wartime capital, located on the banks of the Volga River some five hundred miles east of Moscow.
“What would happen if an American plane was forced to land on Soviet territory after bombing Japan?” an American reporter had asked.
The question floored Solomon Lozovsky, head of the Soviet Information Bureau, who knew Japanese correspondents were present. “There’s no use talking about something which may never happen,” he stammered.
The Russians feared the ruse was up. Afraid of possible Japanese retaliation, Russia opted to release the news, blaming America afterward for the leak. Standley was embarrassed. “Look, fellows,” he told reporters. “I’ve really nothing for you. The Soviet Government acted in the only way they could, once the news was out.”
Standley sat down on the evening of April 25 with Foreign Minister Vyacheslav Molotov, who complained that the bomber’s diversion to Russia had only complicated relations with Japan. Standley told him that General Marshall expressed appreciation for the courtesy Russia had extended to the crew and assured them that the landing was “wholly unintentional.” “After thanking me for this message Molotov asked me to request my Government to take adequate steps to prevent such landings in the future,” the ambassador wrote in his report of the meeting. “I stated that I felt sure that my Government had already issued such instructions.”
Standley followed up with a personal note to Molotov, requesting permission for an American representative to visit the interned airmen. The Russian foreign minister responded on April 27, “stating in effect that since the crew was being transferred to a region nearer the center of the USSR the visit could not be made at the present time; that upon the arrival of the crew at the new place of residence I would be advised when and where my representative might visit the crew.”
The possibility of a visit with the crew excited officials at the War Department, where analysts were busy sifting through Japanese propaganda broadcasts to decipher important details of the raid. Secretary of State Hull fired off a telegram to Standley with eight questions the War Department wanted answered. Those included the route flown as well as details on the enemy opposition encountered, from fighters and barrage balloons to antiaircraft fire. The department further requested specifics on the targets attacked and the results as well as on the measures Japan took to camouflage its factories and industries. “Of course, information regarding the welfare and living conditions of the crew and their treatment is desired,” the message concluded. “It might also be possible to take from them messages for relatives and friends in the United States.”
American officials weren’t the only ones interested in the crew. Of the eighty airmen who had participated in the raid, Japan had managed to capture just eight. York’s crew represented a chance to increase that number. The ambassador to Russia, Naotake Sato, a career diplomat and former Japanese foreign minister, threatened his Soviet counterparts, according to American intelligence intercepts. “If the Soviet merely intern American aircraft which lands in Maritime provinces after raiding Japan, they will, in effect, be providing Americans with a base, inconsistent with the neutrality treaty and dangerous to Soviet-Japanese relationship,” Sato argued. “If the incident were repeated on a large scale Japan could not accept responsibility for consequences.” Further instructions from Tokyo days later told Sato to make clear that it was not all right for Russia to “merely intern the planes and crews.”
Russia refused to be bullied, arguing that internment was in line with international law and therefore did not violate the Soviet-Japanese Neutrality Pact. Though Russia would “endeavor
to avoid” any misunderstandings, officials emphasized that Japan needed to back off. “Whatever steps are taken the Soviet government is to decide,” Russia countered on April 30. “Any criticisms of the steps we take must be made on the principle of friendly nations. Any act contravening this principle is to be condemned. No complaints should be made unless made in a friendly spirit.”
Tokyo ordered Sato to again press the issue. “If the United States sees that the Soviet winks at this sort of mischief, the United States will keep doing it on a larger scale. Therefore, it is essential to stop it before it starts,” Tokyo instructed Sato to argue. “The United States cannot bomb Japan unless she does so from someone else’s territory.” Then there was the matter of York’s bomber. “Since the other planes which escaped headed for Central China, it is evident that this lone plane fled intentionally in the direction it took,” Tokyo warned. “One more occurrence will necessitate measures on our part and have a tremendous influence on our mutual relations.”
Despite Japan’s threats, its pressure was limited. While Russia was bogged down in the west against Germany—and reluctant to open a second front in the east—Japan likewise could not risk another fight so close to home. If war broke out between Japan and Russia, America would no doubt flood the latter with bombers that would then day after day pound Tokyo, Osaka, and Nagoya, forcing Japan to recall its forces to defend the homeland. Sato understood this reality and on May 7 cautioned his superiors to back down: was the fate of this one bomber crew worth another war? “I advise that we discard all small feelings against the Soviet Union and work towards a softening of feelings,” Sato wrote. “Basically, the main idea is for us to take a friendly attitude toward the Soviet Union and make them become less watchful of us and eventually to draw them toward us.”
Against the backdrop of these contentious negotiations, Russia relocated York and his crew in late April. Guards at the dacha in Khabarovsk ushered the airmen into several cars around 10 p.m. and drove for half an hour, stopping alongside a single railcar parked at a siding outside of the city. The raiders climbed aboard to find an aisle on one side with compartments along the other. The dim glow of candles—shielded from the outside by blackout curtains—illuminated primitive compartments that featured little more than wooden benches without cushions and no floor carpeting. Overhead racks held rolled-up straw mattresses, and the smell of dirt hung in the air. “It didn’t take us long,” Emmens recalled, “to figure that we were going to be sitting on those hard benches in the daytime and at night we would be sprawled on those straw mattresses.”
Crews outside loaded the car with loaves of black bread, three-foot bolognas, tins of caviar, and cases of vodka—all of which the airmen realized pointed to a long trip. A train engine soon arrived and attached to the railcar, pulling it to a nearby station to link it up with a longer train. About midnight the train set out west for what turned out to be a twenty-one-day journey along the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The scenery at times was beautiful as the train rolled through forests and alongside rivers. Some days the conductor pulled onto sidings to allow other trains to pass, including many loaded down with troops headed to fight the Germans. Unlike the raiders, who traveled in compartments, Russian forces crammed into boxcars without bunks and only straw to cover the floor. Horses and men occasionally even crowded together.
The poverty amazed the fliers; everyone seemed to be dressed in rags. Beggars crowded around the windows in train stations, pleading for bread crusts. “The children were the most impressive,” Emmens wrote. “Bands of them dressed in absolute tatters, no shoes, and covered with filth—completely black, some of them—roved the railroad station area and begged for food.” A scene in Omsk particularly troubled the pilot. “One of the children had nothing on but a piece of dirty cloth with a hole cut in it for his head,” Emmens wrote. “It had no bottom and no sleeves. The lower half of him was as naked as the day he was born. His stomach, like those of 80 per cent of the children we saw, protruded from lack not only of proper food, but of any kind of food.”
After seventeen days the train neared Kuibyshev, Russia’s wartime capital and home to all the foreign embassies.
“I think your people will be expecting you,” Mike, the translator-guard, announced.
The news thrilled the airmen, who after a month in Russia, had yet to see anyone from the American embassy or consulate. The night before the train arrived, they hustled to get ready. “We shined our brass. We made a list of things we were running out of. We needed toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap, shaving cream, and lotion. And we would ask for some cigarettes,” Emmens later wrote. “And, of course, we would give them messages to send home to our families saying that we were okay.”
The train pulled into the station at 5:30 a.m. Mike locked the airmen in the compartments and departed with a final request from them to contact the embassy and make sure American officials knew they were there. The airmen waited anxiously. An hour passed, then two; morning turned into afternoon. The fliers grew glum. Mike and the other guards arrived back at dusk, smelling of soap and vodka, having spent the day bathing and drinking, as opposed to tracking down diplomats. “Not one word did we hear from the American Embassy,” Emmens recalled, “nothing.”
The train pulled out of the station that evening, once again chugging west. A few days later, on May 19, it reached Okhuna, a small village about ten miles from Penza. A half dozen Soviet officers welcomed the fliers, ushering them into waiting cars for a twenty-minute ride through an area with no paved streets or sidewalks. “The same sad and bitter-looking people were trudging slowly along the paths,” Emmens recalled. “Again, only rags constituted their clothing.”
The cars rolled up to the compound, which was surrounded by a tall wooden fence and guarded by a gate. Inside the men found three buildings, including a guesthouse where York settled alone in one bedroom, while the others paired off into shared quarters. The rooms offered clothes racks along with iron cots and kapok-filled mattresses. Despite the coarse sheets and blankets, the men considered the quarters comfortable.
“Well, here we are!” Emmens announced to his roommate, Nolan Herndon.
“Yeah,” Herndon replied, “where?”
CHAPTER 21
As parents of one of your brave men our eternal gratitude is yours.
—MR. AND MRS. EDMUND MILLER, MAY 20, 1942, TELEGRAM
DOOLITTLE ARRIVED BACK IN the United States on May 18, after a two-week journey that took him through India, North Africa, and even South America. A staff car awaited him at the airport in Washington, whisking him directly to the War Department, where he met with General Arnold. Doolittle debriefed the general about the mission, pointing out his concerns for the captured aircrews and the loss of the bombers. Arnold assured him the loss of the bombers was not a problem. The two men then met with General Marshall, whom Doolittle found in surprisingly good humor.
Afterward Arnold instructed the new brigadier general to go to the uniform store and buy some new clothes and then head home to his apartment at 2500 Q Street, in northwest Washington, and remain out of sight until Arnold called him. Joe Doolittle meanwhile was in Los Angeles, tending to her sick mother. Arnold had secretly phoned her in advance of her husband’s arrival, inviting her to Washington. Joe Doolittle flew all night on a commercial plane to Pittsburgh, landing the morning of May 19; there an Army officer ushered her onto a military transport to Washington.
Arnold rang Doolittle late that morning and told him he would swing by the apartment and retrieve him in a few moments. The general just two weeks earlier had sent a final memo to the president, giving him an ultimate tally of the mission’s outcome and taking a swipe at the Japanese. “With the 15 planes reported located in East China, 1 interned in Siberia, and 1 which the Japanese claim is on exhibition, there is a total of 17 accounted for—which is 1 more than we sent over.”
The car pulled up outside Doolittle’s apartment, and to his surprise both Arnold and General Marshall sat in the back
seat. Doolittle saluted and climbed in the front with the driver. The car pulled away from the curb. Doolittle waited for someone to tell him where the men were headed, but neither Arnold nor Marshall spoke. Doolittle finally could not contain his curiosity any longer and asked.
“Jim,” Arnold answered, “we’re going to the White House.”
“Well, I’m not a very smart fellow and I don’t want to embarrass anyone,” Doolittle said. “What are we going to do there?”
“The President is going to give you the Medal of Honor,” Marshall interjected.
The raid had thrilled Marshall, who later wrote that it “was successful far beyond our most optimistic hopes.” He had a week earlier sent a secret memo to Arnold, outlining the details of Doolittle’s honor and his ideas for an elaborate media rollout. He had directed Arnold to prepare a press release and even a proposed statement for Doolittle. “It will be necessary to keep this citation secret for a long time,” Marshall advised. “However, the fact of the award of the Medal of Honor should be made public the day it becomes known that Doolittle is in town. I wish to arrange the affair so that he is kept under cover until received by the President and decorated.”
Doolittle was floored by the honor—and immediately protested. “General, that award should be reserved for those who risk their lives trying to save someone else,” Doolittle argued. “Every man on our mission took the same risk I did. I don’t think I’m entitled to the Medal of Honor.”
Doolittle watched as Arnold’s cheeks turned red with anger and Marshall suddenly scowled. He knew he had just offended them both.
“I happen to think you do,” Marshall shot back.
The car fell silent. “This was the only time Hap ever got mad at me and General Marshall ever spoke sternly to me,” he later wrote. “The highest-ranking man in Army uniform had made his decision. It was neither the time nor the place for me to argue.”
Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor Page 43