Value Unity
It is early in the Pacific War, 1943. The Marines have taken Guadalcanal and the Americans now have an airbase to use against the Japanese. On this night and the following day, that advantage bedeviled America’s public enemy number one.
To accomplish the impossible, everybody played their part, mechanics, pilots, commanders, and intelligence officers. Working as a team, they put America precisely where it wanted to be at the precise moment to succeed. Everyone working together.
Let us remember our veterans. They, better than most, understand the value of unity.
18 April 1943 0145 hours—Henderson Airfield, Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
Sparks from the welding torch peppered the long-cuffed glove of Marvin’s right hand. Its stiff and tattered leather covered greasy fingernails, a callous palm, and raw, bloody knuckles. The black glass on his gray hood revealed none of the intensity in the eyes reflecting only the fireworks showering from the underside of the P-38 Lightning’s wing.
Master Sergeant Devers was accustomed to rush jobs. Last-minute modifications, seat-of-your-pants reckoning, and shade tree engineering were all par for the course. He proudly called his finished creations Kentucky Custom, even though he hailed from Ladoga, Indiana. The ground crews stationed on Henderson Airfield, codenamed Cactus, and home of the 339th Fighter Squadron, could improvise with the best. But tonight’s project was a mother.
The big drop tanks had arrived late the previous afternoon, flown in by four B-24 Liberators from the 90th Bomb Group at Port Moresby, New Guinea.[1] Now Marvin and his men had the job of fitting 310-gallon external fuel pods to eighteen aircraft designed for 165-gallon tanks. They had to do it quickly. The squadron had to be in the air, in formation, and leave Henderson, at exactly 0715 hours.
“We’re lucky,” thought Marvin. “Washin’ Machine Charlie must have a date. I hope she keeps him busy all night.” The thrashing sound of the Japanese aircraft’s unsynchronized propellers was the unwelcome prelude to bombs falling and nearby explosions. It was a distraction that no one needed that night.
Marvin stepped out from under the wing and away from the intense floodlights. He moved to the front of the central nacelle, flipped up his welder’s hood and lit a cigarette. He leaned on Miss Virginia’s nosecone under the barrels of her four 50-calibre Browning machine guns and right above her 20mm Hispano AN-M2C cannon. In the light rain he scanned the rutted, packed-coral airfield and half a dozen other work bays.[2]
Sparks were flying, floodlights were blazing and men in dirty coveralls moved purposely under giant tarpaulins in the revetments. Through the patter of the rain and the hiss of welding torches he heard strains of Glen Miller’s Serenade in Blue lilting from a pilot’s tent.
He thought to himself, “Whatever this mission is, it’s a big one. The brass has been on the move for the better part of three days.”
Then he thought, “Break’s over. I better get busy installing that big-ass ship’s compass in the Major’s cockpit.”
Marvin had often heard the pilots complain about the fluxgate and magnetic compasses in the P-38s. The pilots told him that the only time they knew their exact direction was when they were lining up for takeoff. Only then could the instruments be swung into proper alignment.
Marvin thought, “Wherever these guys are headed, it must be hard to find. Mitchell doesn’t want to take any chances, either way… Mitchell’s the CO and the Old Man gets what he wants.”
Marvin was curious about where the squadron was headed. He’d heard the rumors about the mission and thought, “That son-of-a-bitch must be out there thinking he’s out of range. That would be the only reason for the big drop tanks.”
He poured a cup of coffee from a dented metal thermos, took a sip, grimaced, and tossed the rest to the ground. He did a little math in his head. “The normal fuel consumption of the twin Allison V-1710, supercharged, liquid-cooled engines at 2,300 RPM maximum cruise power is 113 gallons per hour. Two gallons a minute.[3]
“The Lightning has a 410-gallon internal fuel capacity, and his crews were outfitting each of the birds with a 310-gallon drop tank and a 165-gallon tank. The squadron would leave base with 885 gallons onboard. He divided 885 by 120 and estimated that the birds could be in the air for seven hours, if they didn’t see combat.”
A Lightning in combat sucked gasoline like a tornado so he cut his estimate in half.
The Lightning had a top speed of a little better than 400 miles per hour, but usually cruised around 260. “So,” thought Marvin, “If the birds could be aloft for four hours it meant they could cover roughly 1,000 miles.”
He assumed they’d return to Henderson. Marvin couldn’t think of another friendly airfield in the God-forsaken Pacific. He thought, “Whoever or whatever they are targeting could be 500 miles away. Wherever they are headed, it is deep into Japanese territory… on Palm Sunday.”
The rest of the night went by quickly. A little before 0700 hours, Marvin swung Mitchell’s compass for the third time. Then he climbed down from the cockpit to join the rest of his ground crewmen who were watching the P-38s make ready for takeoff. Blue smoke belched from exhaust ports as all thirty-six engines snarled to life.
“So far so good,” thought Marvin.
The din of eighteen planes ready for launch perked up his weary mind and body. The acoustic signature of a P-38 was unmistakable. The twin V-12s of a solo P-38 made a quiet whuffle sound because superchargers muffled their exhausts. But all the planes idling together created a sonic pulse and a thunderous rhythm all their own. The sound sent a wave of power and pride coursing through the ground crews.
At 0710 hours, CO Mitchell revved Miss Virginia’s powerful V-12s to full RPMs and planted his feet on the aircraft’s brakes. He checked the ship’s compass heading for the last time to make sure it lined up with the runway, released his brakes and was airborne seconds later. Once in the air he circled Henderson at 2,000 feet awaiting the others.
Seventeen planes made it into the air. One busted a tire when the over laden bird struck a jagged piece of metal planking as it trundled down the runway. A few minutes after the formation departed, another had to turn back to Henderson because of a drop tank, fuel-feed malfunction. By then, Marvin was in the mess tent having his breakfast of Spam, dried eggs, and more coffee.
Major John W. Mitchell now had sixteen birds to complete Operation Vengeance. He was told it was a mission to which, “The President attaches extreme importance.” His plan of attack had to be adjusted.
The two missing planes were shooters from the four-plane Killer Section of the squadron. Maintaining absolute radio silence, CO Mitchell hand-signaled for Lieutenants Hine and Holmes to move up in formation and join Captain Lanphier and Lieutenant Barber as attackers. That left twelve fighters for the Cover Section.
Mitchell had set up other visual signals to command the squadron in flight. When he wanted the formation to tighten, he wagged his wings and when he want them to spread out, he kicked his rudders to make Miss Virginia fishtail.[4]
By 0725 hours, the squadron was in the air and Mitchell led them on a slow descent to the water. They flew just above the waves on a northwesterly course that kept them at least fifty miles away from the Japanese-held islands of New Georgia, Vella Lavella, and the Treasuries. Mitchell watched helplessly as a P-38 less than one hundred feet in front dipped into the froth of a wave tip and splattered saltwater on Mitchell’s windshield. With the smooth green ocean just thirty feet below and the blue sky as a horizon, depth perception was dreadful. But skimming the waves was the only way to avoid Japanese radar and lookouts.
The P-38 Lightning was designed for high altitude service where the air is cold. The plane had no cooler for the cockpit, and the sun beat down on the pilots in their low-flying greenhouses. Every pilot knew that you couldn’t open the canopy of a P-38 in flight without generating severe buffeting. And buffeting was the last thing anybody wanted flying thirty feet above the ocean. Especially since not every pilot had an inflatable rubber dinghy onboard. These survival rafts were in short supply, so the pilots cut cards to see who would carry one. The theory went that if a man ditched without a raft, someone with a raft would circle and throw his dinghy from the cockpit.[5]
The men sweated, counted sharks, manta rays or driftwood and some, including Mitchell, grew dangerously drowsy. The CO had been up most of the night studying maps and plotting navigation. He had managed a couple hours shut eye and was back up at 0430 hours rechecking his calculations.
By 0800 hours, Mitchell’s squadron was 285 miles from the planned interception. Precisely fifteen minutes earlier, exactly on time just as their commander insisted, two Japanese G4M Mitsubishi Betty bombers, took to the air from Lakunai Field, Rabaul. They were escorted by six Zero fighters. Flying conditions were perfect, and all expected a precise 0945 hours touchdown at Buin on Ballale Island, 315 miles away, just as Magic said they would.
Magic was the codename for the American cryptography team tasked with breaking the Japanese JN25 code. An American radio post in the Aleutians had intercepted a high-level Japanese transmission four days earlier, and its decryption started the chain of events that launched the 339th Fighter Squadron.
Mitchell’s job was to find and surprise the Japanese formation. He had planned well and carefully thought through the navigation and attack. But the odds seemed long indeed. He figured their chance for success was one in a thousand.
Twenty minutes after the Japanese left Rabaul, Mitchell changed course for the first time. He carefully watched his airspeed, compass and time and swung the squadron slightly to the north. They were abreast of Vella Lavella a half hour later when they made their second planned course change shifting ever more slightly again to the north. Mitchell made their final planned correction at 0900 hours and headed northeast toward the coast of Bougainville, forty miles away. He directed the squadron to begin a slow climb and test fire their guns.
Minutes later, Old Eagle Eyes, Lieutenant Canning, broke radio silence with a cool, “Bogeys! Eleven o’clock high.” Against the eight-thousand-foot-high Crown Prince Mountain Range on the southern coast of Bougainville specks in the sky became a formation.
Mitchell couldn’t believe his eyes, but there they were. The Betties were in the lead at about 4,500 feet. The Zeros formed a V in two sections of three 1,500 feet above the bombers and slightly to the rear. Every plane was brightly painted and looked brand new. They were right on schedule, 0935 hours, exactly where Magic said they would be.
The P-38s jettisoned their drop tanks and Mitchell’s section hauled back on their yokes and slammed their throttles to the firewalls as they climbed for altitude to cover the attackers. The four killers went straight at the two Betty bombers, but Lieutenant Holmes could not drop his tanks. He tried to jar them free and peeled off down the coastline, violently juking his P-38, hoping to shake them loose. Lieutenant Hine, his wingman, followed for protection but could barely keep up with all of Holmes didos or trick maneuvers. That left Lanphier and Barber to close on the bombers.
The Betties were slightly above them at one or two o’clock. Lanphier and Barber angled for a right-turning, pursuit-curve attack. The Zeros spotted the two Lightnings while the Betties were still a mile ahead and two miles to the right. The Japanese fighters dropped their belly tanks and dove on the P-38s.
The lead Betty nosed down into a diving turn to escape. With the Zeros on them, Lanphier banked slightly left to meet them head on. He cut loose a burst of machine gun fire and blew the middle Zero from the air, scattering the other two. This freed Barber to go for the bombers.
Barber turned right and saw one Betty going hell bent for leather in a downward 360-degree spiraling turn headed for the jungle. Barber fired the P-38’s non-converging weapons across the top of the fuselage at the right engine. At the same time Barber slid over to get directly behind the target and his fire passed through the Betty’s tail. He saw pieces of the rudder separate from the plane.
Barber kept firing. His 20mm cannon shook the P-38 with its dull POM-POM-POM report. With the Betty just one hundred feet in front of him, it suddenly snapped to the left and slowed rapidly. Barber screamed by the doomed craft at 425 miles per hour and saw smoke pouring from the right engine.
In the next instant, three Zeros began firing on Barber’s tail. He shoved the yoke forward and headed for the coastline on the deck at minimum altitude, as fast as the P-38 could fly. And thankfully, that was faster than the Zeros.
Holmes had finally shaken the faulty drop tank and returned with Hine to chase the Japanese fighters off Barber’s tail. As Barber looked back to check for pursuers, he saw a column of black, oily smoke rise from the jungle.
Lanphier, after downing the Zero and scattering the formation, found himself at about 6,000 feet. Below, he spotted the wounded Betty flying across the jungle canopy and began firing a long, steady burst at right angles across its path. He felt he was too far away for a hit and was surprised to see the Betty’s right engine and right wing burst into flame.
Holmes spotted the second Betty diving towards the sea and gave pursuit with Hine on his wing. They were delivering heavy fire from behind when Barber joined the attack and sent the bomber cartwheeling into the sea. Barber closed so fast on the Betty that his yoke vibrated fiercely as he reached the compressibility limit of the aircraft. Had he dived faster; the tails would have come off. His momentum carried him through the exploding debris.
With the two Betties down, the mission was accomplished and the P-38’s broke off to return the 410 miles to Henderson as best they could. All made it back save for Lieutenant Hine, who was listed as missing in action.[6]
Lanphier’s Lightning came home with two 7.7mm rounds through his rudder. Barber’s fighter limped home with a busted intercooler, a dented gondola, paint damage everywhere, and one hundred and four bullet holes. When he heard the first plane land, Sergeant Devers poured coffee into his thermos from the mess tent percolator, and he and his ground crews went to work immediately.
Fleet Admiral William F. Bull Halsey was notified of the mission’s success when Henderson transmitted the code phrase “Pop goes the weasel.” The last sentence in that brief dispatch was a reference to Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo which had taken place one year earlier. It read, “April 18 seems to be our day.”
The Admiral signaled back, “Congratulations to you and Major Mitchell and his hunters. Sounds as though one of the ducks in their bag was a peacock.” The Admiral showed his gratitude by sending the squadron two cases of combat whiskey, a commodity previously impossible to come by through official channels.
Near Buin, Lieutenant Hamasuna’s Japanese road construction gang received radio orders to form a search party. They found the bomber’s wreckage in the jungle near Moila Point a mile from the Panguna-Buin Road late the following day. It was tail number 323, Yamamoto’s airplane.
The wings and propellers had survived, but the fuselage had broken just ahead of the Rising Sun insignia. The section forward from there to the cockpit was burned out. No one had survived the crash.
Admiral Yamamoto’s body was found outside the fuselage in a cabin seat with his safety harness fastened. His head was drooped forward as if in deep thought. He had been shot through the skull by a machine gun bullet. He wore white gloves, ribbons and medals, and his left hand grasped the hilt of his sword with his right resting lightly upon it. The Sword of the Emperor, ever swift. In his pockets were a diary and copies of poems.
Yamamoto’s body was brought back to Buin by Corvette. There it was autopsied and cremated on a mountain in a military ceremony.[7] His ashes were placed in a square white wooden box lined with papaya leaves. Two papaya trees were planted at the site of his cremation.[8] His ashes were returned to Japan where his death was announced a month later.
On June 5, Yamamoto’s ashes were placed in a small coffin over which was draped a white cloth. The coffin was carried through Tokyo on a black artillery caisson and the procession was led by a military band playing Chopin’s Funeral March.[9]
Three million mourners came to his state funeral in Tokyo. The coffin wound its way to Tama Cemetery where his urn was placed in a grave next to Yamamoto’s mentor, Admiral Tojo.
A second, private ceremony was held in Nagaoka, his hometown. There, half of his ashes were buried next to his adopted father on the grounds of a Zen temple. A stone marked the grave with the simple inscription: Killed in action in the South Pacific, April 1943.
The news came as a shock in Japan. Yamamoto was the most popular military leader, second only to the Emperor. He was only the second commoner to be granted a state funeral.
Yamamoto was the driving force behind the Japanese war effort. He was more an icon than a man. But instead of boosting the morale of his troops after their defeat at Midway and the loss of Guadalcanal, as was his intent, his trip demoralized millions.
Americans were elated. Yamamoto’s name was synonymous with the attack on Pearl Harbor and they saw his death as payback. The news of Yamamoto’s death was held by the American military until the Japanese made their announcement. The Americans did this hoping to conceal the fact that the Japanese code had been compromised.
The Americans played their hand well. Even considering the surprise attack and the deadly efficiency of the American squadron, the Japanese refused to believe that anyone could break their code. They continued to pay the price of hubris.
In Yamamoto’s safe aboard the warship Musahi, navy officers found an epic poem in the Admiral’s hand. In Japanese, the form precisely alternated five and seven syllables per line. Linguists have paraphrased it thus:
Since the war began, tens of thousands of officers and men of matchless loyalty and courage have done battle at the risk of their lives, and have died to become guardian gods of our land.
Ah, how can I ever enter the imperial presence again? With what words can I possibly report to the parents and brothers of my dead comrades?
The body is frail, yet with a firm mind with unshakable resolve I will drive deep into the enemy’s positions and let him see the blood of a Japanese man.
Wait but a while, young men! – one last battle, fought gallantly to the death, and I will be joining you.[10]
– SJH Copyright © 2020 Steven James Hantzis
Endnotes
[1] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 39).
[2] “Lockheed P-38 Lightning – USA” The Aviation History Online Museum Retrieved June 15, 2007 Online: http://www.aviation-history.com/lockheed/p38.html.
[3] “The Jeff Ethell P-38 Crash” AVweb Retrieved June 15, 2007 Online: http://www.avweb.com/news/safety/183014-1.html.
[4] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 57).
[5] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 28).
[6] “Rex Barber – Hero of the Yamamoto Mission – Heads West” 18th Fighter Wing Association Retrieved June 15, 2007 Online: http://www.18thfwa.org/statusReports/srpt25/page1.html.
The account of this highly disputed dogfight was largely taken from a source that supports Barber’s claim to have shot down Yamamoto. (18th Fighter Wing Association, Status Report No. 25, October 2001.) Lanphier also claims to have downed the Admiral’s airplane. The U.S. Army awarded a split-killer to each of the fighter pilots. The after-mission debriefing was delayed and horribly executed. The facts were never well-spelled out. In 1997, the American Fighter Aces Association gave Barber 100 percent credit for the shoot down of the bomber carrying Yamamoto. In 1998, the Confederate Air Force recognized that Barber alone and unassisted brought down Yamamoto’s aircraft and inducted him into the American Combat Airman Hall of Fame.
For further background see:
Rebecca Grant. “Magic and Lightening” Air Force Magazine March 2006 Retrieved June 15, 2007 Online: www.syma.org.
[7] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 106).
[8] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 106).
[9] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 110).
[10] Shelby L. Stanton. World War II Order of Battle (New York, NY: Galahad Books, 1984, p. 109).
