These thoughts were still with Komachi as he negotiated the tricky crosswind approach to Oppama. After landing he taxied his fighter to its revetment, noting as he did so that he was apparently the last to return from the sortie against the American aircraft. He shut down his plane’s engine and climbed from the cockpit, then walked slowly back to the base command post, enveloped in silence and, as he later recalled, “recognizing the crime” he felt he had just committed.15 His dark mood was matched by those of the other aviators and ground personnel gathered in the briefing area, for they had just been personally informed by both the Yoko Ku’s Kogure and the admiral in charge of the entire Yokosuka naval district that their war was now definitively and irrevocably over: at that very moment ground crewmen were beginning to empty the fuel tanks and remove the propellers of all the base’s aircraft. Although no charges were to be filed against the pilots who had taken part in the interceptions that day and the day before, the admiral said, any further acts of defiance against the emperor’s decision and the orders of the navy’s senior leaders would be considered mutiny and would be dealt with as harshly as naval regulations allowed.
The following morning—even as the Japanese delegation was winging its way to Ie Shima on the first leg of the flight to Manila—Komachi and his fellow Yoko Ku pilots got news none had ever expected to receive. Having been called together for another meeting with Kogure, the airmen were abruptly told that their naval careers were over as of that moment. They were directed to leave Oppama immediately and return to their home towns—an instruction Komachi and many of the others believed was specifically intended to keep them from undertaking any further mayhem against Allied forces. The commander did not express it directly, but he also implied that the men might want to destroy any official records in their possession in case the victors should decide to prosecute them for their wartime actions—or for their post-ceasefire interceptions of the American bombers. That chilling intimation was followed by what most of the aviators likely perceived as a final slap in the face—although they would be able to travel home by train for free if they wore their uniforms, they would not receive any final pay or allowances. They would walk out Oppama’s front gate with only the money they already had in their pockets, which for most amounted to only a handful of increasingly worthless yen. It was an ignominious end to the careers of some of the finest and most combat-experienced aviators in the Imperial Japanese Navy, and one that most probably felt dishonored them and their years of service and sacrifice.16
For Sadamu Komachi, virtually penniless and seemingly without a future at the age of just twenty-five, the sad train ride to his parents’ home in Ishikawa Prefecture—on the northwestern coast of Honshu—was made even worse by his growing fears that when the Allies occupied Japan they would come looking for him. His exploits as a fighter pilot had been widely publicized, after all, and he assumed that the victors would want to make an example of him. Perhaps, he thought, they would even execute him for his role in the post-ceasefire attacks against the giant aircraft over Tokyo. Gazing out the window at the passing landscape, he ultimately decided that it would be best for him and for his family if he simply disappeared for a while.17
AS THE NAVY PILOTS at Atsugi and Oppama were dealing with the harsh and growing realities of defeat, the airmen of the 386th Bomb Squadron were helping to prepare for the most visible manifestation of the Allies’ victory—the occupation of Japan.
Planning for that momentous operation had begun, of course, long before Tokyo’s acceptance of the capitulation terms set forth in the Potsdam Declaration. As early as May 1945 members of MacArthur’s staff had begun formulating Operation Blacklist, a contingency plan that was to be put into effect should Japan suddenly collapse and surrender before the Allies could launch their planned two-phase invasion—Operations Olympic and Coronet.18 Blacklist’s primary goals were almost identical to those of the intended armed invasion, and included the “early introduction of occupying forces into major strategic areas; the control of critical ports, port facilities and airfields; and the demobilization and disarmament of enemy troops.”19 Moreover, Blacklist would use all the American forces available in the Pacific Theater at the time of its execution; just in terms of ground troops, this would amount to some twenty-two divisions and two regimental combat teams totaling more than 700,000 men. Japan proper was to be the first priority, followed by Korea, and then by Formosa and the Japanese-controlled parts of China. As Supreme Commander Allied Powers, MacArthur would have the final authority to designate the place and time of the actual surrender ceremony, as well as to set the date for the beginning of the occupation. Blacklist had been presented to, and approved by, the various Pacific Theater service commanders at a July 1945 conference on Guam.20
The details of Blacklist were communicated to the Japanese during the first night’s session of the August 19–20 conference in Manila between Kawabe’s delegation and MacArthur’s team, headed by his chief of staff, Lieutenant General Richard K. Sutherland.21 The Japanese were told that a small Allied advance unit would land at Atsugi on August 23 and would be followed two days later by the lead elements of the larger formations tapped for occupation duty. Kawabe was horrified by the thought that the largest kamikaze-training airfield in Japan was to be the first place Allied troops would set foot, but when he told the Americans that the air station had been in open revolt and was likely still a center of anti-surrender fervor he was merely given extra time to “get the situation under control.” The arrival of the advance unit at Atsugi was therefore rescheduled for the twenty-sixth, with the large-scale landings to commence on the twenty-eighth.
The B-32s of the 386th Bomb Squadron were tapped to play a small but important role in the arrival in Japan of the lead occupation units. The Dominators’ mission, as laid out by V Bomber Command, was twofold. The big bombers’ primary task would be to help provide reconnaissance coverage of the Atsugi-Yokosuka-Yokohama area, the region that would be the first to come under Allied control. Images taken by 20th Recon Squadron photographers aboard the Dominators would help senior leaders determine if the Japanese were following MacArthur’s orders to disable their anti-aircraft weapons and prepare the various installations for handover to the incoming occupation forces. Once those units had begun landing in Japan the B-32s would take on an additional mission; each aircraft flying recon over the Tokyo area from August 26 on would carry four 500-pound bombs. If the occupation troops encountered any armed opposition from Japanese forces the Dominators would drop their ordnance on preassigned targets throughout the Kanto Plain.22
The first B-32 sortie in direct support of the occupation was flown on August 25, the day before the scheduled landing of the advance party at Atsugi. Four Dominators—528, Hobo Queen II, Harriet’s Chariot, and 544—were to photograph the navy airfield and the area between it and the sprawling Yokohama-Yokusuka harbor complex. In addition to documenting Japanese compliance with MacArthur’s directives, the aircraft were also to record the condition of the major road and rail networks linking the Atsugi region with Tokyo, twenty-five miles to the northeast. This latter tasking was meant to help planners determine the most direct and least obstructed route by which the lead American units could make the journey from the airfield to the capital.
The August 25 mission started well enough, with all four Dominators airborne by 7 A.M. The gremlins that seemed to inhabit the 386th’s big bombers soon reared their heads, however, for just minutes after lifting off from Yontan Harriet’s Chariot was forced to abort the flight because its main landing gear would not retract. Barely a half-hour later the venerable Hobo Queen II also had to turn back because of a severe oil leak in its number 3 engine and a runaway turbo-supercharger in number 1. The other two B-32s plowed on, though as the flight unfolded they encountered increasingly bad weather from Typhoon Ruth, a category 1 storm that had originated in the Philippines on August 22 and was moving swiftly northward. The pilot of 528 chose to abort the mission about two hours short o
f the target area, and though 544 continued the flight her crew found that extremely heavy cloud cover over the entire Kanto Plain region made photography impossible. The Dominator turned back for Okinawa and managed to land just before Yontan itself was closed down by heavy rain, zero visibility, and winds gusting at more than 100 miles an hour.23
Typhoon Ruth’s arrival over southern Japan had broader consequences for the scheduled beginning of the occupation, of course. The extremely high winds and complete lack of visibility would make it impossible for the cargo aircraft bearing the advance party to land at Atsugi, and the mountainous seas pounding the entrance to Tokyo Bay would not only hamper navigation through the twisting and relatively narrow channel, they could well set loose many of the sea mines anchored in protective fields off Japan’s southern coast, endangering the Allied ships that would carry occupation troops. From MacArthur’s point of view the only logical decision was to postpone both the landing of the advance party and the arrival of the main units. The former was therefore pushed back to August 28, and the latter to the thirtieth.24
The delay did little to improve the mechanical reliability of the 386th’s Dominators, however. The diminishing effects of the typhoon allowed Harriet’s Chariot—her gear issues supposedly resolved—and 578 to take off from Yontan early on August 27 in an effort to acquire the imagery that was not obtained two days earlier. But hardly had Harriet’s Chariot lifted into the air when her crew realized that her main landing gear—which had operated perfectly on a post-repair test flight the previous day—would not retract, again. As the B-32 reversed course to reenter the Yontan landing pattern the men aboard 578 discovered that they had gear problems of their own—their aircraft’s nose wheel was jammed in the down position, forcing the Dominator to return to base, and resulting in the mission’s cancellation.
Though a cascading variety of mechanical problems increasingly dogged the 386th’s small fleet of B-32s, operational necessity ensured that the squadron’s maintenance personnel worked day and night to keep as many Dominators as possible fit for flight. The importance of the work done by the engine and airframe mechanics, electronics specialists, and other maintainers was underlined early on the evening of August 27, when a tasking order came down to the 386th from V Bomber Command. The two-part directive called for four Dominators to be in the air the next day in support of the arrival at Atsugi of the occupation forces’ advance team.
The first part of the order directed that two B-32s orbit over Atsugi beginning at 9 A.M. on the twenty-eighth to act as radio-relay platforms to ensure uninterrupted communications between the advance team and higher headquarters on Okinawa and in Manila. The two Dominators tapped for the “commo” work—Hobo Queen II and 544—would carry full combat loads of ammunition for their gun turrets, but only long-range auxiliary fuel tanks in their bomb bays. The second part of the order tasked 528 and 578 to continue photographing key areas of the Kanto Plain, again giving priority to roads, railway lines, and other transportation infrastructure. Unlike the two radio-relay aircraft, however, the photo-recon Dominators would each be carrying four 500-pound bombs in addition to their loaded guns—just in case.
The arrival of the tasking order caused the usual flurry of activity in the 386th’s headquarters as staff officers hurried to get all mission preparations under way in time for the required 5:45 A.M. takeoff of the two radio-relay aircraft. But the directive also piqued the curiosity of Wisconsin-born Captain Woodrow H. Hauser. As the 386th’s longtime communications officer it was the twenty-six-year-old’s responsibility to choose the radio operators who would fly aboard the two Dominators orbiting above Atsugi. He did so, but then made what was undeniably the worst decision of his life. Having never seen Japan from the air nor flown in a B-32, the young officer apparently decided that he could kill both birds with one stone simply by riding along on the radio-relay mission in his official capacity. Hauser chose to add his name to the crew manifest for 544 because he was good friends with the man chosen to pilot the Dominator, First Lieutenant Leonard M. Sill.
Friendship was also the presumed reason why Hauser then reached out to three friends and fellow 386th staff officers whose jobs normally kept them on the ground. The first two, twenty-four-year-old squadron intelligence officer Bill Barnes and twenty-seven-year-old gunnery officer First Lieutenant Kenneth C. Maule, both readily agreed to go along on the flight. Hauser and Barnes then broached the idea to their tent mate, Rudy Pugliese, saying it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Tokyo from the air. They acknowledged that it would be a long flight, but pointed out there would be no danger from the Japanese. Pugliese was tempted to go along, but the fact that the man he’d replaced had been killed while flying on a supposedly “safe” mission helped to dissuade him, and he finally decided to stay at Yontan and “take care of the store” in Barnes’ absence.25
The names of Hauser, Barnes, and Maule were added to 544’s crew manifest for the radio-relay flight, which meant that, given the mission’s noncombatant nature, two other men were scratched from the flight. One was the bombardier most often assigned to Sill’s crew, and the other was Second Lieutenant John Blackburn, the young radar countermeasures officer who had flown aboard the B-32 piloted by James Klein during the ill-fated August 18 mission. They were not told of the change in plans until just a few hours before the scheduled takeoff time, however, and after stowing their flight gear Blackburn and the bombardier decided they were too keyed up to go back to sleep right away, so they repaired to Blackburn’s tent to play bridge.26
The night of August 27–28 went quickly for the Dominator crews assigned to the radio-relay mission, and after a detailed predawn briefing the men walked to their waiting aircraft. When they arrived at the hardstand they found Frank Cook waiting for them. The man who had headed the B-32 combat test program and then stayed on as part of the command “triumvirate” had come to see them off. He first chatted with the crew of Hobo Queen II, whose copilot for the day’s mission was Second Lieutenant Joe Elliot, the young man who had taken part in the August 17 fight as copilot of 539. Cook then walked over to talk with Leonard Sill, with whom he’d flown on several occasions, and the staff officers who would be flying with him.
After a few moments the crew of 544 began boarding. Cook reached up through the B-32’s nose entrance hatch and shook hands with Sill, then stepped back to watch the start-up. Years later the older officer still recalled that the initial engine run-up was normal, and as the Dominator began to taxi toward the main runway Cook hopped into his jeep and drove to Yontan’s control tower to observe the takeoff as he always did when “his boys” were launching on a mission.27 He was not the only one who turned out to watch the takeoff for what promised to be a historic flight; hundreds of men had gathered along the edges of the runway despite the earlier hour.
Cook was standing on the narrow catwalk atop the tower by the time 544 reached the runway threshold, with Hobo Queen II behind her on the taxiway. The lead B-32 stopped briefly while Sill did a final run-up of each engine, then began to move. Despite a gross weight of more than 100,000 pounds—8,000 of it fuel—the bomber picked up speed surprisingly quickly.
As far as Cook could tell from his vantage point the initial takeoff roll was entirely normal, but when the Dominator reached a point about two-thirds of the way down the runway the full-throated roar of the four big Wright Cyclone engines suddenly died. Everyone watching could tell that Sill had intentionally chopped the power in an attempt to abort his takeoff, but it didn’t appear that he had applied the brakes. The huge aircraft continued down the runway, slowing but not stopping, then ran out of concrete and crashed to the bottom of an eighty-foot-deep coral pit just past the runway’s southeast end. To the horror of the many onlookers the fuel-laden aircraft immediately exploded in a huge fireball. The first personnel to reach the crash site could hear—mingled with the sharp detonations of exploding machine-gun ammunition—the screams of those aboard burning alive. All thirteen men on the aircraft die
d within minutes.
Hobo Queen II had moved from the taxi strip onto the runway when 544 began its takeoff roll, and the men aboard the second Dominator were making their last-minute checks when the massive explosion flared in the coral pit. Radio operator Staff Sergeant Robert Russell, seated just behind copilot Elliot, later recalled that the detonation lit up the still-dark sky, flooding the bomber’s cockpit with light bright enough to make him wince.28 As the initial fireball subsided a red beacon from the control tower signaled Hobo Queen II’s pilot to halt his takeoff, and minutes later Cook arrived in a jeep and ordered the plane’s engines to be shut down. One after another the bomber’s crewmen emerged, their eyes irresistibly drawn to the flames leaping into the sky at the other end of the runway. Several military and civilian news photographers who were aboard to record the events at Atsugi understandably chose to quit the flight at that point, and Russell helped them unload their gear. As they walked away from the B-32 the young radioman called out, “I wish I were going with you, but it looks like I’m going to Tokyo.”29
The importance of the communications mission ensured that Russell was right, for Hobo Queen II didn’t stay on the ground long. Barely twenty-five minutes after the disaster Elliot and the other crewmembers were back aboard their B-32, rolling down the taxi strip toward the same end of the runway where the crash had occurred. The depth of the coral pit kept the men aboard Hobo Queen II from seeing the wreckage as their Dominator turned onto the runway for a departure to the northwest, but the roiling flames were burning so intensely that Elliot and the others could actually feel the heat through their own aircraft’s thin aluminum skin. As the B-32 started its takeoff roll Russell said two quick prayers—the first offered for Staff Sergeant Max Holben, a tent mate and one of the two radio operators aboard 544, and the second asking that he and his fellow crewmen might avoid the fate that had befallen his friend. The latter supplication seemed particularly apt just seconds after Russell uttered it, for as Hobo Queen II lifted off two sharp backfires barked from one of the Dominator’s engines and a brief but brilliant flame illuminated the cockpit. Everyone on the flight deck inhaled sharply, Russell later recalled, but the engine quickly settled down as the B-32 gained altitude and turned north toward Tokyo.30
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