The Ragged, Rugged Warriors

by Martin Caidin

  THE RAGGED, RUGGED WARRIORS

  THE HEROIC STORY OF THE RUGGED AMERICAN PILOTS WHO FOUGHT THE EARLY AIR WAR AGAINST JAPAN

  MARTIN CAIDIN

  A BANTAM WAR BOOK

  ILLUSTRATED EDITION

  20-11-2014

  Table of Contents

  BOOK ONE PROLOGUE OF BATTLE

  BACKGROUND TO DISASTER

  MITSUBISHI WHIRLWIND

  CHAOS

  RED STARS AND ZEROS

  BOOK TWO “NIITAKA YAMA NOBORE”

  AIR FIGHT OVER PEARL JAPANESE

  AMERICAN

  BOOK THREE DEFEAT IN THE PHILIPPINES

  LAST-DITCH STAND— THE FIGHTERS

  THE TIGERS

  THE RAGGED TENTH

  CHINA CASTOFFS

  JUNGLE RATS

  DISASTER IN JAVA

  INTERLUDE

  THE LONG NOSES

  “DUCEMUS”—“WE LEAD”

  THE OTHER MIDWAY

  EPILOGUE

  NOTES AND SOURCES

  INDEX

  About The Author

  BOOK ONE

  PROLOGUE OF BATTLE

  The skies that mantle the earth are universal in nature. They are uncaring as to what takes place below or above, or even in their domain. The skies provide the battlegrounds for those who wish to wage war in the thin arena above the distant rock and soil. But when the last echo of stuttering guns and the scream of flame dies away, when the last whisper is no louder than a wisp of cloud shredded by wind, all is the same as it was before the conflict.

  There are no markers, no battleground emblems, no plaques or statues to commemorate the spilling of blood and the tearing of metal. The skies are uncluttered by the debris of contesting men and their wings.

  War in the air was formerly governed by unwritten law. That law, as in all martial conflict, evolved from the nature of the men engaged in the contest. Sometimes there were strong nationalistic factors involved. Men deeply steeped in traditions of soldiering carried those traditions with them into the skies. Where traditions were lacking, new ones were bom overnight and, strangely enough, professional soldiers of differing nationality by and large came to agree on the same standards for their conduct while attempting to inflict defeat and death upon their opponents.

  Thus in World War I, men of both sides considered it unsporting to turn their guns on another man who had taken to a parachute for survival, as did the observers in highly explosive and inflammable balloons to save their lives. The pilot who suffered the loss of his engine in battle, and whose wings sighed helplessly during the glide earthward, was considered to be beyond further attack. The goal had been met: the enemy was vanquished, and his death was unimportant against his defeat.

  During that first great air war aviators were revered for bravery and regarded with wonder. Historians of World War I who should have known better perpetuated the fallacy that combat in the air was the way to fight and, if necessary, the finest way to die. The aerial gentlemen were painted as daring sportsmen who lived and died by special rules of conduct. In these grandiose chronicles of military valor and esprit, there seemed to be something unreal.

  There was, to be sure, the final salute of the victor to his defeated opponent as that hapless worthy tumbled and flip-flopped in ungainly fashion toward the hard and resisting earth. But behind that final salute there lay the horror of being cremated while one was yet alive and healthy. No one appeared willing to write that the man who was being burned alive, jerking and twitching in the wind-whipped bed of flames, really didn’t wish to die, least of all in this grotesque manner. And if one wished to avoid this terrifying end to life, in which valor and tradition seem to vanish with the first caress of fire against naked flesh, there was only the alternative of diving away from the blazing wreckage—a long and gut-wrenching plunge that ended against the earth.

  Tradition and rules of conduct in the air varied with circumstances. Much depended upon the nature of the conflict. Customs observed in one part of the world were unknown in other parts.

  Many of the unwritten laws of aerial combat were handed down from the mythology and the stories of derring-do arising from World War I. These carried over into the first large-scale aerial battles to follow that war— the battles waged over Spain and through the skies of China. These conflicts were fought for years before World War II. They are largely unknown to most Americans. From each of these battle arenas, however, came patterns of conduct in air fighting that carried over into the larger conflicts arising from global war.

  It should be noted that despite the fact that these laws were uncommitted to parchment, they were very real, they were observed, and the adherence to them at times was savage in its discipline.

  Such was the case in the early days of the aerial jousting over the ravaged hills and villages of Spain, when that hapless land writhed under the cruelties so specific to its civil war.

  Luis Munoz was a Loyalist fighter pilot, flying a snubnosed Russian fighter plane along the Madrid battlefront. His Rata, speedy, maneuverable, heavily gunned, gave him a tremendous advantage in its performance against the Fiats and Heinkels used by the Nationalists in the life-and-death aerial struggle over Spain. Munoz used his Russian fighter well in battle. In one of his first engagements he tore a Franco fighter plane to ribbons. His bullets sawtoothed the enemy into wreckage, and he splashed incendiary ammunition through its tanks. The Nationalist pilot with understandable haste hurled himself free of his blazing machine and tumbled through the air. Seconds later a touch of white blinked against blue sky. Tlie white streamered out thin and long, and immediately changed shape into a billowing canopy of life-saving silk. Beneath the canopy hung the Franco pilot, grateful to have survived both the guns of his enemy and the funeral pyre of his own flaming machine.

  As we said, Luis Munoz was a pilot who used his fighter well in battle. And, immediately afterward, he used it very unwisely.

  No one remembers what Munoz was like personally, or what truly motivated his thoughts and his actions in combat. Perhaps at heart he was a killer, like so many other fighter pilots. Or he might have been a kid wild with the excitement of battle and the flush of his own victory. Maybe he hated all Franco pilots, for reasons best known to him.

  Whatever his motivation, he brought his stubby fighter plane around in a tight turn, and he headed directly for his vanquished enemy floating in soft helplessness toward the earth. Munoz squinted into his gunsights, and the small figure of the enemy in his harness grew larger and larger until, finally, Munoz was satisfied. He squeezed a finger, and four heavy guns in the nose and wings of his airplane coughed and stammered loudly. The small figure in the harness twitched and jerked in a spasmodic writhing. There was a brief, strawberry-colored spray through the air, and the guns went silent.

  Beneath the bullet-shredded parachute, clumping together in the form of a streaming, useless rag, the dead pilot fell uncaring to the ground. Even before his limp form thudded into the rocky earth, Insurgent troops ran to the scene. High above, the Loyalist planes wheeled and turned away, spreading their wings for home.

  The Franco troops returned the bullet-shattered body of the fighter pilot to its home field, where the friends and the fellow pilots of the dead man could see for themselves the work of the eager Luis Munoz and his four machine guns. The Nationalist pilots swore their revenge.

  One week later they found the opportunity to demonstrate their disgust for the Loyalist pilot who had shot and killed a man helpless in his parachute. Another Loyalist pilot took a long burst into his engine; the propeller jerked around and then ground to a halt. The pilot picked out a flat area on the ground and nosed down to a dead-stick landing. As he stopped rolling he thrust his
hands high above his cockpit in surrender. Rough hands dragged him from the airplane, shoved him into a truck, and then the pilot was driven at a furious pace to the airfield where men waited grimly for him.

  The day following a German bomber eased its way beneath clouds and glided past the Loyalist airdrome at Huete. From the ground, pilots and ground crews watched a large and heavy box tumble from the bomber. The Heinkel disappeared in the distance as a parachute blossomed from the box, lowering it to a field near the airdrome. Men dragged the box back to the operations shack.

  There the box was pried open. Several men became sick on the spot. Others walked away first, to stand hidden behind hangar walls where they could vomit alone.

  Inside the box were the remains of the Loyalist pilot, victim of retribution. The unwritten laws had been violated, and this was payment. Both arms and legs had been torn off the torso. Then the head of the living pilot had been twisted around until the straining flesh tore and bones snapped and the head finally was wrenched completely from the neck. The signs of gross mutilation were unmistakable. The severed limbs and the face with horror etched into its lifelessness were dumped into the box with the torso, and then the box delivered to the Loyalist pilots.

  No one could accept what had happened to the helpless pilot who had surrendered. No one could, at the same time, justify the actions of Luis Munoz.

  It was a major war in the skies, but not so big that men were unable to give such matters their personal attention. This incident, in more or less the same details, was repeated several times, until the expression “gentleman’s war in the air” became a travesty. The unwritten laws became something to remember; they became grist for the writer of aerial heroics, who chose to perpetuate them despite the growing similarities of air conflict and hand-to-hand combat on the ground, when the sole purpose of the combat came to be the slaughter of the enemy.

  To be sure, there were exceptions to this rule. Not even the heat of battle could drive certain pilots from their religious adherence to what they considered inviolable rules for meeting their opponents in the air. Perhaps the outstanding example of this code was provided in late August, 1937, when the outstanding American pilot flying for the Loyalists fought a man-to-man aerial duel that was conducted according to the finest traditions of World War I—and fed new fuel to the legend of the “glory” of air combat as sustained by the writers of air fiction.

  The occasion was literally a duel, between Captain Derek D. Dickinson of the Loyalists and Bruno Mussolini (son of the Italian dictator), who commanded a powerful force of fighter planes stationed at Palma de Majorca.

  One evening, Bruno dispatched a message over the radio net of Insurgent headquarters. He issued a challenge to the Loyalists, stating that he, Bruno Mussolini, would alone meet any five fighter planes the enemy dared to send against him. Bruno Mussolini’s bombast, however, contained more than sheer bravado. He was an experienced pilot and an aerobatic artist of great skill. He had many long months of successful air combat behind him. To these assets he also added the superb performance of Italy’s newest fighter plane, a Fiat Romeo with a Hispano-Suiza engine of 1,300 horsepower—the most powerful and fastest fighter then in Spanish skies. This power advantage meant speed and rate of climb which, coupled with Mussolini’s own skill and experience, gave him a decided edge over any opponent or opponents he might encounter in the air.

  Colonel de los Reyes brought the “insulting message” from Bruno Mussolini to Captain Dickinson, who at the time was captain and leader of the famous Red Wings (Esquadrilla Alas Rojas), stationed at Castellon de la Plana. For nearly 18 months Dickinson had flown for the Loyalists; his last ten months had been spent in command of the Red Wings. He was familiar with Bruno Mussolini; the Italian led a strong force of enemy planes, and the two opposing forces had many times locked wings in stiff battle. -

  Captain Dickinson burst out angrily after reading the challenge from Mussolini. He implored his colonel to accept the dare, but on condition that he—Dickinson— should meet the Italian alone. For weeks afterward the Italians ignored the messages from the Loyalists, until finally the latter’s insults became lurid, and 30 days after the original response, Mussolini took the bait.

  The agreement was for the two men to meet at 15,000 feet, midway between the two airfields, and engage in combat, with no other aircraft interfering—no matter what might happen during the fight. Each pilot would bring with him two observation aircraft that were to remain well away from the battle and to maintain an altitude of no less than 16,000 feet.

  During the duel, should either pilot decide he wanted to quit because of wounds, gun stoppages, or any other reason, he would throw over the side of his cockpit a heavy gauntlet to which would be attached a long silken scarf—six feet in length and three feet wide. Fluttering behind the heavy glove, it would be an unmistakable admission of defeat.

  Against Bruno Mussolini in his new Fiat Romeo, Dickinson flew a Mosca, a Russian fighter with four guns in the nose plus another two guns in the wings—formidable armament for the Spanish air war. The Mosca had excellent maneuverability and until the arrival of the Fiat Romeo had been among the fastest airplanes at the front. Against the new Italian fighter, Dickinson knew he would have his work cut out for him.

  At the appointed rendezvous in the sky, both fighters circled wide and then hauled up in Immelmanns, soaring up and over in loops, but breaking the loop at the top of the arc and half-rolling to normal flight. Then they rushed at one another, guns hammering.

  The fight almost ended then and there as the Fiat’s guns sent a stream of lead crashing into the Mosca. Mussolini may have been a braggart, but he could support his words with superb skill and gunnery in the air. In his first pass he stitched holes through the wings and the fuselage of Dickinson’s airplane.

  For 22 minutes the two pilots fought a spectacular man-to-man duel. Dickinson was regarded as one of the finest pilots ever to fly in Spain; he knew every aerobatic trick in the book and he invented others on the spot as the need demanded. For every stunt that he pulled, Mussolini matched him, and also took full advantage of the extra power and speed that his new fighter gave him. After 15 minutes of wild, steady fighting, the battle worked its way down to 8,000 feet. High above, the four observation planes circled and watched, remaining out of the fight.

  It appeared to end with shocking suddenness. A long burst from the Fiat sent slugs tearing through Dickinson’s arm and blood spurted from his left hand. Instinctively, Dickinson rammed the throttle forward for full power and kicked over in a dive. Against the faster Fiat, it was an error that almost ended the battle with the death of the American pilot. Mussolini anticipated the move and roared in to the tail of the Mosca, hammering out accurate bursts that steadily chewed up the Russian fighter.

  Dickinson saved his life with a time-honored maneuver. He chopped power, banged the stick over to the left, and kicked hard right rudder. The Mosca presented itself almost sideways to the air and seemed to come to a stop. Mussolini shot past Dickinson and gave the American a rare opportunity for a long and accurate burst. The Fiat seemed to stumble in the air as the stream of bullets crashed home, but then it was back under control and Mussolini was clawing around to continue the attack.

  Seven more minutes passed. Dickinson saw the instrument panel erupt before him even as glass showered into his face. Desperately he pulled back on the stick to start a fast loop; far below, Mussolini began to pull up tighter, intent on cutting inside the loop and catching the Mosca broadside in his guns.

  Dickinson made his move. Still early in the loop, he stalled the airplane, whipped around to one side, halfrolling as the nose fell through the horizon. The Mosca came out of the hammerhead stall on its back, accelerating rapidly, and there, big as life, swollen in the sights, was the Fiat. Dickinson was just starting to squeeze the guns into roaring life when a hand was flung up in the cockpit of the enemy fighter. An object hurtled over the side, and white silk fluttered brightly against blue sky.
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  Bruno Mussolini had quit—with less than a second to live. Dickinson rolled out into level flight as the Fiat Romeo pulled alongside. The Italian pilot waved his arm, dropped the Fiat’s nose in salute, and broke away for his home field.

  On the ground at Castellon de la Plana, a shaken Derek Dickinson counted 326 bullet holes in his airplane.

  The air war in Spain wasn’t fought with all new fighters and bombers, although these were the aircraft that sparked the admiring paragraphs of reporters on the scene, and helped in building up news dispatches into glowing descriptions of combat between heroes. The Alas Rojas squadron, operating on the Huesca front, sometimes flew offensive patrols in Nieuports left over from World War I! The pilots of these ancient and shaking machines considered themselves wonderfully fortunate when they failed to sight any of the black wingtips that marked the Insurgent planes.

  Russian-built Mosca fighter flown by Dickinson in air duel against Mussolini.

  As the length of the war grew, so did the number of planes hurled into the fray by the Italians, Germans, and Russians. One battle, described as “typical in numbers” by an American soldier of fortune flying for the Loyalists, saw a dozen Russian fighters diving on 20 Italian Fiats. The moment the battle was joined, 36 Heinkels streaked out of the sun to drop onto the Loyalists, catching them in the sandwich maneuver so favored in World War I.

  As the war progressed, the Italians sent in large numbers of their latest fighters. The Germans threw Heinkel He-112 fighters into the fray, and then used Spain as a battleground for early combat models of their Messer-schmitt Me-109, which they were to employ as their fighter mainstay in the Battle of Britain. The Russians sent not only airplanes, but squadrons of crack fighter pilots as well. France responded to the call of the Loyalists and shipped various types of fighters and bombers to the battleground. By war’s end, the air battles were being fought with a bewildering variety of airplanes from all over the world.