by Don Brown
Patrolling out on the right flank of the B-29s, both Jerry and Danny kept their eyes peeled for movement in their zone.
It happened in an instant. A Zero penetrated the sector, threatening every aircraft in Jerry’s zone. Jerry jerked the control stick and brought the Dorrie R into pursuit mode. Danny followed. Jerry opened fire on the enemy craft, then Danny. A long stream of smoke billowed from the Japanese plane as it spun out of control, dropping down to the city below. The infield duo had just scored their first aerial victory of the war.
The campaign, in fact, was ultimately successful for the entire fleet. That evening, after they returned to Iwo Jima, Jerry learned during the intelligence de-briefing that in just one hour and nine minutes, firebombs from over 450 U.S. bombers had reduced forty-two percent of the Japanese city to rubble. His friend and former squadron-mate, Captain Todd “Baby Face” Moore, had single-handedly shot down three Japanese interceptors, tallying the highest kill-count for the mission and placing him neck-and-neck with Tapp for the most number of kills over Tokyo. Altogether, the Mustangs had shot down at least twenty-six enemy aircraft, possibly as many as thirty-five. Another twenty-three had been damaged in the air. The downside: of the 101 Mustangs, three had been lost, and two pilots were missing. Despite the horror of their unknown fate, Yokohama had been the unit’s most devastating coordinated assault yet on Japan.
In just two more days, on June 1, they would try it again. The Seventh Fighter Command planned its largest all-out attack to date, unleashing not only the Fifteenth and Twenty-First Fighter Groups, but also for the first time, the newly-deployed 506th.
That day, however, would turn out far differently than Jerry—even trained to expect the unexpected—could anticipate.
CHAPTER 16
The Raid on Osaka
June 1, 1945
“You’re grounded for this mission.”
Those weren’t the words Jerry expected, nor hoped to hear.
However, Doc Lipshitz, the group’s dental officer, was putting his foot down. Jerry’s four wisdom teeth had been tormenting him for over a month. Because he was one of the Seventy-Eighth’s best pilots, the tempo of flight operations since April 7 had not allowed any time for Dr. Lipshitz to fix the problem. The high altitude pressurization during Jerry’s time in the cockpit had made the pain even worse. Now, the doctor insisted, those teeth needed to come out.
In general, Lipshitz had been watching out for the young pilot almost since Jerry’s arrival on Iwo Jima. Once, on an off day of flying for Jerry back in March, the doctor ordered him to throw on his helmet, jump in a jeep and go for a ride.
“Where are we going?” Jerry queried, as the green, open-air Army vehicle rumbled along the bumpy, primitive island road to the south, driving toward the rising outline of Mount Surabachi.
“To a Seder, Yellin.”
“A Seder?”
“It’s Passover.”
The doc was right. It was Passover, which that year began on March 28, two days after the Banzai Massacre, and ended on April 5, two days before the first Empire Mission.
On arriving at their destination near the base of the mountain, Jerry and the doctor found Marines, low in foxholes, celebrating the Seder. The feast had been coordinated by U.S. Navy chaplains, with one of the chaplains leading the Seder in Hebrew. Though Jerry was not a practicing Jew, the experience moved him nonetheless. It also was a powerful statement from the U.S. military, that it would go to such lengths to preserve religious freedom and liberty for its Marines, sailors, and soldiers in a war-torn purgatory far from home.1 Enjoying the short ceremony together also helped forge a bond between doctor and patient—one, however, that now was working against Jerry and his desire to fly the June 1 mission, for which he’d already been selected and which would be the granddaddy of all missions to date.
But a pilot had to be cleared medically to fly, and even the best fighter pilot couldn’t fly unless okayed by the flight surgeon. Lipshitz refused to sign off on Jerry’s health until he could take care of the young captain’s teeth. Jerry was medically grounded for the Osaka mission; his friend and wingman Danny Mathis, who’d initially been left off the mission due to lack of experience, was scheduled to fly the Dorrie R in Jerry’s place.
The situation upset Jerry for two reasons: he was disappointed at being left behind, but he also feared for his friend. Just one year ago, Danny had been finishing up an agriculture degree at Clemson. He was a good, promising young pilot, but by no means an experienced one, despite the fact he’d helped Jerry shoot down that Japanese aircraft only the day before. Jerry, always protective of the men who’d been his wingmen, wanted to fly the mission if for no other reason than to make sure Danny and another friend, Phil Schlamberg, would be okay. He’d already seen too many of his friends die; Fred White’s passing just a few days earlier was still fresh in his memory. Jerry didn’t want to lose anyone else.
But perhaps, over here, that was too much to ask.
June 1, 1945, marked the largest assault yet against Japan by the P-51 force based on Iwo Jima. All three P-51 groups— the Fifteenth, Twenty-First, and recently arrived 506th—had been assembled for the first time to escort approximately 450 B-29s on a fire-bombing raid to Osaka, an industrial city in the enemy’s homeland. It was a big day, in particular, for the 506th, who, as the new kids on the block in Iwo Jima, would get a chance to prove their worth to the war effort. The three squadrons of the 506th would be led into battle by Deputy Group Commander Lieutenant Colonel Harvey Jackson Scandrett, who’d already been honored with the Silver Star and flown ninety-five combat missions, which included two shoot-downs of Japanese planes.
The 506th needed an experienced leader to counteract their relative lack of experience. Back when men such as Jerry, Tapp, and Vande Hey were flying training missions with the Seventy-Eighth in Hawaii, the 506th had not yet been formed. In the fall of 1944, its future commanding officer, Colonel Bryan B. Harper, had been stationed at Page Field just three miles south of downtown Fort Myers, Florida. Harper had taken command of the training unit of the Fifty-Third Fighter Group, which required him to get young pilots equipped to go to places like England, France, and Hawaii. But while understanding the importance of his job training pilots, Harper acknowledged something didn’t quite feel right about being stationed on the beautiful, sun-baked coast of Florida—with the rich and famous frolicking along the white sandy beaches just a few miles away—while his comrades were at war. He’d deployed once already to Allbrook Field in Panama, where the U.S. Army and U.S. Navy were positioned to protect the strategic Panama Canal Zone from Axis attack. Uncontested access to the canal allowed most U.S. Navy ships to cross from the Atlantic to the Pacific without having to steam through the Magellan Straits or around Cape Horn at the southern tip of South America. The Axis, however, never attacked Panama during Bryan’s deployment there, and the Army transferred him back to the States without seeing action.
Now Harper, along with many of his fellow pilots from their service in the Canal Zone, was still itching to get into the fight and finish off the enemy.
His chance came as commanding officer of the newly minted 506th, activated on October 21, 1944, at nearby Lakeland Army Air Field. The 506th was one of many units rapidly formed, mobilized and then deployed into combat to increase the Americans’ firepower against the enemy that had bombed Pearl Harbor. From its inception, the 506th embraced the same goal as the already established Fifteenth and Twenty-First Fighter Groups: to fly long-range missions protecting B-29s and also attack the Japanese homeland.
Under Harper’s command, the 506th quickly began training for the task ahead. Flying a variety of P-51 models, the pilots assigned to this new unit practiced long-range training regimens, including cruise control techniques that would extract maximum distance from the Mustangs. They also practiced scrambles, assembly and landing procedures, escort formations, aerial gunnery and bombing practice, and an occasional dogfight.
Then, just a month after
the 506th started flying, the Army Air Force produced “Document 50–100,” the published training directive for “Very Long Range” operations. Fortunately, Harper had already instituted most of the training procedures required by the directive. But his group still lacked instruction in two areas required by the directive: instrument flying and rocket firing. Knowing the 506th would not be allowed to deploy without it, Harper incorporated the lessons into the final weeks of training before they headed out to San Diego, where the aircraft carrier USS Kalinin Bay was waiting to carry the unit across the Pacific.
One month later, the 506th arrived in Guam. The following week, they prepared to fly their new P-51s to Tinian, where they stayed for seven more weeks, flying combat air patrols and practice missions as the U.S. Navy Seabees and Army combat engineers on Iwo Jima prepared Airfield No. 3, or North Field, for them. The time on Tinian put the 506th in the arena of war, so to speak, though not directly in the fight. When they arrived on Iwo Jima in May, they were essentially greenhorns compared to their peers already there. In fact, even when Fifteenth and Twenty-First Fighter Groups had first landed on the island themselves, they’d already carried a number of experienced combat pilots like Vande Hey, Jerry, Tapp, and Crim. By comparison, the 506th had a larger number of rookie airmen.
Their commander Scandrett, of course, was not of that number. His men thought highly of the good-natured, blonde-haired twenty-seven-year-old Seward County native, who’d gotten married and moved to Hollywood, California, before entering the Air Force. Scandrett also commanded the trust of the group commander, Colonel Harper, who planned to remain behind in Iwo Jima with General Moore for the June 1 mission.
The navigation plan, as handed down by Moore and Harper to Scandrett the night of May 3, 1945, laid out the 506th’s flight orders for the impending flight to Osaka:
1.Colonel Harper, the Group Commander, to issue the takeoff order, with all planes up by 7:10 am.
2.Set course of 357 degrees (almost due north) to rendezvous point at Kitajima, a distance of 39 nautical miles. Estimated time en route to rendezvous point: 13 minutes.
3.Rendezvous at Kitajima with B-29 navigational planes by 7:27 am at altitude of 10,000 feet.
4.Protective altitudinal cover as follows: (1) 506th Fighter Group 1,000 ft. above the B-29s; (2) 21st. Fighter Group 500 ft. above the B-29s; 15th Fighter Group 500 ft. below the B-29s.
5.Rendezvous to departure point outside Kitajima.
6.Set true course 327 degrees, fly distance 620 miles at 20,000 feet altitude from departure point.
7.Estimated flight time en route: 3 hours and 3 minutes.
As planned, on June 1, shortly before seven a.m., Moore gave the order to launch. The three group commanders relayed the command to their nine squadron commanders. Lieutenant Colonel Scandrett lifted his Mustang off Airfield No. 3, as the 506th Fighter Group followed suit.
Behind them came the Fifteenth and the Twenty-First Fighter Groups launching from Airfields No. 2 and 3. Buzzing over the skies of Iwo Jima and the outlying Pacific waters, the planes climbed to the designated altitude and set their course for the initial rendezvous point off Kitajima.
In the cockpit of the Dorrie R, meanwhile, First Lieutenant Danny Mathis had an additional goal in mind as the planes pushed on toward their ultimate destination: he wanted to fly this mission for Jerry, grounded back on Iwo Jima. Mathis planned to take care of the Dorrie R like a family member and add to his shoot-down total, which he knew would make Jerry proud. This would be the Americans’ first daytime strike on Osaka, which they’d hit only once before in a night raid by B-29s on March 13–14. With a population of over 3.2 million people, Osaka was the second-largest city in Japan and its major industrial city. Its principal production included shipbuilding, steel and iron, and the manufacturing of almost everything used by the Japanese military, including propellers, munitions, and ordinance. It was also a major railway and transportation center.
The first 360 miles outside of Iwo Jima provided smooth flying conditions for the Americans, with mild winds and no turbulence. But soon a huge wall of monster cumulonimbus clouds appeared ten miles in front of the lead planes. It stretched from east to west as far as the eye could see, and from the surface of the sea all the way to the heavens.
To reach Japan, the fighters would have to find a way past that front.
The big storm system that the Mustangs had flown under just two days prior still weighed on the pilots’ minds. In addition to the navigational B-29s on the mission to help guide the Mustangs around (or through) bad weather, a special radio frequency had also been established for weather discussions. With this front, it was clear going around the system was a non-starter; soon, a B-29 pilot announced over the frequency that it would begin a climb over the wall of clouds in five minutes.
But that strategy presented a problem: the planes were already too close to the front to start a climb that would enable them to clear the top.
For three minutes, the Mustangs continued flying straight at the wall. A moment later, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Thomas, commanding the Fifteenth Fighter Group, warned the B-29s that if the Mustangs penetrated the cloud cover, the whole formation would rupture.
But the B-29 radioed that it had penetrated the front without difficulty and was still on course to Osaka. Then, from inside the front itself, it radioed another message: “The oranges are sweet”—a pre-arranged phrase signaling good weather.
What to do? The front looked menacing. To the rapidly approaching Mustangs, it seemed they were about to fly into a great white, solid wall. Not a single pilot wanted to enter the system, but they had been ordered to follow the B-29 navigational aircraft to Japan, and the B-29 had entered and reported no turbulence.
And so, seconds later, the P-51s penetrated the front by the dozens. Scandrett led the charge, followed by his squadron leaders from the 457th, 458th, and 462nd.
While the 506th pressed on, Thomas, leading the Fifteenth, still wanted nothing to do with the system, despite the B-29’s reassuring message. Scanning the clouds, he spotted what appeared to be a hole in the front over to the north and led his squadrons through the opening. Tapp, Danny Mathis, Phil Schlamberg and the other pilots of the Seventy-Eighth followed their leader into the gap.
Within five minutes, the hole closed.
Suddenly, 184 Mustangs from the Fifteenth and 506th were trapped inside a white, blinding monster. Many pilots couldn’t see other planes around them. From the cockpits, it looked like they’d flown into a blizzard.
Panic set in with many, especially the less experienced pilots of the 506th. Planes started colliding with each other; others spun out of control. The weather grew increasingly violent. Planes were knocked around by high winds, and pilots desperately battled updrafts, downdrafts, and thunderous turbulence. Chaos reigned over the radios. Some of the more experienced pilots, like Tapp, pulled back on their sticks, trying to climb out of the front. The radio became a mixture of pilots’ voices demanding to know other pilots’ positions, announcing that they had been struck or were losing control of their aircraft. The weather was inflicting more damage than anything the Japanese had thrown at them to date.
Tapp, with Phil Schlamberg on his wing and joined by First Lieutenant Cecil Grimes, kept climbing upward. With a tight grip on his plane’s stick, Tapp fought through terrific turbulence as he rose, hoping that the top of the system wasn’t above the Mustang’s maximum ceiling.
A few other experienced pilots tried the opposite tactic. Captain Joe Brunette of the Forty-Seventh Fighter Squadron started descending, hoping to find the bottom of the front. Lieutenant Bob Scamara, Brunette’s squadron mate from the Forty-Seventh, at first tried climbing, attempting, like Tapp, to locate the top of the system. But when he found nothing but clouds, winds and more turbulence, Scamara changed his mind, reversed course, and started to descend.
Meanwhile, with the situation growing more disastrous, General Moore, who had been monitoring radio traffic about the weather condi
tions, issued an order to the entire fleet: “All planes. Abort mission and return to base.” But the chaotic radio traffic inside the storm and radio interference from the storm itself ensured the abort order never reached the pilots.
Inside Tapp’s cockpit, as he continued to climb by instruments, he watched his altimeter rise.
Twenty-one thousand, five hundred…
Twenty-two thousand…
Twenty-two thousand, five hundred…
Surely this front didn’t reach all the way into outer space.
Finally, at twenty-three thousand feet…blue skies! Once again, the ace had beaten the odds, and he’d also saved two of his fellow pilots who’d followed him up to the clearing.
Brunette, meanwhile, struck similar luck with his course of action. He’d kept descending toward the ocean, hoping the storm didn’t reach all the way down to the water’s surface. At four thousand feet, he broke out into the open. He’d been followed by Second Lieutenant Eric Hutchison. Now, separated from their squadron, the pair found several stray fighters from the Seventy-Eighth and teamed with them as they continued flying south under the front.
Scamara, who’d tried ascending before descending, was still trapped in the white monster. Even when his altimeter clocked under four thousand feet, there was nothing but dense, white space surrounding the cockpit.
Perhaps there was no way out of this.
Perhaps he would descend his Mustang all the way down to the Pacific.
Thirty-eight hundred…
Thirty-five hundred…
Thirty-one hundred…
