—ALLAN JOHNSON, CONSTITUENT TELEGRAM TO ROOSEVELT
DOOLITTLE IMMEDIATELY STARTED to plan what he dubbed “Special Aviation Project No. 1.” To meet the tentative April departure date, he knew he would have to hustle to map out logistics, modify bombers, and pick and train his aircrews. But Arnold had given him what he needed most: top priority. If anyone gives you flak, Arnold instructed Doolittle, tell him to call the general. That fear would motivate others. “Anything that I wanted I got,” Doolittle recalled, “ahead of every one else.” The first task was to map out basic logistics of the operation. The veteran aviator envisioned that his bombers would take off as much as 500 miles east of Tokyo. The flight to China would add at least another 1,200 miles. Doolittle estimated that the greatest nonstop flight would be 2,000 miles, though to be safe he set a necessary cruising range of 2,400 miles with a bomb load of 2,000 pounds. He knew those demands would require engineers to modify the twin-engine B-25s, whose maximum range topped out at just 1,300 miles.
Named for airpower pioneer General William “Billy” Mitchell, the B-25 was one of the newest planes in America’s arsenal. It was developed by the North American Aviation Company in 1939 in response to the needs in Europe. The initial design proposal took just forty days. The Mitchell bomber made its first test flight in August 1940, forgoing the luxury of prototypes or even wind tunnel tests. The 53-foot-long bomber consisted of no fewer than 165,000 parts, excluding the engines, instrumentation, and some 150,000 rivets. Powered by twin 1,700-horsepower Wright Cyclone engines, the B-25 could fly at 300 miles per hour and up to 23,500 feet. The Army’s initial order of 184 bombers—made just nineteen days after Hitler’s forces marched into Poland—would prove only a fraction of the 9,816 planes workers would manufacture over the course of the war, hitting a peak rate of almost 10 a day. “It is a good, stable ship,” proclaimed the New York Times in 1941, “not spectacular but reliable.”
The $180,031 bomber was far from perfect. It lacked the power and speed of Martin’s rival B-26 Marauder, and its three machine guns fell short of the thirteen that guarded Boeing’s larger, four-engine B-17 Flying Fortress. The B-25’s 3,500-pound payload likewise could not compete with the ten tons that Boeing’s B-29 Superfortress would deliver later in the war. But the Mitchell bomber was chosen for the Tokyo raid for one reason—its sixty-seven-foot wingspan would clear the superstructure of an aircraft carrier. The size and versatility that made the B-25 a natural fit for Doolittle’s mission would propel the rugged bomber into combat in every major theater of the war, from Europe and North Africa to the remote islands of the Pacific. Engineers along the way would improve the bomber’s firepower and armor, increase the fuel capacity, and add torpedo and wing bomb racks, allowing this aerial workhorse to tackle missions ranging from reconnaissance to antisubmarine patrols.
Another feature that made the B-25 an optimal plane for Doolittle’s mission was that it required a small crew of just five airmen to operate, half of those needed to fly a B-17. The pilot and copilot sat shoulder to shoulder in the tight cockpit, while the navigator occupied a tiny compartment just behind the flight deck. The bombardier reached the bubbled nose via a crawlway beneath the navigator’s compartment. A similar passage above the bomb bay connected the fore and aft sections where the gunner sat. The austere aircraft offered few frills, though regulations at least allowed airmen to smoke above one thousand feet. “The B-26 was a Lincoln Town Car,” joked one former navigator. “The B-25 was a Model-A Ford.” What the Mitchell bomber lacked in comfort, it made up for in ease of flying, a fact aircrews loved. “It is so much more than an inanimate mass of material, intricately geared and wired and riveted into a tight package,” recalled Ted Lawson, one of the mission’s pilots. “It’s a good, trustworthy friend.”
To help modify the B-25s for the mission, Doolittle turned to the engineers at Ohio’s Wright Field, the main experimental and development center for the U.S. Army Air Forces. Opened in 1927 on more than five thousand acres near Dayton, Wright Field held a special significance for Doolittle, who performed in the aerial circus before fifteen thousand awed spectators at the center’s dedication that October. Wright Field had since developed into one of the world’s top aeronautical research hubs, with a staggering $150 million in laboratories and scientific equipment. Engineers labored each day in various workshops, wind tunnels, and pressure chambers designed to simulate high altitudes and subzero temperatures. Others tested new parachutes and body armor and pushed airplanes to the breaking point to determine structural strength. A reporter with the Milwaukee Sentinel described it all best: “Wright Field is the place where miracles are performed so that American airmen can kill their enemies and stay alive themselves.”
Those miracle workers drew up the necessary plans as Doolittle hurried to round up the planes. The size of the Hornet’s flight deck would limit how many bombers he could take on the mission, but until Captain Duncan could put a few B-25s aboard a flattop to conduct test trials, Doolittle would not have a precise number. Regardless, he did not have time to wait. “It is requested that one B-25B airplane be made available to the Mid-Continent Airlines at Minneapolis, Minnesota on January 23, 1942, or at the earliest possible moment thereafter,” Doolittle wrote to the chief of the air staff. “It is further requested that 17 more B-25B’s be diverted to the Mid-Continent Airlines for alteration as required.” Doolittle upped his request a week later to twenty-four planes, a move designed to guarantee that he would have at least eighteen bombers in excellent shape for the mission. Orders called for the bombers to arrive on a staggered schedule every four days throughout the first half of February.
The most critical modification centered on fuel. The B-25 boasted two wing tanks that held a total of 646 gallons. Adding another thousand miles to the bomber’s range meant Doolittle would need to almost double the B-25’s fuel capacity, increasing the bomber’s weight six pounds per gallon and therefore the distance needed to take off. The aircraft’s tight space meant a single added fuel tank was not an option. Creative engineers instead would have to develop several tanks of various capacities that could be shoehorned into unused compartments. Workers with the McQuay Company initially constructed a 265-gallon steel tank, but Doolittle later ordered it replaced with a smaller yet malleable 225-gallon bulletproof bladder made by the United States Rubber Company out of Mishawaka, Indiana. Engineers planned to squeeze the rubber bladder into the top of the bomb bay, though allowing enough room for the plane to still carry up to four 500-pound demolition bombs or four 500-pound incendiary clusters.
The rubber tank, however, proved problematic, often developing leaks in the connections. After constructing a single satisfactory tank, engineers reduced the size of the outer cover to facilitate installation but failed to shrink the inner container, causing the tank to develop wrinkles that reduced capacity and increased the likelihood of leaks or even failure. Time would prohibit workers from making new covers for all the tanks, but putting air pressure on them increased the capacity by as much as 15 gallons. Engineers meanwhile devised a 160-gallon rubber bladder that would fit in the crawlway above the bomb bay. Once the fuel was used, a crew member could flatten the empty bladder to allow the engineer-gunner to crawl forward. A third 60-gallon leakproof tank would replace the bomber’s faulty lower gun turret. Lastly, each plane would carry ten 5-gallon cans of gasoline in the radio operator’s rear compartment, giving the bombers a total of 1,141 gallons, of which 1,100 were available.
Doolittle needed more than gas tanks. He ordered the pyrotechnics removed from the bombers to reduce the fire hazard and free up weight, while workers installed two conventional landing flares just forward of the rear-armored bulkhead to protect against enemy fire. Doolittle demanded the installation of deicers and anti-icers, reducing the cruising speed, though a necessary precaution in the off chance that the Russians allowed the bombers to land in Vladivostok. To document the mission workers installed automatic cameras in the tail of the lead ship and each flig
ht leader’s plane. Capable of snapping sixty pictures at half-second intervals, the cameras were designed to start filming automatically when the first bomb dropped. Doolittle likewise requested that technicians install 16-millimeter movie cameras in the other ten bombers. Since he planned to maintain radio silence throughout the flight, Doolittle ordered the 230-pound liaison radios removed to free up weight. To further guard against unintentional broadcasts with the interphone, crews later plucked out the coils from the command transmitters.
Doolittle began to outline the actual raid, drafting a handwritten memo on lined notebook paper. “The purpose of this special project is to bomb and fire the industrial center of Japan,” he wrote. “It is anticipated that this will not only cause confusion and impede production but will undoubtedly facilitate operation against Japan in other theaters due to their probable withdrawal of troops for the purpose of defending the home country. An action of this kind is most desirable now due to the psychological effect on the American public, our allies, and our enemies.” The plan called for the bombers to concentrate on Tokyo, though a few would hit the cities of Yokohama, Nagoya, Osaka, and Kobe. Doolittle ordered target maps of the area’s iron, steel, and aluminum industries as well as aircraft plants, shipyards, and oil refineries, while the Chemical Warfare Services began preparing forty-eight special incendiary bomb clusters ready for shipment from Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland no later than March 15.
Arnold helped shoulder some of the burden, reaching out to Brigadier General Carl Spaatz, the chief of the air staff. “It is desired that you select for me the objectives in Japan you consider most desirable to be attacked in case we find it possible to send bombardment airplanes over Japan sometime in the near future,” Arnold wrote in a January 22 memo. “The bombing mission should be able to cover any part of Japan from Tokyo south.” Spaatz’s office sent a detailed three-page analysis back just nine days later, citing Nakajima’s and Tokyo Gas’ aircraft and engine plants in the nation’s capital, along with Kawasaki’s factories in Kobe and Mitsubishi’s and Aichi’s plants in Nagoya. “The above aircraft factories represent approximately 75% of the aircraft productive capacity of Japan,” the memo stated. “These are considered vital targets because Japan is dependent alone upon what they can manufacture.”
The report further identified important targets in the iron, steel, aluminum, and magnesium industries as well as in critical petroleum refineries. The study concluded with a calculation of the total volume of potential targets for each major city. Tokyo and its suburbs of Kawasaki and Tsurumi contained thirteen power plants, six oil refineries, four aircraft factories, two steel plants, and an arsenal. One of the principal cities of Japan’s aircraft industry, Nagoya was home to four such factories, including one of the largest airframe plants in the world, a more than four-million-square-foot facility owned by Mitsubishi. Kobe offered up another four aircraft factories, plus two steel plants, two dockyards, and two power plants. “Many of these objectives,” the January 31 report noted, “are concentrated in fairly small areas so that by careful selection several individual objectives might well be grouped into excellent area targets.”
Doolittle envisioned that his bombers would take off at night and arrive over Japan at dawn. An attack at first light would guarantee greater accuracy as well as allow crews time to fly to China, refuel at airfields near the coast, and push another eight hundred miles inland to Chungking and beyond the reach of Japanese forces fighting on the mainland, all before nightfall. If enemy forces discovered the task force or if intelligence for any reason demanded that his bombers attack at night, Doolittle believed it would need to be a moonlit night in case Japanese cities observed blackout restrictions. Otherwise a moonless evening would be best. Doolittle studied up on the weather, hoping to avoid morning fog over Tokyo, low overcast skies over China, strong westerly winds, and icing. He suggested daily weather updates from China be sent in special code. “An initial study of meteorological conditions indicates that the sooner the raid is made the better,” he wrote. “The weather will become increasingly unfavorable after the end of April.”
China remained one of Doolittle’s biggest logistical challenges, because Japanese forces occupied strategic positions along the coast. He selected several airfields around Chuchow—seventy miles inland and some two hundred miles south of Shanghai—and estimated that crews would need at least 20,000 gallons of 100-octane aviation fuel and another 600 gallons of lubricating oil. Doolittle recommended that First Lieutenant Harry Howze with the Air Service Command, formerly with Standard Oil Company of New Jersey, help make arrangements in China. Colonel Claire Chennault, aviation adviser to the Chinese, should then assign a responsible American or English-speaking native to physically check that supplies were in place. Doolittle suggested that work start at once and cautioned that secrecy was vital. Even the Chinese should not be informed until the planes were airborne, for fear that news of the operation would leak to the Japanese. “Premature notification,” Doolittle warned, “would be fatal to the project.”
ON THE FRIGID SUNDAY afternoon of February 1, 1942, Captain Duncan reported to the aircraft carrier Hornet, moored alongside Pier 7 at Norfolk Naval Operating Base. The $32 million flattop had returned to Virginia just forty-eight hours earlier, concluding a thirty-five-day shakedown cruise in the Gulf of Mexico. Duncan had raced in recent weeks to map out the Navy’s preliminary plan for the mission to bomb Tokyo, an operation that until now had been largely theoretical, involving an analysis of aircraft wingspans, takeoff speeds, and carrier deck space. The time to test the ambitious plan had finally arrived. If Duncan had erred in his calculations, or if the bombers for any reason proved unable to take off from the carrier’s short flight deck, the mission in all likelihood was dead in the water. These concerns hung over Duncan as he climbed the carrier’s gangway at 4:50 p.m. and hurried to the in-port cabin of Captain Marc Mitscher, the Hornet’s fifty-five-year-old skipper.
Mitscher was one of the Navy’s more colorful captains, an officer whose undisciplined youth hardly foreshadowed that he might one day earn the prized command of America’s newest carrier. The wiry officer who stood barely five feet six and weighed 135 pounds grew up in Oklahoma during the land rush, a time when Indian raid alarms still terrified residents. He learned to count by playing cards and once watched a deputy marshal dump a dead outlaw on the street. Mitscher’s feral manner clashed with the rigidity of the Naval Academy, where he struggled in the classroom, racked up 280 demerits—30 more than the maximum allowed—and was caught up in a hazing scandal after the death of a classmate. The academy finally kicked him out in his second year. Though his politically connected father secured him reappointment, Mitscher had to start over. Even then he continued to struggle, but managed to graduate in 1910. “I was a 2.5 man,” he later joked. “That was good enough for me.”
This unlikely leader found his passion in the skies, earning his wings in June 1916 to become naval aviator no. 33. Mitscher received the Navy Cross three years later for his participation in the service’s first transatlantic flight, from Newfoundland to Portugal. He later served as the executive officer of the carriers Langley and Saratoga and skippered the seaplane tender Wright before the Navy offered him command of the Hornet, commissioned in October. The humble skipper still sewed his own buttons on his shirt and loved trout fishing, though his lack of time off forced him to derive most of his pleasure swapping fish tales on the bridge, dressed as always with an open collar and a long-billed cap to protect his bald head from the tropical sun that scorched his hands and freckled his nose and cheeks. Long cruises would dry his skin like parchment, forcing him to scratch incessantly as he perched in his swivel chair, always facing aft. “I’m an old man now,” he liked to say. “I spent my youth looking ahead.”
Those closest to Mitscher marveled at his modesty. When he learned of his recent selection for rear admiral, he worried about his fellow officers who had been passed over. “In being selected for promotion over so many
of my classmates and others whom I consider good friends and much better Naval officers than myself,” he wrote a colleague, “I have a feeling of regret about the whole business.” Not only did Mitscher shun self-promotion, but he proved a surprisingly reserved and quiet leader in a military filled with oversize personalities. “He wasted no words,” recalled George Murray, skipper of the Enterprise. “One short little expression or the lifting of an eyebrow or just a word conveyed more meaning in so far as he was concerned than somebody else talking for fifteen minutes.” The few words he spoke came out like a whisper. “Even when he shakes with laughter, he somehow manages to do it silently,” observed the Saturday Evening Post. “And when he swears, he does it as softly as most men pray.”
Though Mitscher did not yet know it, Duncan had him and his carrier in mind to transport Doolittle to Japan—if the test proved successful.
“Can you put a loaded B-25 in the air on a normal deck run?” Duncan asked when he met Mitscher that afternoon.
“How many B-25’s on deck?”
“Fifteen.”
Mitscher consulted a scale replica of the Hornet’s flight deck known as the spotting board. “Yes,” he finally answered, “it can be done.”
“Good,” Duncan answered, “I’m putting two aboard for a test launching tomorrow.”
Arnold’s staff had ordered three B-25s with the “best combat crews available” to report to Norfolk no later than January 20: “Airplanes will have combat equipment installed, less bombs.” The plan called for the first B-25 to take off carrying only a full load of gas. The second bomber would then roar down the flight deck with a medium load, followed lastly by a fully loaded plane: “Successive take-offs will, of course, be gauged by the preceding ones.” A burned-out engine on the eve of the test had sidelined one of the bombers. The carrier’s boat- and airplane-hoisting crane lifted the other two aboard, using a special sling manufactured for the operation by the Norfolk Naval Air Station. Mitscher ordered one bomber spotted forward where the first of fifteen B-25s would go; he ordered the other aft. In following Admiral King’s strict order for secrecy, the Hornet’s deck log contains no record of the bombers.
Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor Page 8
