The press went so far as to boast that it would be easy for Japanese soldiers to storm the beaches of California. “Once a landing is made on the American continent, it will be a simple matter for a well-trained, courageous army to sweep everything before it,” argued an editorial in the Japan Times & Advertiser. “The contention that the United States cannot be invaded is a myth.” At the same time the possibility that America might actually strike back at Japan was viewed as impossible, if not laughable. “Japan Raid by U.S. Is Out of Question,” declared one headline; another stated, “No Fear of America Attacking Empire.” Most pointed out that Japan, after seizing American bases across the Pacific, now controlled much of the seas and the skies. “As for aerial attacks from aircraft-carriers,” argued a correspondent for the Asahi newspaper, “any such attempt is believed suicidal because, unlike Hawaii, a very vigorous vigil is kept along the Japanese coasts and American raids will be nipped in the bud.”
Yamamoto wasn’t so cocky, particularly since he knew how few the resources were to protect Japan’s crowded cities from attack. Most of the nation’s fighters had deployed to the front lines, leaving behind just three hundred planes to safeguard the homeland—two hundred Navy and one hundred Army. Only fifty of those were dedicated to the defense of Tokyo and the industrial suburb of Yokohama. The Osaka and Kobe regions were equally ill equipped, with just twenty defensive fighters, while Nagoya counted only ten. Many of the planes were older Nakajima Type 97, code-named Nate by the Allies, a single-seat fighter with a fixed-landing gear. Yamamoto knew that antiaircraft defense was likewise inadequate. Tokyo had just 150 of the nation’s 700 antiaircraft guns—most 75 millimeter—while Kobe and Osaka had a combined 70 and Nagoya a mere 20. “Compared with the Japanese forces in the overseas areas,” one postwar Japanese report noted, “the air defense units in the home islands were poorly equipped and trained.”
Many of Japan’s senior leaders, however, did not share Yamamoto’s fears. During a meeting with his military councillors on November 4, 1941, Prime Minister Hideki Tojo dismissed the threat of an air raid against Japan, insisting that the nation dedicate its forces to overseas operations. “I do not think the enemy could raid Japan proper from the air immediately after the outbreak of hostilities,” Tojo said. “Some time would elapse before the enemy could attempt such raids.” That same confidence led him to reject the first comprehensive air defense measures proposed by the War Ministry in mid-January, which called for dispersing factories, protecting utilities, communication and transportation systems, and even evacuating major urban centers. Tojo likewise shot down a proposal in February to at least evacuate women and children, claiming that such action would merely threaten Japan’s important family structure. Only cowards, he argued, evacuated.
Yamamoto disagreed. The veteran admiral had set a precedent with the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. He understood that America’s strong national character—coupled with Japan’s failure to sink the nation’s flattops at Pearl Harbor—would no doubt lead to a retaliatory carrier strike against the Japanese homeland. Yamamoto recalled that during the Russo-Japanese War when a Russian naval force arrived off Tokyo’s shores, many terrified residents fled to the mountains while others stoned the home of Vice Admiral Kamimura, the officer trusted to protect the homeland from attack. Yamamoto vowed never to let that happen again, and his determination to protect the seat of the emperor, aides remembered, grew into an obsession. “He never failed, before giving his attention to any thing else, to ask for the latest Tokyo weather report,” recalled Mitsuo Fuchida, the pilot who led the air attack on Pearl Harbor. “If the reports were bad, he felt relieved because they gave added assurance that the capital was safe.”
Yamamoto ordered daily long-range air patrols in the waters east of Japan, along with the creation of a fleet of picket boats, a force that would eventually count 171 such vessels, most small fishing boats requisitioned from private owners that ranged in size from 50 to 250 tons. Armed with radios to flash reports of any approaching enemy fleet, the boats operated anywhere from eighty to a thousand miles off shore, anchoring during the day and patrolling at night. Despite these precautions Yamamoto remained so concerned he even advised a geisha friend to move her property outside the city. “A lot of people are feeling relieved, or saying they’re ‘grateful to Admiral Yamamoto’ because there hasn’t been a single air raid,” he wrote. “They’re very wrong: the fact that the enemy hasn’t come is no thanks to Admiral Yamamoto, but to the enemy himself. So if they want to express gratitude to somebody, I wish they’d express it to America. If the latter really made up its mind to wade in on us, there’d be no way of defending a city like Tokyo.”
LIEUTENANT HENRY MILLER CLIMBED down from his Vought SBU Corsair biplane at Eglin Field on the Sunday morning of March 1, 1942. The twenty-nine-year-old Alaska native, who answered to the nickname Hank, clutched orders directing him to temporary duty at the Army airfield. A 1934 graduate of the Naval Academy, where he had boxed under famed coach Spike Webb, Miller had begun his career on the battleship Texas. He went on to earn his wings in June 1938 and later served on the carrier Saratoga. Since November 1940 he had worked as a flight instructor and personnel officer at the naval air station Ellyson Field, in the Florida Panhandle near Pensacola; a flight from there to Eglin he had made that morning in just fifty minutes. Miller’s orders made no mention of what he would do for the Army, though the assistant training officer at Pensacola told him that the assignment was to assist a Lieutenant Colonel Doolittle.
“Is that the Great Jimmy Doolittle?” Miller asked.
Doolittle had requested a secure place to train near the coast that would allow his crews to practice overwater navigation, an imperative skill the men would need for the raid. The Army Air Forces had assigned him Eglin Field. Though founded in 1933 near the town of Valparaiso in the panhandle, Eglin was still very much a work in progress. The year before had seen the completion of a 1,000-seat mess hall, and workers now hustled to complete the base chapel by May. The first on-base movie theater would open in July. The day Miller first stepped onto the tarmac, Eglin counted 1,526 airmen living in barracks, another 1,872 in tents, and 632 off base. It would soon become obvious to Doolittle’s fliers why the Army chose Eglin and its various satellite fields. “It was out in the boonies; there wasn’t anybody around,” recalled pilot Everett “Brick” Holstrom, then a young first lieutenant. “It was completely isolated.”
The Army had sent orders to Eglin’s commanding officer to be ready to house upwards of twenty combat crews as well as to service as many bombers as early as February 21. That included guaranteeing the base enough bombs in its arsenal, along with .50-caliber and .30-caliber machine-gun rounds to aid in the airmen’s training. “Inasmuch as this is an extremely confidential project,” orders stated, “it is directed that no information be permitted to get out regarding the arrival, departure or activities of these airplanes and crews.” In advance of the airmen’s transfer to Eglin, the Army had likewise reached out to the Navy’s Bureau of Aeronautics: “It is requested that a Naval aviator, experienced in the art of taking heavily loaded airplanes off from the deck of a carrier, be available at Eglin Field, Valparaiso, Florida, from March 1 to March 15, for the purpose of instructing Army pilots in this art.” The Navy had answered with Miller.
The young lieutenant reported to the base commander. “Do you know what I’m down here for?” Miller asked.
“No,” the colonel replied.
Miller explained he was a carrier pilot and instructor over at Pensacola and was supposed to teach some Army pilots how to take off from a flattop.
The colonel said he still had no idea.
Convinced his orders must be a mistake, Miller rose to leave when he happened to mention Doolittle’s detachment.
The colonel then closed the doors, his voice dropped to a whisper.
Miller had come to the right place.
The colonel drove the lieutenant over to the barracks and allowed h
im to drop off his gear before shuttling him over to the building where Doolittle’s detachment was set up. Neither Doolittle nor the squadron’s executive officer, Jack Hilger, was there, but Miller met Captains Ski York, Davy Jones, and Ross Greening. The aircrews had begun to arrive in the modified B-25s, though official training would not start for a few days. Miller introduced himself to the three pilots, informing them that he was there to teach them how to take off from a carrier.
“Have you ever flown a B-25?” one of the men asked.
Miller confessed he had never even seen one.
“Well, that’s all right,” the Army airmen assured him. “Because none of us know anything about the Navy either.”
The four men headed down to the line and climbed inside a B-25. With Jones as the pilot and Miller his copilot, the airmen throttled up the engines and flew over to the auxiliary runway set aside for the crews to train. The brief flight gave Miller a feel for the medium bomber, while the airmen explained that a typical takeoff required a speed of about 110 miles per hour, a figure Miller told them he could cut in half. The Navy lieutenant gave his first lesson: hold both feet on the brakes, put the stabilizer back three-fourths, and throttle up the engine. With the engine roaring at full throttle, release the brakes and pull back on the yoke until the plane lifts off. Miller demonstrated, charging into the skies with an air speed of around 65 miles per hour.
“That is impossible,” one of the airmen said. “You can’t do that.”
“Okay,” he answered. “Come on back and we’ll land and try it again.”
Miller charged into the skies again, this time at a speed of about seventy miles per hour. The three Army airmen were convinced.
THE TWO DOZEN AIRCREWS had all arrived by March 3, when Doolittle touched down at Eglin. He had mapped out a fifty-five-hour training program, the bare essentials of what it would take to get his men in shape for the mission. That regime included a six-hour preliminary period in which each aircraft commander would calibrate his airspeed indicators, compass, and automatic flight control equipment. Doolittle planned for his crews to then spend five hours each working with Lieutenant Miller on short-field takeoffs: four with an empty plane, four with a bomber weighing about 28,000 pounds, and finally two takeoffs with a fully loaded plane of 31,000 pounds. Crews would spend another fifteen hours practicing daytime and nighttime bombing on ground targets and oil slicks in the Gulf of Mexico, followed by another fifteen hours of gunnery practice that included making dry practice runs against attacking pursuits.
Doolittle lastly wanted each crew to perform fourteen hours of overwater navigation. He planned for the airmen to fly from Eglin to Fort Meyer, Florida. From there, crews would fly across the gulf to Houston before returning to Eglin; the outgoing flight would be made during the day, the return at night. The training in the skies would be complemented by ground lectures on pursuit and antiaircraft evasion tactics. The airmen had come from four different squadrons, so Doolittle organized the fliers into a cohesive single unit, which he deemed important since he would be gone much of the time. In addition to his executive officer, Hilger, Doolittle picked York to serve as operations officer. Jones would handle navigation and intelligence, while Greening would serve as gunnery officer. He tapped Bill Bower as the squadron’s engineering officer and Travis Hoover to oversee supplies. Doolittle wanted Hoover, York, Jones, Greening, and Hilger also to serve as the mission’s five flight commanders.
With this in mind Doolittle summoned the roughly 140 officers and enlisted men to the Operations Office, where the fliers crowded onto benches and windowsills. This was the first time many had ever seen the famous flier in the flesh.
“I was a little awestruck,” remembered Bill Bower. “This was my idol.”
“He was a legend,” added navigator and bombardier Herb Macia. “He was a person that you never expected to see or have any personal contact with.”
A few were surprised by his small stature. “I’d built him up as quite a giant,” recalled Harry McCool, another navigator. “He was such a short little duck.”
Doolittle’s charisma overshadowed his size. “We were immediately captivated,” Jones said. “It didn’t take but two minutes and you were under his spell.”
More than anything else the famed aviator’s presence communicated the importance of the mission. “As soon as we heard his name we knew we could depend on real action,” remembered navigator Charles McClure. “Something really big was in prospect.”
“My name’s Doolittle,” he announced to the airmen, his voice calm and measured. “If you men have any idea that this isn’t the most dangerous thing you’ve ever been on, don’t even start this training period. You can drop out now. There isn’t much sense wasting time and money training men who aren’t going through with this thing. It’s perfectly all right for any of you to drop out.”
The room fell quiet, then several hands shot up.
“Sir,” a young officer asked, “can you give us any more information about the mission?”
“No, I can’t—just now,” Doolittle answered. “But you’ll begin to get an idea of what it’s all about the longer we’re down here training for it. Now, there’s one important thing I want to stress. This whole thing must be kept secret. I don’t even want you to tell your wives, no matter what you see, or are asked to do, down here. If you’ve guessed where we’re going, don’t even talk about your guess. That means every one of you. Don’t even talk among yourselves about this thing.”
Doolittle fell silent, letting his message register.
“The lives of many men are going to depend on how well you keep this project to yourselves,” he continued. “Not only your lives but the lives of hundreds of others.”
He warned the men to avoid rumors and report any curious strangers to him; he would contact the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Our training here will stress teamwork,” he said. “I want every man to do his assigned job. We’ve got a lot of work to do on those planes to get them in shape.”
Beyond the planes, every airman, from the bombardiers and navigators to the gunners and pilots, would have to train for the mission.
“We’ve got about three weeks—maybe less,” Doolittle concluded. “Remember, if anyone wants to drop out, he can. No questions asked.”
None did.
MILLER STARTED WORK IMMEDIATELY, formulating a takeoff procedure based on a study of the characteristics and performance data of the B-25 and its engines. He assumed that the maximum number of bombers would be placed aboard the carrier, slashing takeoff space to as little as 350 feet. The naval aviator calculated that the combined wind and carrier speed would create a forty-knot wind across the flight deck to help each fully loaded bomber lift off. Miller ordered crews to paint a yellow stripe down the runway so that pilots could practice holding the left wheel on the line, an imperative skill since pilots would have just 7 feet of clearance between the bomber’s wingtip and the carrier’s island. In addition, he requested flags planted at 250 feet and 400 feet and then every 50 feet after that, up to 700 feet, to help pilots mark takeoff distances.
Miller first trained Jones, who managed to lift off with an airspeed of just fifty-miles per hour, then recruited the captain to serve as his assistant. Each pilot reported to the runway in his bomber. Jones would make one takeoff in the pilot’s seat, explaining the procedure, while the aircraft commander flew as his copilot. Jones would then trade seats with the pilot, allowing the other flier a chance. Miller assigned an airman to time the plane when it reached the 250-foot mark as well as on takeoff. Another measured the plane’s distance when it left the runway. Miller stood behind the pilot and recorded the airspeed and offered advice. The concept proved alien to the Army pilots, who were accustomed to using every inch of a runway that stretched for thousands of feet. Travis Hoover’s response was typical of many after hearing Miller’s lesson.
“We can’t do that,” the pilot protested.
“Oh, yes,” M
iller said, “you can.”
Most of the airmen proved fast learners. During preliminary training in a bomber weighing around 26,000 pounds, Harold Watson managed to get airborne at just sixty-two miles per hour, better even than Miller. Donald Smith topped everyone for the record for shortest distance, lifting off in as little as 294 feet. “Excellent,” Miller scribbled in his notes. “This pilot has the news!” Once the aviators mastered takeoffs with a lightly loaded plane, Miller ordered them to report with a full load of gas, ammunition, and equipment that brought the bomber’s weight up to around 29,000 pounds. Each pilot again made several takeoffs while Jones and Miller watched, the brakes at times heating up so much that pilots had to fly around with the landing gear down to cool them off. “After a little practice,” one report later noted, “the observers on the ground could tell almost exactly what the pilot was doing in the cockpit.”
For the final round crews loaded the B-25s with practice bombs and even stacked boxes of extra .50-caliber machine-gun rounds in the navigator’s compartment, upping the weight to 31,000 pounds. That was how much Doolittle predicted each plane would weigh as it charged down the Hornet’s flight deck filled with bombs and extra fuel needed to reach China. Watson again bested everyone for the low-speed record, lifting off at just fifty-five miles per hour. “It became an intense competition to see who could take off in the shortest distance with the greatest load,” Bower recalled. “The only weight we had for the airplane was .50 caliber ammunition in boxes, and people, so one man would make his attempt and record the distance, and then we’d all climb in the next airplane and load it up a little more, and see whether we could best that distance.”
Though most of the fliers had no trouble—Miller rated Doolittle, Jones, and Robert Gray the best—the naval aviator struggled with James Bates, a first lieutenant who had almost five hundred hours in the cockpit, including two hundred in a B-25. Those problems came to a head on the morning of March 23 in the final round of training.
Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor Page 11
