Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor

by Scott, James M.

  “Bates, you have to try it again,” an exasperated Miller instructed him. “You fly the plane. Don’t let it fly you. Once more around.”

  The lieutenant throttled up the engine and released the brakes at 10:03 a.m. To Miller’s horror the bomber lifted off in a skid. Bates pushed it harder and the right engine stalled out at about twenty-five feet. The bomber crashed to ground, crushing the landing gear and propellers and tearing up the fuselage. The other crew members, afraid the plane would explode, started to climb out the windows.

  “Sit down and wait until those props stop,” Miller ordered. “Turn off all your switches.”

  Miller reached into the back to grab his papers and notebook, only to turn around and find the others had all jumped out. “No one was hurt,” Bates would later tell investigators, “but the airplane was totally washed out.”

  The loss of the bomber created a problem. York picked up the phone and called Columbia. His close friend and fellow pilot Bob Emmens answered. Ordered to remain behind in South Carolina by Hilger, Emmens had listened in awe to the stories that drifted back of short takeoffs and long overwater flights the crews practiced.

  “We just lost an airplane,” York told him. “We need another airplane right away down here.”

  “Ski,” he said, spotting his opportunity, “I will see you about 3:30 or 4:00.”

  Emmens was thrilled. The pilot hurried back to his tent and grabbed a few uniforms, underwear, and toiletries. He packed the rest of his gear in his footlocker, ordering it sent to his home at 1443 East Main Street in Medford, Oregon. On heading out to his plane, he collided with Colonel Mills, the group commander.

  “Emmens,” Mills said, “where are you off to?”

  “Sir,” he said, “York just called from Eglin, and they had some bad luck with an airplane. They need another airplane down there. So I told him I would be down there about 3:30 or 4:00.”

  “I don’t know whether I trust you or not. You had better find somebody else to take that airplane down. If you take it down there, I’m afraid you won’t come back.”

  “Colonel, sir,” Emmens protested. “I promise I will be back this evening.”

  Mills considered it. “Well, since you are all ready, okay,” he said, reluctantly. “But if you don’t come back, I am going to have your you know what.”

  “Oh, sir,” he replied. “I will be back.”

  MAINTENANCE PROBLEMS SOON CUT into the aircrew’s training time. The B-25’s meager armament consisted of twin .50-caliber machine guns mounted in top and bottom turrets along with a single .30-caliber machine gun in the nose, a setup the aviators described as “woefully deficient.” Exacerbating the airmen’s concerns, the few guns the bombers did have often failed to work. The blast from the machine-gun muzzle when fired close to the fuselage popped rivets and tore the plane’s thin skin, forcing workers to install steel blast plates. Neither the lower gun turret’s activating or extending and retracting mechanisms functioned properly, and the complicated gun sight proved impossible for the men to learn in the few weeks before the mission. “A man could learn to play the violin well enough for Carnegie Hall,” Doolittle griped, “before he could learn to fire that thing.”

  Greening worked to remedy these problems. He recommended that workers remove the belly guns—the low-altitude mission made them worthless anyway—which would reduce weight and free up space for the extra sixty-gallon gas tank. To shore up the unprotected tail, Greening devised a ruse. Crews cut holes in the bomber’s tail and installed two black wooden poles reminiscent of broomsticks designed to resemble .50-caliber machine guns, exaggerating the barrel size to make them more visible to a pursuing fighter. Many of the real guns either failed to fire or easily jammed, forcing the gunner to waste valuable time stripping them. With the help of an armaments expert from Wright Field, crews either replaced defective guns or swapped out faulty parts. Though the men practiced with .50-caliber machine guns at a ground range, all this added work meant that none of the gunners ever fired on a moving target in the skies.

  Greening zeroed in as well on the B-25’s classified Norden bombsight, a seventy-five-pound analog computer consisting of more than two thousand parts. The sophisticated instrument named for Dutch designer Carl Norden carried a hefty price tag of almost $10,000—enough cash to buy ten new Studebaker Commanders. Not only would the Japanese possibly capture the bombsight if a plane was shot down, but Greening knew the Norden worked best at altitudes of at least four thousand feet, a much higher bombing altitude than Doolittle had planned for the mission. Greening with the help of Staff Sergeant Edwin Bain fashioned a simplified replacement made from scrap Dural aluminum that he dubbed the Mark Twain in honor of the primitive lead-line depth finders once used along the Mississippi River. Tests would later show that Greening’s twenty-cent sight worked far better at the proposed bombing height of fifteen hundred feet than the more complicated and pricey Norden. “It was fine for the things we had in mind,” recalled pilot Ted Lawson. “It was as simple as pointing a rifle at the object to be bombed and letting the bomb go when you had a bead.”

  Crews focused on more than just armament. The mission would require bombers to fly a minimum of 1,900 miles nonstop from the moment the wheels left the carrier’s flight deck until touchdown more than twelve hours later in eastern China. Even with the three added gasoline tanks, the distance demanded that crews maximize fuel efficiency. North American developed cruise control charts that demonstrated how pilots could increase manifold pressure and lower propeller rpm settings to squeeze more miles out of each gallon. Swapping out scratched props likewise allowed pilots without any added power to increase speed from 220 miles per hour to 275. Though these measures improved efficiency, tests revealed that no two bombers burned fuel at the same rate. Doolittle requested the help of a civilian carburetor expert from the Bendix factory. Much to his frustration, the company sent a cocky blowhard.

  “I understand you want some carburetors pressure checked,” the factory representative told Doolittle. “I can tell you now they have been checked before they left the factory. As a matter of fact we just don’t send out equipment that is not in perfect condition. Furthermore—”

  “Hold it, son,” Doolittle interrupted, clearly irritated. “What did the factory send? An expert or a salesman? If you’re a salesman, go home, we have plenty of carburetors. If you’re an expert, stick around, we need you.”

  The man stayed put.

  Pilots flew under simulated mission conditions to calculate fuel consumption, determining that the bombers burned on average sixty-five gallons per hour with a light load and up to seventy-eight gallons with a full one. Doolittle demanded his crews fly out over the Gulf of Mexico so pilots and navigators could learn to operate without landmarks or radio references. Greening’s copilot Second Lieutenant Ken Reddy of Texas described in his diary a near tragedy that occurred on one such flight over the gulf when the inside plate that covered the hole left by the lower turret started to jump up and down. The rattle irritated the crew’s engineer-gunner, Sergeant Melvin Gardner, who attempted to weight down the plate with two full toolboxes. “This did not do the trick,” Reddy wrote, “so he sat on the tool boxes.” Greening called Gardner, instructing him to take a headset to navigator Second Lieutenant Frank Kappeler. “It was while he was doing this that both plates and the boxes dropped out of the ship. They are all in Davey Jones’ Locker,” Reddy continued. “Gardner was wearing no chute so he was lucky.”

  Doolittle likewise demanded that his crews drill on low-altitude target approaches followed by rapid bombing and evasive measures. Much of the training involved sand-loaded bombs, though each crew practiced once with a 100-pound live weapon. Sandbags weighted down the tails of parked bombers so machine gunners could fire the .50 calibers at temporary targets set up on Eglin’s auxiliary fields. Other times the gunners strafed sea slicks in the gulf or practiced tracking pursuit planes. Doolittle had hoped his crews might fire on towed targets, but time did not
allow it. “Many Florida coast towns were subjected to vigorous low altitude dry run attacks,” noted one report. “The numerous complaining telephone calls to the commander at Eglin Field gave evidence to the enthusiasm displayed by the pilots during this particular practice.”

  The aviators would have to look after not just the bombers but themselves as well, a job that fell to First Lieutenant Thomas White, the mission’s thirty-two-year-old flight surgeon, known simply as Doc. A Maui native and 1937 graduate of Harvard Medical School, White had volunteered for the mission, only to have Jack Hilger dash his hopes. There was no slot for a doctor. If White wanted to go, the major told him, he would have to learn how to shoot the .50-caliber machine guns. “To his great credit, he did,” Doolittle later wrote. “He scored second highest of all the gunners on the firing range with the twin .50s and thus earned his way onto a crew.”

  Mindful of weight limits, White planned to pack only a medical officer’s field kit, plus a few added supplies, including a thousand sulfathiazole tablets, two metal catheters, and a pocket surgical kit. He overhauled the two first aid kits in each plane, checking to make sure each contained morphine syrettes and sulfanilamide tablets. “Difficulty was experienced in obtaining foot powder for the men,” White later noted. “The supposition being, apparently, that Air Corps troops never walk but always fly.” The doctor checked blood types and made sure the information was recorded on each airman’s dog tags. Only after Doolittle flew to Washington and intervened was White able to obtain the necessary vaccines. He administered updated shots for typhoid, tetanus, smallpox, and yellow fever and started the men on injections against pneumonia, typhus, cholera, and bubonic plague. “No marked reactions were observed,” White noted, “even to the plague vaccine, which enjoys a bad reputation.”

  In addition to teaching carrier takeoffs, Miller gave the airmen a crash course on naval etiquette, instructing them when boarding a ship to salute the national ensign on the stern and the officer of the deck. He told them how to take a shower without wasting water and gave them a rundown of naval terminology, from the difference between port and starboard to floor versus deck. The rest of the time the airmen relaxed, taking in a performance of the Alabama College Glee Club and spending an afternoon deep-sea fishing in the gulf. “We caught a good mess of fish,” Reddy wrote in his diary. “I caught about six; one was a triggerfish. Most of them were red and white snappers.”

  Others used the downtime to write letters home, including Richard Cole. “Our commanding officer is none other than ‘Jimmie Doolittle’ the famous speed demon—he flies a B-25 the same way,” he wrote to his parents in Ohio. “We have learned a lot of new data about our ships and from the looks of things we will be needing all of it.” Pilot Billy Farrow’s mother worked as a stenographer for the Board of Economic Warfare in Washington, where she battled long food lines and crowded buses. He implored her in a letter to remain strong. “You’re helping in national defense too, remember, so if things get tough, know that you’re doing it for your country, and there’s nothing too good to do for our country,” Farrow wrote. “Remember that—nothing!”

  Lawson came out to his plane one morning to discover that someone had chalked the name Ruptured Duck on the fuselage. He liked the name so much he recruited a gunner to paint an accompanying caricature of Donald Duck, complete with his headphone cords twisted around his head and a set of crossed crutches. Other crews followed Lawson’s lead, and soon many of the B-25s had been christened with names such as Whiskey Pete, Whirling Dervish, Bat out of Hell, Avenger, Green Hornet, TNT, Fickle Finger of Fate, and, of course, Hari Kari-er.

  Throughout the training the airmen respected Doolittle’s warning not to talk about the mission, though the secrecy at times proved fodder for humor.

  “Doolittle has got some kind of horrible disease,” pilot Travis Hoover joked. “He’s going on a one-way mission and taking us with him.”

  Miller’s lessons on Navy life alerted many that the mission would likely involve a carrier, though the airmen wondered whether that might mean a trip to Europe or Japan. “It was sort of obvious, but we weren’t permitted to talk about it,” Knobloch recalled. “We weren’t permitted to guess about it. If one of us would open his mouth and get out of line, the other guys would jump on him.” The final destination, the men realized, had little bearing on the training. “We could do what we had to do and have our fun,” Bower recalled, “without talking about what was going to come tomorrow.”

  Fog and foul weather limited flying for days at a time, but Doolittle felt his crews had learned a lot, though he didn’t fool himself. Three weeks was not much time to prepare for a strike against the Japanese homeland. The more than four-year war with China had transformed the empire’s aviators into some of the world’s best. American pilots in contrast had no real combat experience. Operating a bomber was a team effort. It wasn’t enough to have a good pilot or gunner. Each man had to be the best. The weeks at Elgin had revealed to the pragmatic Doolittle the varying gaps in crew skills, though at this late stage there was little more he could do to remedy them. “The first pilots were all excellent,” he noted in his report. “The co-pilots were all good for co-pilots. The bombardiers were fair but needed brushing up. The navigators had had good training but very little practical experience. The gunners, almost without exception, had never fired a machine gun from an airplane at either a moving or stationary target.”

  AS THE CREWS FINISHED training at Eglin, Doolittle returned to Washington to make a final pitch to Arnold. The veteran airman who had sat out World War I didn’t want to just plan and organize the mission. Doolittle wanted to lead it.

  “General, it occurred to me that I’m the one guy on this project who knows more about it than anyone else,” he began. “You asked me to get the planes modified and the crews trained and this is being done. They’re the finest bunch of boys I’ve ever worked with. I’d like your authorization to lead this mission myself.”

  Arnold’s trademark grin vanished. Though he appreciated Doolittle’s enthusiasm—and understood his desire to see combat—Arnold needed his troubleshooter in Washington. “I’m sorry, Jim,” the general answered. “I need you right here on my staff. I can’t afford to let you go on every mission you might help to plan.”

  The calculating Doolittle had assumed Arnold would put up such resistance. He countered with a sales pitch, wearing the general down.

  “All right, Jim,” Arnold finally answered. “It’s all right with me provided it’s all right with Miff Harmon.”

  Arnold had referred to Brigadier General Millard Harmon Jr., his chief of staff. Doolittle suspected a ruse. He saluted and exited Arnold’s office, sprinting down the passageway to Harmon’s office. He knocked and entered.

  “Miff,” a winded Doolittle began. “I’ve just been to see Hap about that project I’ve been working on and said I wanted to lead the mission. Hap said it was okay with him if it’s okay with you.”

  “Well,” Harmon stammered, clearly blindsided, “whatever is all right with Hap is certainly all right with me.”

  Doolittle thanked him and left. Just as he closed the door, he heard Arnold over the squawk box. He didn’t want to wait to be summoned back. As he disappeared, he heard Harmon protest, “But Hap, I told him he could go.”

  CHAPTER 6

  These brutal and inexcusable attacks on civilian populations have created a hatred of the Japanese in China which it will take centuries to eradicate.

  —OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES, FEBRUARY 3, 1942

  DONALD DUNCAN STEPPED OFF the plane on Thursday, March 19, in Hawaii after two straight days of travel from Washington. The Navy captain was no doubt tired from the trip across five time zones, one made all the more stressful by a snafu in his orders that nearly left him stranded on the tarmac in New Mexico. Duncan had failed to make sure his orders stated that he had top priority, an error he didn’t realize until the stewardess woke him up in the middle of the night near Albuquerque. She infor
med him that Army pilots, traveling under top-priority orders, waited to board at the next stop, en route back to San Francisco after delivering airplanes. There wasn’t room on board the commercial flight for everyone. Duncan would have to get off.

  The naval officer protested that he was under orders to connect in San Francisco for Hawaii and that he simply could not get off.

  The stewardess protested.

  “Well,” Duncan countered, “I’m not getting off.”

  The commotion drew the attention of the pilot, who came back and told Duncan that he had to go along with established priority.

  Duncan showed the pilot his orders, which, in an effort to maintain total secrecy, mentioned only that he had to attend a conference in Hawaii.

  The pilot appeared sympathetic, but said someone would have to direct him to allow Duncan to remain on board.

  Duncan suggested he call General Arnold in Washington.

  The pilot said he would discuss the situation with the Army aviators about to board. If he couldn’t work something out, the pilot would call Washington.

  “Well, that’s fine, but if I leave the airplane, you will have to carry me off,” Duncan told him. “I’m not going to get out of this bunk and off the airplane.”

  The Navy captain went back to bed only to awake the next morning as his plane approached San Francisco.

  Duncan put the experience behind him as he hastened to see Pacific Fleet commander Admiral Chester Nimitz. The wreckage of Japan’s December 7 surprise attack still crowded the cool waters of Pearl Harbor, the entire bay rimmed by a two-foot-thick film of oil. The burned-out battleship Arizona rested on the muddy bottom with eleven hundred sailors entombed inside while, as Time magazine noted, the Hawaiian sun reflected off the rusty keels of the capsized battleship Oklahoma and the former battleship turned target ship Utah. Thousands of divers, welders, and engineers now risked poison gas and unexploded ordnance to untangle the destruction even as grim reminders of the awful tragedy still surfaced. Workers only the month before had salvaged thousands of waterlogged and rust-stained Christmas cards from one vessel, while the marked-out dates on a calendar discovered in a storeroom of the sunken battleship West Virginia revealed that three men had survived until December 23 before the oxygen ran out.