On one of my flights to Washington before we left Florida, I had a talk with Hap about the arrangements being made in China to receive the B-25s after the mission. It would be much easier if the Soviets would let us land and refuel in their territory, but we knew we couldn’t count on it. Any information we sent to China had to be carefully worded because it was common knowledge that strict secrecy was extremely difficult to maintain in any dealings with Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek’s staff in Chungking.
Hap decided not to tell anyone in Chungking about our mission, although General Joseph E. “Vinegar Joe” Stilwell had been told a few bare details of the project before he left the States in February to take over the China-Burma-India command. The need for preparation of airfields to receive the “First Special Aviation Project” was discussed, but Stilwell was not told from where the planes were to come.
By the middle of March, we had had no word from Stilwell on what progress was being made on airfield preparation and on bomb and gasoline supplies. Hap sent an urgent message: REFERENCE SPECIAL AIR PROJECT DISCUSSED WITH YOU BEFORE DEPARTURE, TIME FOR SPOTTING GAS AT AGREED POINTS GETTING SHORT.
On March 22, Stilwell replied that the Standard Oil Company of Calcutta had 500 gallons of 100-octane gasoline on hand. He asked why it was needed and requested authority to have it transported to China. Stilwell’s lack of a sense of urgency about our project was understandable. He was not a pilot, and Hap’s inability to communicate openly with him was a severe limitation.
By March 25, Hap was getting more concerned that arrangements for our arrival were not proceeding in China. He sent another message to Stilwell specifying the amounts of 100-octane gasoline and oil needed, the airports where the stocks were to be located, and the arrangements required for the B-25s. Stilwell advised Hap that according to the Chinese, Kweilin and Chuchow were the only fields safe for heavy bomber operations. Chiang had disapproved the use of three other fields unless an inspection was made by an American officer.
As soon as this latest information about the airfields was received, Hap asked Admiral King to relay it to me for planning purposes. I was not too worried about the apparent misunderstandings in China. I thought any problems would be worked out by the time we left the carrier. Meanwhile, Hap sent a telegram to Stilwell: SPECIAL PROJECT WILL ARRIVE DESTINATION ON APRIL TWENTIETH. SHOULD A CHANGE IN ARRIVAL DATE ARISE AN ATTEMPT WILL BE MADE TO NOTIFY YOU. YOU MUST HOWEVER BE PREPARED FOR VARIATION WITHOUT NOTICE.
When I returned to the Hornet on the morning of April 2, I went directly to Captain Mitscher’s cabin. It was a suite of rooms below the flight deck. There was one large room used for conferences and briefings, a head, and a small but comfortable bedroom. Mitscher had graciously turned over his cabin to me as my quarters: “You’ll be holding meetings with your people and it will be more convenient for you to have a place where you can do that. My quarters makes that possible. Besides, it’s the only place on the ship large enough for private meetings.” Whereupon, he moved into a small room off the bridge.
The planes were being loaded in plain daylight, so we had put out the story that they were being taken to Hawaii and would be flown off the carrier in order to deliver them as quickly as possible. Mitscher and I discussed the carrier’s departure plans and agreed that all hands should be informed of our true destination after we were a day out of port.
We were interrupted by an officer who handed me several messages. One of them told me that arrangements I had requested were now being made in China for gas, oil, and airport markings. Other messages were good luck wishes from Generals Marshall and Arnold.
I was handed a handwritten memo from Admiral King that said: “When I learned that you were to lead the Army air contingent of the Hornet expedition, I knew that the degree of success had been greatly increased.
“To you, your officers and men I extend heartfelt wishes for success in your job—and ‘happy landings’ and ‘good hunting.’ ”
One by one, the other seven ships in the task force got under way and sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge in broad daylight. Thousands of people going to work that bright April morning could see the Hornet loaded down with Army bombers waiting to follow. All of us wondered why the Navy did this, and it was not until much later that we learned the reason. Captain Frederick L. Riefkohl, skipper of the Vincennes, commented in a postwar interview that he was uneasy about his crew at the time, because about 50 percent of them were recruits. No skipper wanted to take the risk of trying a night departure with a green crew.
While my boys and I watched the departures of the other ships from the Hornet, I received a call to report ashore in the captain’s gig immediately to take an urgent phone call. My heart sank. I was sure it would be Hap telling me I couldn’t go. When I got to a phone onshore, the caller was General Marshall. If it had been Hap trying to cancel me out of the mission, I would have argued with him, but not with General Marshall.
“Doolittle?” he said, sternly.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, expecting the bad news to follow.
“I just called to personally wish you the best of luck,” he said. “Our thoughts and our prayers will be with you. Goodbye, good luck, and come home safely.”
All I could think of to say was, “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
It was a nice feeling to know that the top general in the Army had taken the time to make such a personal call to a lieutenant colonel, especially after he had sent a personal note and a message. With all the things he had on his mind, his personal interest showed how important our mission was to him and the war effort. Best of all, I wasn’t ordered to stay home. I went back to the Hornet feeling much better.
Just before noon, the Hornet sailed into the Pacific. Captain Mitscher’s orders were to take a meandering course westward to the rendezvous point with Admiral Halsey’s force on April 12. What we didn’t know was that Admiral Halsey had difficulty getting back to Hawaii. He had expected to be back at Pearl Harbor on April 2, but their Pan Am Clipper had been delayed several days because of strong westerly winds. On April 6, with a bad case of the flu, he finally arrived in Honolulu. Meanwhile, he had radioed Mitscher that the rendezvous with his task force would be delayed one day, until April 13.
As we slipped out of sight of land, Captain Mitscher decided to inform Task Force 16.2 where they were going. He told his chief signal officer to notify the rest of the ships by semaphore that “this force is bound for Tokyo.” He personally made the announcement over the Hornet’s loudspeaker. Cheers could be heard all over the ship.
I had already told our crews the elements of the plan. I told them what five cities we were to bomb and said they’d be getting all the information they needed in the days ahead. One more time, I told them that I wanted only volunteers; anyone could still drop out, no questions asked. Again, no one did. Some members of the spare crews tried to persuade some of the assigned crew members to trade places, but got no takers. As far as I can recall, only one crew member was replaced. That was because Sergeant Edwin W. “Ed” Horton, the man who took the other’s place, was an excellent armament specialist and we knew we would need his expertise because of the trouble we had had with the turrets and guns.
There was relief among the assigned crews now that they knew where we were going. The training at Eglin and all the things we had done to the planes now made sense to them. There was now a clear purpose to what each man was to do, and I noticed each crew had a greater concern about the condition of their plane and its equipment.
Just before noon on April 3, Lieutenant Richard O. “Dick” Joyce, pilot of the sixteenth plane, was talking with Hank Miller about his planned takeoff to show the rest of the crews that it could be done. I asked Hank to get up into the cockpit with me. “Hank, that deck looks mighty short to me,” I told him, implying that I wondered if Joyce could get off safely.
“Don’t worry about it, Colonel,” he said. “You see that toolbox way up there on the deck ahead? That’s where I used to take off in fighters.” His confidence was encouraging. He was not only willing but eager to ride in the B-25 that would prove how easy a takeoff would be.
“What do they call ‘baloney’ in the Navy?” I said, facetiously. I went to the bridge to see Captain Mitscher and told him I wanted to take that sixteenth bomber with us.
A few minutes later, Hank was called to the bridge. Mitscher said, “We’ve got a light wind. You probably can’t get 40 knots down the deck, Miller. Still want to try it?”
Hank assured him that he did and that they could get off in less space than the 450 feet available with the Hornet at top speed.
“Do you have any of your clothes aboard?” Mitscher asked Hank.
“Yes, sir. I do because we’re going to take that B-25 all the way back to Columbia, South Carolina. Why do you ask, sir?”
“Well, if you think it’ll be so easy, we’ll take that sixteenth bomber with us.”
Joyce was elated because he would now participate in the mission. Hank was concerned. He had no official orders even to be on board the Hornet. He had only the authority of a phone call to come this far and thought he’d be demoted to ensign for being at sea without proper written authorization. Mitscher assured him he wouldn’t be. Those who doubted that a B-25 could take off from a carrier would have to take Hank’s word that it could be done easily and be comforted by the fact that the Hornet had already launched two of them two months before.
Shortly after this, a Navy blimp, the L-8, hovered over the carrier and slowly lowered some boxes of spare parts and the glass navigators’ windows we had ordered but which hadn’t arrived before we left McClellan. Air coverage was provided by PBY patrol planes from the Navy’s Western Sea Frontier until we were out of range.
After the crews had settled in below decks, I called them all together again and gave them the targeting information they had been waiting for. The pilots were to choose primary targets and alternates if conditions made it impossible to bomb their primaries. I would precede everybody by about three hours. The remaining 15 planes would be divided into five flights of three planes each. Each flight was assigned a course, and then each plane had specific targets within the flight’s general area. We planned to spread the mission over a 50-mile front in order to create the impression that a larger number of planes took part in the raid than were actually used, and to dilute enemy air and ground fire. This also negated the possibility of more than one plane passing over any given point on the ground and assured an element of surprise.
The five flights were assigned as follows: the first, led by Lieutenant Travis Hoover, was to cover the northern part of Tokyo; the second, led by Captain Davey Jones, was to cover southern Tokyo; the third, led by Captain Ski York, was to cover the southern part of Tokyo and the north-central part of the Tokyo Bay area; the fourth, led by Captain Ross Greening, was to cover the southern part of Kanagawa, the city of Yokohama, and the Yokosuka navy yard; the fifth, led by Jack Hilger, was to go around southern Tokyo, proceed to Nagoya, and break up—one plane bombing Nagoya, one Osaka, and one Kobe.
In these briefings it was emphasized that once the mission took off, everyone was on his own and no one was expected to fly in formation. I wanted everyone to know what to do; I had no doubts that everyone could and would do what was expected of him if humanly possible. There was to be no radio communication of any kind, in order to ensure complete surprise and our personal safety.
Commander Apollo Soucek and Lieutenant Commander Stephen Jurika were introduced. Soucek was air officer for the Hornet and gave us instructions on carrier operations. Jurika was the ship’s intelligence officer and gave us much information on Japanese industry and the layout of the various cities. It was soon obvious why he had been assigned to the Hornet to brief us. He had been assigned to Japan in 1939 as an assistant naval attaché and naval attaché for air at the American embassy in Tokyo. One of his principal tasks was to locate and pinpoint industrial areas and specific industries for possible future use. Jurika told us that one of his greatest sources of information was the Soviet naval attaché, who had been collecting data on the Japanese for a long time.
Jurika gave us frequent lectures on the geography of Japan that were very helpful. After studying the target information we had brought and what Jurika had on board, I allowed the crews to pick the target city they wanted to bomb. After much discussion, each crew finally agreed on their choices, and target folders were passed out. We studied our maps very carefully in order to be able to identify the targets at low altitude. It is much easier to identify a target from high altitude where you can see the various landmarks and navigate accurately to the target area. Not so when you’re flying on the deck and then have to pull up near the target so your bombs will get a proper distribution and not endanger your own plane with their fragments. Gaining altitude was especially necessary so the incendiary clusters would disperse properly.
I met with the crews every day and we always ate together in the wardroom. On one occasion, I heard a couple of the boys talking about bombing the emperor’s palace—the “Temple of Heaven.” I promptly jumped into their conversation.
“You are to bomb military targets only,” I told them. “There is nothing that would unite the Japanese nation more than to bomb the emperor’s home. It is not a military target! And you are to avoid hospitals, schools, and other nonmilitary targets.”
I told them about my visit to Britain in 1940 when the German Luftwaffe had bombed Buckingham Palace, a useless attack that only served to bring the British even more closely together. Attacking the Temple of Heaven, the home of Japan’s venerated spiritual leader, would unite the Japanese people just as much, if not more so. The emperor’s home was of historic as well as religious value to the Japanese; therefore, before leaving the States, even though I could have designated it a specific target, I unilaterally made the decision that we would not bomb it. I consider this admonition one of the most serious I ever made to bombardment crews throughout the war.
The crews were told about the types of bombs and kinds of bomb loads we would be carrying. Some aircraft carried demolition bombs, some carried incendiary bombs, and some carried a mixed load, where it was felt the demolition bombs would make the targets more vulnerable to the incendiary bombs.
“You will drop the demolition bombs in the shortest space of time,” I said, “preferably in a straight line, where they will do the most damage. The incendiary clusters should be dropped as near to the others as possible in an area that looks like it will burn. If you can start a fire in a Japanese city, their buildings are so inflammable they’ll have great difficulty putting it out. Avoid hitting stone, concrete, and steel targets because you can’t do enough damage to them.”
One pilot asked me if they should deliberately head for residential areas to drop their incendiaries. I said, “Definitely not! You are to look for and aim at military targets only, such as war industries, shipbuilding facilities, power plants, and the like. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by attacking residential areas.”
Several times during the next few days, I reiterated my warning about bombing the imperial palace because I heard a rumor that a couple of pilots had been cutting cards to see who would get the emperor. “It’s not worth a plane factory, a shipyard, or an oil refinery, so leave it alone,” I remonstrated again. Apparently, my previous cautions about this had not had the desired effect, which made me very angry.
Unknown to us while we were en route westward, Japanese forces began a series of air raids against the five fields that we were to head for in China. Fortunately, damage was slight, but it was related to a drive southeastward of strong occupying forces and it would not be long before the area surrounding the five fields would be lost. Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek had finally been given a few details about our mission and had given his reluctant consent to our landing there. However, he was still very apprehensive about their use because of the threat of retaliation by the enemy.
The details of the mission had also been kept from Colonel Claire L. Chennault, commander of the Flying Tigers. Even though he was given a short briefing at the same time Chiang was informed, he was not told that the B-25s were to be coming in from the east after bombing Japan. He had built an efficient aircraft warning net that would have been invaluable to us. It would have been very demoralizing to us if we had known that he had not been informed about the specifics and why the requests for assistance had been made. If he had, the outcome might have been very much different.
Also unknown to us was the difficulty being experienced by American pilots in trying to get radio homing beacons located at the destination airfields. On April 2, Hap Arnold wired Chungking requesting that transmitter frequencies between 200 and 1600 kilocycles be made available for us. However, no one in China yet knew why the requests were made or why they had to be complied with before the night of April 19.
On April 5, Chungking reported to Arnold that four of the fields could provide adequate radio facilities for homing. Arnold responded that the numbers “57” should be used for identification. However, something else we didn’t know was that a C-39 transport plane that had been sent to survey the fields had crashed and the survey had never been made. The homing beacons were never installed.
On April 12, Colonel Clayton Bissell. Stilwell’s air officer, sent out two American pilots in Chinese Curtiss Hawk fighters to check the fields. However, weather conditions were so poor that after a number of hazardous and unsuccessful attempts, they were forced to postpone the effort. Both planes were wrecked on landing.
Sometime between April 3 and 6, Chiang began to have serious misgivings about supporting our project. He still didn’t know that we would be coming in from the east after a carrier takeoff and bombing Japan. He told Colonel Bissell to wire General Marshall that he wanted the project delayed until the end of May so his ground forces could prevent the Japanese occupation of Chuchow, one of our destinations. Chuchow was in a vital area that he wanted to retain if at all possible.
General Marshall replied that the project could not be recalled and affirmed that the planes would pass into Stilwell’s control after one landing for fuel. On April 13, Hap wired Chungking and reaffirmed General Marshall’s message that the project could not be stopped. He added, “We are depending upon your assistance as regards flares for landing and guidance and supplies for refueling.”
On April 14, Bissell, obviously caught in the middle, wired Arnold that “special project requiring only one landing the Generalissimo wants delayed.” Bissell added that “details on mission cannot be given to Generalissimo since they are not known here.” Marshall immediately replied on April 15 and directed Stilwell to explain the timing and reasons for our mission to the Generalissimo. Hap followed up this message the next day, stating that “no changes in plans or additional discussion of information feasible re project at this late date.”
As we were approaching the Japanese coast, General Marshall sent a final message to Chungking directing that an “atmosphere of total mystery will surround special project. Stilwell to deny any connection with project, re public information. No publicity desired for project. Desire Generalissimo to observe same policy. Report any information on results of project immediately to War Department.”
This lack of information and understanding would have been disturbing if I had known about it. We received little news aboard the carrier, and while all this had been going on, we had to delay the rendezvous with Halsey’s force because of foul weather. We knew it was coming because we were able to get excellent weather data from Navy lieutenant Arthur A. Cumberledge, who got his input from Pearl Harbor, Alaska, and the West Coast. Our task force ran into fierce storms with high winds, heavy seas, rain squalls, and poor visibility. The winds loosened the ropes holding our planes down. Two seamen were thrown overboard from the Cimarron but, fortunately, were rescued.
We finally joined with Admiral Halsey’s force of eight ships on April 13. As the next few days dragged by, our crews were having difficulties with the planes. There were generator failures; spark plug changes were required; gas tanks leaked; and hydraulic troubles plagued almost every plane. The Hornet’s maintenance men did an excellent job of helping our mechanics solve their problems. We were all impressed with their know-how, their innovative solutions to mechanical difficulties, and their complete willingness to help us out.
Time hung heavily on our hands during the long days of relative inactivity for us. Since our gunners were concerned about their inexperience with the turrets and the twin .50s, they practiced shooting at kites flown from the ship. The navigators practiced taking celestial shots and followed our course and position with the Hornet’s navigator. Doc White gave us lectures on first aid and sanitation and we had classes on meteorology by Lieutenant Cumberledge. Our pilots talked shop with the Navy pilots, who were chafing at not being able to fly. We had religious services on the way, but there was no specific service just before the takeoff, except that the Catholic chaplain made himself available to the boys who wished to see him before we left.
The days were not all filled with serious thoughts. There were many card games far into the night. Not being a gambler, I didn’t take part. The odds in favor of winning any game of chance never seemed right to me.
While the 16 ships were sailing due west, we learned that the American garrison on Bataan had fought its last battle and surrendered to an overwhelming Japanese force on April 9. General Jonathan Wainwright and 35,000 of his men escaped to Corregidor for a last-ditch stand. On April 10, thousands of captured American and Filipino soldiers began a forced march that historians have since called the Bataan death march. There was never a darker period in American history.
To keep occupied as much as possible, we had many bull sessions talking about what we thought lay ahead. We discussed our targets frequently and what damage we thought we could inflict with our bomb loads. One of the pilots asked me what I would do if my plane was badly damaged and would have to be abandoned. I replied, “Each pilot must decide for himself what he will do and what he’ll tell his crew to do if that happens. I know what I’m going to do.”
There was silence and the same chap asked me what that was.
“I don’t intend to be taken prisoner,” I replied. “I’m 45 years old and have lived a full life. If my plane is crippled beyond any possibility of fighting or escape, I’m going to have my crew bail out and then I’m going to dive my B-25 into the best military target I can find. You fellows are all younger and have a long life ahead of you. I don’t expect any of the rest of you to do what I intend to do.”
We didn’t know it at the time, of course, but by April 10, before the two task forces merged, the Japanese were aware of our presence in the western Pacific. They apparently deduced from various exchanges of intercepted radio messages that we were in a task force that included two or three carriers. If that were confirmed, they estimated the force would be close enough for an attack by carrier-based planes by April 14. Also unknown to us, they had a line of small picket boats equipped with high-powered radios patrolling about 650 miles offshore. If a large American task force were approaching, it would be spotted long before its carrier planes could be launched to attack targets on the home islands.
On April 15, Halsey ordered the two large tankers to refuel the heavy ships for the run to our launching point, hopefully about 450 miles off the coast of Japan. During the refueling, the weather was getting increasingly foul and it seemed like a ticklish operation. It was interesting for us landlubbers to watch the process, which was carried off with great precision despite the rough seas.
That day, an English-language radio news report was picked up from Tokyo which called “laughable” a Reuter’s report that “three American bombers had dropped bombs on Tokyo.” Radio Tokyo told its listeners, “… it is absolutely impossible for enemy bombers to get within 500 miles of Tokyo. Instead of worrying about such foolish things, the Japanese people are enjoying the fine spring sunshine and the fragrance of cherry blossoms.”
We could feel the tension increasing on the Hornet on the sixteenth as we plowed onward. The weather continued to deteriorate to the point that the seas became too rough for the eight destroyers to proceed at the speed of the two carriers and four cruisers. The destroyers were left behind with the tankers. This would have been a very serious handicap had there been a naval engagement before we left the carrier.
The Enterprise sent up fighter and scout bomber patrols for the dash into the launch point, but made no contacts. On the seventeenth, the B-25s were spotted on the deck for takeoff. My aircraft was parked 467 feet from the forward end of the deck. The tail of the sixteenth aircraft was hanging out over the stern. Two white lines had been painted on the deck—one for the left wheel and one for the nose wheel. If we kept our wheels on these lines, we would miss the island on the right by about six feet. There should be no crosswind because the Hornet would be heading into the wind when we launched.
Captain Mitscher called me to the bridge, and the tension there was evident. “Jim, we’re in the enemy’s backyard now,” he said. “Anything could happen from here on in. I think it’s time for that little ceremony we talked about.”
Some medals had been forwarded from Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox, which had been sent to him by three former Navy enlisted men. The medals commemorated a visit by the U.S. battle fleet that had visited Japan in 1908. The men had asked Secretary Knox to attach them “to a bomb and return [them] to Japan in that manner.” We called the crews to the flight deck to comply. When Lieutenant Jurika learned what was happening, he added a medal he had received from the Japanese in 1940.
We all gathered around a bomb that had been brought on deck and a Navy photographer took pictures. Mitscher made a short speech and read the messages from King, Marshall, and Arnold. I attached the medals to the bomb. The group was in a lighthearted mood and several wrote slogans on the bomb, such as “You’ll get a BANG out of this!” and “I don’t want to set the world on fire, just Tokyo.”
I told the gang to get their equipment packed and make final inspections of their planes. Dog tags were checked and Doc White gave last-minute inoculations to those who had escaped his needle previously.
We were well equipped with survival gear. Each of us had a Navy gas mask, a .45 automatic, clips of ammunition, a hunting knife, a flashlight, emergency rations, a first-aid kit, a canteen, a compass, and a life jacket. There was a five-man rubber life raft aboard each plane. In addition to their clothes, some of the fellows took extras like candy bars, chewing gum, cigarettes, and razor blades. Lieutenant Jacob E. “Shorty” Manch, six-foot, six-inch copilot, planned to take along his phonograph and records. Lieutenant Horace E. “Sally” Crouch, bombardier-navigator, mindful of Doc White’s lectures about the lack of sanitation in China, jammed rolls of toilet paper in his bag.
On deck, the planes were giving us last-minute problems. Gun turrets did not function properly, hydraulic lines leaked, spark plugs fouled, and gas tanks dripped. An engine on one plane cracked its blower while it was being run up. Navy carpenters rigged up a platform so mechanics could remove it to take it below decks for repair.
I called the crews together for a final briefing and told them to be ready to go at any time. Although we were originally to take off on April 19, it looked like it would be the eighteenth instead. “If all goes well,” I said, “I’ll take off so as to arrive over Tokyo at dusk. The rest of you will take off two or three hours later and can use my fires as a homing beacon.”
I reminded the gunners who would be in the rear of each plane to remember to puncture holes in the five-gallon gas cans after they were emptied and drop them overboard all at once so as not to leave a trail back to the Hornet. I admonished the pilots and bombardiers once more that under no circumstances were they to bomb the emperor’s palace. I told them to get rid of all film, identification, orders, letters, diaries, and anything else that would link them with the Hornet, their units in the States, or the places where we trained. The Navy would mail anything we left behind to our homes. I offered everyone a last opportunity to drop out. No one did.
As a final gesture, I made the boys a promise. “When we get to Chungking,” I said, “I’m going to give you all a party that you won’t forget.” I never make promises lightly, and I always try to keep them, no matter at what personal cost or inconvenience. It was to be a long time before I could keep this one.
By dusk on the seventeenth, ammunition and bombs had been loaded, gas tanks topped, and last-minute engine runups made. Deck crews moved the aircraft back as far as possible in order to make maximum deck space available for takeoff. Crew survival equipment was placed in each plane. Doc White passed out 80 pints of rye whiskey that he had thoughtfully acquired from the Navy “for medicinal purposes” before we left Alameda. He cautioned everyone to take care of all cuts and abrasions because of the likelihood of infection.
As usual, the poker games resumed that night. At 3:00 A.M., the Hornet received a message flashed from the Enterprise: TWO ENEMY SURFACE CRAFT REPORTED.
The “Big E” ’s radar had spotted two enemy ships off the port bow 21,000 yards away. Two minutes later, lookouts saw a light on the horizon. General quarters was sounded; an order was flashed to all ships to change course to avoid detection. When the radar blips faded, the all-clear was sounded and the westerly course was resumed. At dawn the Enterprise sent up fighters and patrol bombers. The weather, which had been marginal all night, worsened. Frequent rain squalls swept over the task force; low ceilings hung overhead; the sea rose into 30-foot crests. Gusty winds blew spray across the decks, drenching the deck crews.
At 6:00 A.M., a Navy lieutenant piloting a scout bomber sighted a small fishing craft. He quickly turned back to the Enterprise and jotted down a message on his plotting board: ENEMY SURFACE SHIP—LATITUDE 36-04N, LONG. 153-10E, BEARING 276 DEGREES TRUE—42 MILES BELIEVED SEEN BY ENEMY.
When he arrived over the carrier, he handed the message to the rear gunner who put it in a bean bag container. As the plane passed over the carrier, the gunner threw it down on the deck where it was scooped up on the run by a deckhand and delivered to Halsey on the bridge.
Halsey ordered all ships to alter course. The question uppermost in everyone’s mind was whether the scout bomber had been seen. Shortly afterward, another small vessel was sighted from the Hornet about 20,000 yards away. It was now daylight and if we could see it, there was every reason to believe its crew could see us. This seemed certain when the Hornet’s radio operator intercepted a Japanese radio message that had originated from close by. It was definitely confirmed when a Navy pilot sighted a small vessel only 12,000 yards away. Halsey ordered the Nashville to sink it.
It was decision time. Halsey quickly flashed a message to the Hornet: LAUNCH PLANES X TO COL DOOLITTLE AND GALLANT COMMAND GOOD LUCK AND GOD BLESS YOU.
It was 8:00 A.M. I had been on the bridge during the excitement and when it was positive that we had to go, I shook hands with Mitscher, ran to the cabin, grabbed my bag, and dashed to the plane. I yelled at everyone I saw to load up pronto. The ear-shattering klaxon horn sounded and Mitscher’s voice blared over the loudspeaker: “Army pilots, man your planes!”
In retrospect, I’m not sure all the crews were conscious of what was going on around us at the time. There was a mad scramble as some hurriedly jammed their belongings and equipment into their bags. Navy deck handlers helped our men remove engine covers and unfasten the restraining ropes. A Navy “donkey” pushed and pulled the B-25s into position. Gas tanks were topped off and the planes rocked back and forth to get air bubbles out so more fuel could be added. Sailors passed the gas cans up into the rear hatches.
Hank Miller shouted to each crew to remember to put down flaps, place trim tabs in neutral, and watch his blackboard for any last-minute instructions. “Look at me before you let your brakes off!” he yelled.
Our airplane was maneuvered into position. My crew was in place. Ran both engines up, tested them and gave the thumbs-up signal to the officer holding the checkered signal flag. We were ready. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:20 A.M. ship time.
As I recounted in the opening chapter, we bombed our target in Tokyo and escaped over the preplanned route toward the Chinese mainland. When we headed out over the China Sea, we ran into headwinds that cut down on our ground speed. There was a strong possibility that we would have to ditch the aircraft. Providentially, the headwinds turned into tail winds. However, as we reached the coast, the weather and darkness cut down on the forward visibility. If the ground radio beacon didn’t work or we couldn’t receive a homing signal, it would be impossible to locate our destination airfield. The only alternative was to bail out or crash-land, which we all did successfully, with one exception: the crew that landed in the Soviet Union.
Sitting on the side of that Chinese mountain with the wreckage of our B-25 all around me, I realized there was nothing I could do to reverse anything that had happened. Now that my own crew was safe, I had to find out what had happened to the others.
Paul Leonard and I returned to the headquarters of the Chinese major who had found me; as I had requested, search parties were already out looking for other crews. While we waited for news, Paul told me of his experience the night before. When I gave him the word that we were going to have to bail out, he knew that it was important to get the motion picture film, so he went to the back of the plane in the dark and removed one of the cameras. He put it inside the front of his coveralls. Unfortunately, when his ’chute popped open with a severe jolt, the camera tore the front out of his coveralls and he lost it. At daylight, he walked about six miles trying to find the rest of us. When he didn’t, he returned to his starting point. He reported later what happened:
Returning to where I landed, I encountered four Chinese men armed with rifles. One motioned to me to raise my hands while the other three proceeded to cock their rifles. One took aim. At the same moment, I pulled out my .45. The one who was aiming fired, so I fired twice. All four of them turned tail and ran, so I turned and climbed to the mountaintop where I could see men gathering around below. All had rifles. I hid myself as best I could and they left. I then figured out a course to travel at night.
After about an hour and a half, I saw a crowd of people returning back down the valley. In front I could see Lieutenant Potter and Sergeant Braemer. I reloaded my clip because I figured they were captured. I started yelling and ran down the mountain but found they were in good company.
According to Potter and Braemer, however, they had not been in good friendly company when they landed. They had been discovered by a band of guerrillas, robbed, tied up, and marched off. Fortunately, they came across an English-speaking boy who led the guerrillas and their captives to his house and spread the word. Soon the guerrilla chieftain arrived and they were given back their belongings. They had then set off and were looking for Leonard when he found them.
When Paul and I arrived at the governor’s house, we were relieved to learn that four other crews had been found. As soon as I could arrange it, I sent a wire to Hap Arnold in Washington through the American embassy in Chungking: TOKYO SUCCESSFULLY BOMBED. DUE BAD WEATHER ON CHINA COAST BELIEVE ALL AIRPLANES WRECKED. FIVE CREWS FOUND SAFE IN CHINA SO FAR.
What about the other 11 crews? I soon learned through Chinese channels that some had been taken prisoner, but we didn’t know if by the Japanese or some renegade Chinese guerrilla band. Before I left the States, I had obtained $2,000 in Chinese money, which I offered as ransom. I tried to persuade a local commander to send troops out to rescue them. Their efforts were to no avail.
Our job now was to get from Tien Mu Shen, the headquarters of the local Chinese guerrillas (about 50 or more miles southwest of Hangchow) to Chuchow (Chuhsien)* the best way we could. We boarded a riverboat to transport us to a point downriver to the juncture of another river, then up the second river out of Japanese-held territory. As we moved out, we could see the searchlights of the enemy patrol boats. Fortunately, we were not intercepted. However, one incident occurred that was to have an interesting aftermath.
While we were hiding in the cabin of the boat, a Caucasian man in civilian clothes came aboard. He had been told there were Americans inside. Suspicious, he hesitated, but finally banged on the door. He called out in a strong southern drawl, “Are there any Americans in there?”
We tensed and stayed quiet. The question was repeated. The voice was convincingly American, so Paul Leonard finally said, “Hell, no Japanese can talk American like that,” and opened the door.
Outside was a tall, gaunt white man with a several-days’ growth of beard. He told us his name was John M. Birch, age 27, an American missionary based in Hangchow. After December 7, when the Japanese began to round up all Caucasians, he had fled to Shangjao, 250 miles to the southwest. He was returning on foot to Shangjao from a trip downriver when he stopped at a small Chinese inn and met a man who told him to go to the dock. There the man pointed to the riverboat and said, “Americans.”
Birch was as delighted to see us as we were to see him. He obviously knew his way around and could speak the language. I briefed him on our predicament and he agreed to join us, translate for us, and help us get on our way to Chuchow. He said he would accompany us to Lanchi on the Chientang River, halfway between Hangchow and Shangjao.
En route, Birch told me he had been living off the cuff and was having a rough go of it. Having seen what the occupying Japanese were doing to his beloved Chinese, he wanted to join the American forces in some capacity, preferably as a chaplain. I promised to put in a good word for him and get in touch if we needed him to help round up my men.
Birch left us, and over the next several days friendly Chinese led us to Chuchow by rail, bus, rickshaw, and boat around areas where the Japanese were searching. We heard reports that the Japanese were enraged at what we had done and were taking out their fury on innocent Chinese. Our crew made it safely to Chuchow, and I tried to do everything possible to find out what had happened to my boys. On April 27, I sent a message to Birch asking him to come to Chuchow and await instructions from the American military mission in China. He came immediately but arrived after we had left for Chungking. Birch met Davey Jones and other crew members at Chuchow and acted as their interpreter. It was there we learned that Corporal Leland D. Faktor, a gunner, had died bailing out.
Birch was given the $2,000 in Chinese money I had left for ransom and was asked to buy a burial plot, bury Faktor, obtain as much information as possible about the others still missing, and then proceed with the last group to Chungking. Birch arranged with the Chinese air force for a burial plot for Faktor and obtained hearsay information on the fate of the other crews. Birch’s information was not wholly accurate, but his report reflected his ability to obtain information from Chinese sources, which would make him extremely valuable to our forces in China (see Appendix 2).
When I arrived in Chungking, I told Colonel (later Lieutenant General) Claire Chennault, leader of the Flying Tigers, about Birch and how he had helped us. I recommended Birch be commissioned as a chaplain. Chennault already had one but said he could use an American for intelligence duties who could speak Chinese and knew the country well. I never saw this fine young man again but learned later that Chennault commissioned him as a first lieutenant on July 4, 1942, the official birthday of Chennault’s 14th Air Force.
Although Birch served as an intelligence officer, he was still a chaplain at heart. Wherever he was on Sundays, he conducted religious services for Chinese Christians, often at the risk of his life behind Japanese lines. He was later promoted to captain. Chennault, fearful that Birch would crack under the strain of continual clandestine activities, tried to persuade him to take a leave of absence in the States. He thanked Chennault but refused, saying, “I’ll leave China only when the last Jap is gone.”
Birch was killed on August 25, 1945, by Chinese communists—10 days after World War II was officially over. He had no way of knowing that the John Birch Society, a highly vocal postwar anticommunist organization, would be named after him because its founders believed him to be the “first casualty of World War III.” I feel sure he would not have approved.
When the crews began to arrive in Chungking, we learned what had happened to most of them. Colonel Merion C. Cooper, a former Hollywood writer and producer, was the air intelligence officer and had the men write out reports of their experience.*
The tally on our crews was not good. One had died bailing out; two had drowned after ditching; four were seriously injured and under the care of Doc White at a hospital dangerously close to searching Japanese units; one crew had landed in Soviet territory; eight men were prisoners of the Japanese. All planes were lost to the American cause. It wasn’t a happy summary. However, from the accounts that reached us, we had apparently accomplished the first half of our mission; all aircraft except one had bombed their targets and escaped.
Unfortunately, we were unable to get any motion picture footage of the mission. The aircraft that landed at Vladivostok was confiscated, along with all its equipment, and we were never able to find out what happened to it.
We had hoped someone would have saved one of the motion picture cameras that were installed in a few of the planes, but none did. Apparently, Paul Leonard on our crew was the only one who had tried to save one. However, Lieutenant Richard A. “Knobby” Knobloch, copilot on crew 13, had a small pocket camera with which he and his navigator, Lieutenant Clayton J. Campbell, took a few snapshots. These were the only photos that survived the raid.
In time, we learned that the psychological effect we had hoped to have on the Japanese had been even greater than anticipated. Our intrusion into Japanese airspace over their home island had frightened and embarrassed the Japanese war leaders as nothing else could have at that point. Their morale was badly shaken as they tried to defend their actions. The Japanese propaganda machine tried to make light of our raid, but the damage was there and was difficult to refute. However, we didn’t learn how much damage was done until later. It was minimal, of course, compared with damage inflicted later in the war by our B-29s.
We also learned later that our surprise bombing of Tokyo was everything President Roosevelt had wished for and what we hoped we could deliver for him. American morale soared. It showed that our country, faced with the greatest adversity we had ever experienced, had fought back. The news sped around the world, but security dictated that the details of the raid should not be divulged at that time, especially any information related to our departure from a carrier. The President told the press that we had come from “Shangri-La,” that mythical, timeless kingdom featured by James Hilton in his novel Lost Horizon. This air of mystery confounded the Japanese and delighted our allies. Unfortunately, it was nearly fatal to the eight boys who had been captured. Unknown to us, they were being tortured and starved in an effort to wrest from them the details of our mission. They were flown to Tokyo where experts at extracting “confessions” from prisoners of war were waiting. I will tell what happened to them in a later chapter.
In Chungking, none of us was yet fully aware of the impact the raid had had in the States or among our allies. However, on April 28, while at Chuchow, I learned that the first of Paul Leonard’s predictions had come true. Hap had promoted me from lieutenant colonel to brigadier general, skipping the rank of colonel, a complete surprise. It was rare for anyone to skip a rank, even in wartime. I was pleased, of course, but wondered what my contemporaries would say among themselves when they learned that Doolittle was now a one-star general. They would probably think there was no better proof that Doolittle was Hap Arnold’s fair-haired boy. Not only had he skipped the rank of captain, now Hap had seen to it that he would never even wear the eagles of a full colonel.
I didn’t have any stars to wear, so Colonel Clayton Bissell, Chennault’s air operations officer, promoted to brigadier general on the same orders, gave me a set. He offered me a swig from his high-priced Scotch whiskey in celebration and I took a large gulp, which he didn’t appreciate. He estimated my gulp was worth about $80.
Since I had been promoted, I tried to see to it that every man on the raid was also promoted. It took some doing in a couple of cases because of Army red tape, but was eventually accomplished.
There was another surprise in Chungking. On April 30, our gang was invited by the Nationalist Chinese leader, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, and Madame Chiang to their palace to be decorated. All those crew members present at the time were decorated, and my second in command, Jack Hilger, received the highest Chinese decoration. Then when I walked in, Chiang and his wife looked at each other and realized that something had gone wrong with the presentation ceremony—they didn’t have a decoration to give me.
Chiang looked toward one of his highly decorated generals, approached him, and removed a beautiful decoration from around his neck. He then hung it on me.
It is said that the Chinese are emotionless, but that general sure showed emotion when stripped of his medal by the Generalissimo!
Since the Generalissimo didn’t speak English, Madame Chiang read our citations. We were honored but not exactly dressed for such an occasion. We wore a varied assortment of coveralls, leather jackets, and khaki uniforms spattered with mud and grease.
Although grateful for the gesture, there was only one thing on my mind. I still didn’t know what had happened to all my crews. After the brief ceremony, perhaps a little brusquely, I asked Madame Chiang what was being done about rescuing the two crews that had been captured. She assured me that they were doing everything they could, but as we know now, nothing could be done at that time.
Perhaps she didn’t want to tell me that the Japanese, in their fury at our violation of their empire, were deliberately attacking Chinese villages along our escape path and murdering people by the hundreds. We learned later that an estimated 53 Japanese battalions slashed their way through Chekiang province, where most of us had parachuted. On April 30, the Japanese army expeditionary forces were given orders to “thwart the enemy’s plans to carry out air raids on the homeland of Japan.” This was interpreted to mean they should annihilate any Chinese forces in the area and destroy their principal air bases. This they did with great intensity.
Chiang was seething about the enemy onslaught and sent a cable to the U.S. State Department:
After they had been caught unawares by the falling of American bombs on Tokyo, Japanese troops attacked the coastal areas of China where many of the American flyers had landed. These Japanese troops slaughtered every man, woman, and child in these areas—let me repeat—these Japanese troops slaughtered every man, woman and child in these areas, reproducing on a wholesale scale the horrors which the world had seen [carried out by the Germans] at Lidice [Czechoslovakia], but about which the people have been uninformed in these instances.
Chiang was not exaggerating. General Chennault, in his memoirs, recalled that the Japanese drove 200 miles inland from the coastal areas to seek revenge. Twenty thousand square miles of Chinese territory were searched; landing fields were plowed up; hundreds of villagers who were even remotely suspected of having aided us were murdered. He noted in his memoirs that “one sizable city was razed for no other reason than the sentiment displayed by its citizens in filling up Jap bomb craters on the nearby airfield.… A quarter million Chinese soldiers and civilians were killed in the three-month campaign.”
Contrary to what some historians have reported, we all expected to return to the States after we delivered our B-25s to Chungking. However, orders came through for only a few of us. I was ordered home first and assumed that all the rest would follow, especially since they had no planes to fly. My orders stated I was to return to Washington “by any means possible” and without any publicity.
The “any means possible” in my orders to return to the States included passage on a China National Airways Corporation (CNAC) 21-passenger Douglas DC-3 piloted by Captain Moon Chin, a native of Baltimore, Maryland. He was a veteran of 10 years’ flying for Pan American Airways, which was then under contract to fly CNAC routes. I boarded the DC-3 on May 5 with a few other passengers at Chungking, destined for Myitkyina, Burma, not knowing that our destination was under attack from Japanese fighter planes. Halfway there, Chin received a radio message about the attack and landed at an isolated emergency field. We waited there about an hour, then resumed the flight.
When we arrived at Myitkyina, the place was in chaos. The airport was jammed with refugees fleeing from the rampaging Japanese. Hundreds surrounded the plane wanting to get aboard. While the DC-3 was being refueled, Chin supervised the loading of additional passengers; soon there were 30 of us in the passenger cabin. He didn’t stop. He let 40 get on, then 50. I couldn’t watch without saying something. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” I said, not believing what I was seeing. Fortunately, they were almost all small people; many were women and children, including babes in arms. They had no baggage, just carry-on bundles.
Moon Chin was not at all bothered by the number, as if he hauled this many passengers every day. “We’re fighting a war over here,” he said when he saw how perturbed I was. “You do lots of things here you wouldn’t do at home,” he said calmly.
When the sixtieth person crammed his way into the cabin, Chin shut the door and picked his way among the human cargo to the cockpit. Despite the load, that faithful Douglas “Gooney Bird” was airborne before we ran out of runway and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Being jammed in with so many desperate people didn’t make for a comfortable ride. We were supposed to go to Dinjan, but Chin decided to go directly to Calcutta, where we arrived after a four-hour flight. As we debarked, however, I got another surprise. Out of the rear compartment, usually reserved for baggage, tumbled eight more disheveled Chinese. I’m sure this must have been a record passenger load for the famous Douglas DC-3.
I waited in Calcutta for four days and was joined by several of my boys. When authorization came for me to continue, they gave me a sendoff party. Bill Bower and the others presented me with a chamber pot “in fond remembrance of our most serious difficulties—‘the screamers.’ ” We had all contracted that uncomfortable malady in some degree after our arrival in China. The pot was a fitting souvenir of our mutual discomforting experience.
While in Calcutta, I tried to get a decent uniform to replace my mud-stained khakis, but nothing was available. I had to settle for a native tailor whom I called January Jones to make me an English bush jacket and shorts; these were supplemented by knee-length stockings and a pith helmet. I wouldn’t have passed any U.S. Army inspection and was anxious to get home before someone called my attention to the fact that I not only looked ridiculous but was out of uniform. Joe would have gotten the laugh of her life if she had seen me in the English shorts and helmet.
The next leg of the trip home was on a British Overseas Airways Company (BOAC) flying boat—a laborious flight with eight stops in India, Iran, and Egypt, where I arrived on May 11. I left Cairo on May 13 on an Army Air Forces plane with a TWA crew for Khartoum, in the Sudan, then to Dakar, Senegal, and over the South Atlantic to Natal, Brazil. I made an overnight stop in Puerto Rico and arrived in Washington on May 18, 1942, two weeks after I left Chungking. I was met by a staff car sent by Hap’s office.
The driver had instructions to take me up a back stairs directly to Hap’s office in the Pentagon. Hap greeted me warmly. He didn’t say anything, but he must have been amused when he saw me in the weird getup. We had a long chat as I related the details of the mission and expressed my concern for my boys, especially those who had been captured. I told him I felt I had only partially succeeded in the mission he had assigned me. He assured me no one would ever blame me for our not delivering the aircraft, the second half of the assignment.
After we chatted, Hap and I met with General Marshall, who was in a rare jovial mood. He greeted me with a big smile that he rarely exhibited, and I gave him the highlights of the mission. Hap suggested with his usual grin that I should go to the uniform store to get properly attired, as befits a new general. I was then told to go to our apartment at 2500 Q Street in northwest Washington and remain there out of sight and incommunicado until he called. I wanted to call Joe on the West Coast where she had decided to remain until she found out where I was, but I didn’t dare use the phone.
While I was en route home, Hap had received reports from Chungking and Honolulu and sent a summarizing memo to the President to explain what had happened:
On the 18th of April when the Hornet was 668 nautical miles east of Tokyo, the naval task force ran into a Japanese patrol ship. This ship was sunk by the Nashville, but not before it had had an opportunity to send a message stating that it was being attacked by hostile enemy ships. It is to be noted that at this point the task force was some 150 to 400 miles farther away from Tokyo than General Doolittle had planned his takeoff.…
At 1:30 P.M., in the midst of an English propaganda broadcast from Japan in which a woman (presumably “Tokyo Rose”) was telling how safe Japan was from bombing, the broadcast was cut off and another broadcast made giving information that fast, low-flying bombers were at that time bombing Japan. A later broadcast told of fires and requested people to pray for rain. It was not until 48 hours later, however, that a broadcast was made stating that the fire was under control. Still later, another broadcast was made which stated casualties amounted to three or four thousand.…1
Completely unknown to me, Hap had called Joe when I arrived in the States and asked her to come to Washington, without telling her why. He arranged a reservation for her on a commercial airliner and she left promptly that afternoon. She flew all night. The only woman passenger, she had been unable to get into the lavatory, which seemed to be continually occupied. When she arrived in Pittsburgh, she thought her chance had come, but as soon as she landed, an Army officer whisked her off the airliner and onto a military plane. It had no suitable lavatory facilities for women passengers and she was becoming slightly desperate. She looked forward with great anticipation to having a few minutes in the washroom at the airport in Washington, but this was not to be. A young officer from Hap’s staff met her at planeside with a staff car, put her bags in the rear, and told her that they’d have to hurry.
Joe’s problem was getting more critical by the minute. She didn’t think anything could be so important that they couldn’t divert somewhere so she could take care of her necessary business. But the young officer would not be deterred from his mission. He finally told her, “Mrs. Doolittle, I’m sorry but we are due at the White House in ten minutes.”
Joe said she looked like a “carpetbagger” and wouldn’t have gone anywhere, especially to the White House, rumpled as she was after the long flight from California.
Joe was ushered into an anteroom of the Oval Office, still not knowing why she was there. She revealed her distress to a secretary and was excused to take care of it.
Meanwhile, I had received a telephone call from Hap at our apartment. He told me he would drop by in a few minutes to pick me up, but didn’t say where we were going. When his staff car arrived, Hap was sitting in the rear to the left of General Marshall. Surprised, I saluted them and climbed in the front seat beside the driver.
There was silence as we drove off. Finally, I asked where we were going. “Jim, we’re going to the White House,” Hap replied.
I thought about this for a minute, then said, “Well, I’m not a very smart fellow and I don’t want to embarrass anyone. What are we going to do there?”
General Marshall answered, “The President is going to give you the Medal of Honor.”
I was shocked and quickly said, “General, that award should be reserved for those who risk their lives trying to save someone else. Every man on our mission took the same risk I did. I don’t think I’m entitled to the Medal of Honor.”
Hap flushed and I could see he was angry. General Marshall, obviously displeased at my remark, scowled and said, “I happen to think you do.”
There was no further discussion. In all our later association, this was the only time Hap ever got mad at me and General Marshall ever spoke sternly to me. The highest-ranking man in Army uniform had made his decision. It was neither the time nor the place for me to argue.
We arrived at the White House and were ushered into the anteroom where Joe was waiting. We were both startled and immensely pleased. Hap beamed happily as the two of us embraced; General Marshall managed a smile. I wanted desperately to hear about Jim, Jr., and John and catch up on what she had been doing, but we were quickly led into the Oval Office where a beaming President greeted us warmly. He was in a jovial mood and shook my hand long and hard. He said our raid on Japan had had the precise favorable effect on American morale that he had hoped for.
General Marshall read the citation for the award and handed it to Joe. Nervous at her sudden appearance in the office of our country’s leader, a place she never imagined she would ever visit in her entire life, she began twisting the citation scroll. Marshall told her later he was tempted to take it away from her before she ruined it.
The President pinned the medal on my shirt and asked me to tell him about the raid, which I did. I thanked him for the award and we were ushered out. On the way through the door, Hap congratulated me. I couldn’t resist telling him that while I was grateful, I would spend the rest of my life trying to earn it. I felt then and always will that I accepted the award on behalf of all the boys who were with me on the raid. I have always felt that the Medal of Honor should be reserved for men who risk their lives in combat to save others, not for individual feats like shooting down a number of enemy planes or bombing enemy targets.
1. Arnold, Henry H., memorandum for the President, May 10, 1942. General Henry H. Arnold files, Library of Congress.