November–December 1943
Dobodura, New Guinea
The day after Bloody Tuesday, Tommy McGuire limped into the 431st Fighter Squadron’s area at Dobodura, appearing gaunt and unwell. Still bandaged, his face a mass of yellow-blue bruises around his eyes, McGuire was nowhere near a combat-ready pilot. His ribs still ached. His wounds were half healed. He didn’t care. He wanted to fight.
He was twenty-three, a double ace who had proved himself over Wewak and earned grudging respect from those who disliked him on the ground. Now, he would wear the Purple Heart as a reminder for the rest of his life that when split-second decisions had to be made, his instinct was to save others.
He could have gone home. In fact, he probably should have. His squadron commander certainly thought so, and wrote McGuire’s wife telling her Tommy would be back in the States soon. He’d done his part: paid the price, so honor and duty were served. Going home, though, was the last thing on Tommy McGuire’s mind.
Nichols took one look at him and sent Tommy back to Australia. He may have talked his way out of the hospital, but there was no way he was going to talk his way into the cockpit in his current condition. He spent the first half of November on leave in Sydney, recovering his strength with good food and lots of rest. Not all the rest was good. As with almost any combat veteran, the idle hours led to a restless brain that dwelled on the trauma and close calls he’d experienced. At times, it got under his skin. Would he be the same pilot once he got back to the 431st? Or would he be hesitant, lose his edge, and be overcome by fear? The time off gave him plenty of license to ponder this. It made him brittle and impatient. Best to find out fast, rather than linger with the uncertainty.
When he returned to New Guinea later in November, the squadron flight surgeon refused to clear him for combat. Nichols put him in charge of the chow hall and told him to figure out a way to improve the muck being served to the men. He did as ordered, chafing as he watched the squadron take off each morning while he stayed behind to ride herd on cooks who were already doing their best with the dreck available to them.
It took a month of further healing before the flight surgeon relented. McGuire returned to flight status on December 12, 1943. He spent four hours in the air, getting reacquainted with the Lightning and checking out replacement pilots over the course of the next few days. On the sixteenth, he flew almost nine hours in combat, got into a fight, and damaged a Zero over Arawe, New Britain.
Those in the game knew just how good a fighter pilot McGuire became after he joined the 475th. While home on leave, General Wurtsmith gave an interview and listed those he thought were the best combat aviators in his command: Dick Bong, Tommy McGuire, Danny Roberts, Ed Cragg (the Headhunters’ commander), and Neel Kearby. It was the first time in print that Bong and McGuire were mentioned together.
With only Johnson nipping at his heels, Kearby may have thought he had an open field to catch Bong while he was back in Poplar with his family. With Lynch down at Eagle Farm most days, the rush to best Bong would be a horse race between McGuire and the Texan. Both men flew with ridiculous intensity. Tommy spent upward of six hours a day in the cockpit after his mission over Arawe. He flew one day on, one day off for the rest of the month. Between December 12 and the 31, he put in seventy combat hours, matching Kearby’s energy, stride for stride.
On the twenty-second, both men ended up over Wewak. Kenney wanted another low-altitude suppression strike flown against the Japanese airfields there to knock out the Japanese reinforcements to the area, like mowing the grass every time it started to grow. Once again, V Fighter Command’s entire P-38 force took part in this attack. They were ordered to go in low, as close cover, just as Wurtsmith had ordered over Rabaul. The 431st led the way, and at four thousand feet over the target, they were bounced from behind and out of the clouds by almost forty Japanese fighters. A P-38 went down. Another crash-landed back at base, the pilot surviving. McGuire was leading Green Flight, and it was all he could do to protect his pilots until they were able to escape. He took snap shots at a pair of Hayabusas but scored no killing hits before attacking Japanese planes forced him totally defensive. It was a near-run thing, and a reminder that protecting the strafer B-25s with these tactics came at the expense of the Lightning pilots.
Later that afternoon, Kearby took a hunting flight over Wewak composed of pilots from the 341st Fighter Squadron. Not his usual Musketeers, but aggressive and capable pilots nonetheless. They encountered a small formation of six Hayabusas trundling along well below them at six thousand feet. Using their tried-and-true tactics, Kearby surprised them, and his flight downed half the enemy formation. Kearby returned with his sixteenth kill. He was now tied with Lynch as the top active ace in theater.
The next day, the B-25s returned to Wewak with only the Headhunters as escort. A fight erupted over the target area lasting from 0945 to 1030, when the final B-25 made its escape.
As the 80th covered the bombers as they came off their runs and raced for home, Kearby and his Musketeers arrived over the area. It was brilliant timing based on the acting V Fighter Command leader’s intimate knowledge of the missions laid on for the day. He’d taken a look at the board, and had seen that the 475th and 348th were slated for missions over western New Britain at Cape Gloucester and Arawe as part of the run-up to the Marine invasion, now scheduled for the twenty-sixth. The Wewak strike looked like a perfect opportunity to sneak overhead after the main battle to pick off returning Japanese planes low on fuel and ammunition.
Over Dagua Airdrome at twenty-eight thousand feet, the quartet of Jugs patrolled for fifteen minutes, looking for trouble in a sky full of scattered clouds. Kearby caught sight of two Ki-61 Hiens running below the cloud cover. They were approaching Dagua at about two thousand feet and looked like they were going to land.
In the past, Neel refused to go after such low-altitude targets. Trading twenty-six thousand feet for a crack at a pair of fighters didn’t make much sense, especially if there were others in the clouds nearby. The ace race was starting to bend his judgment. He wanted kills, and if they were down that low, why, he’d take the risk and go after them.
The Jugs skinned their external tanks and spiraled down after the Hiens at 350 miles an hour indicated. The American aircraft dropped out of the sky, went through the scattered clouds at around ten thousand feet, and lost the Hiens in the weather. Kearby caught a fleeting glance of a bomber landing at Dagua, but before he could go after it, he reacquired his original target. At eight thousand feet, he pressed his attack from behind and off to the right. This time, he closed fast, firing from fifteen hundred to five hundred feet with a long, four-second burst. He saw hits on the Hien, but it ducked away into the clouds and everyone lost sight of it.
In his earlier attacks, Kearby would have headed upstairs after this pass. Instead, a Hien on final approach at Dagua caught his attention. It was right on the deck, the Japanese pilot probably clueless to the American fighters in the area.
The Texan dove after him, ignoring the risks that other Hiens may be nearby. Bending around behind the Japanese, he set up a dead-astern attack from above. It was a perfect tactical move, except Neel was overtaking the Hien so rapidly that he’d have only seconds to get the kill shot.
The Texan did something he’d never done before: he throttled back, slowing his Jug down so he could get just a bit more time to aim and shoot. At 250 miles an hour, he hammered away at the Hien. Normally, pilots fired short, controlled bursts lasting no more than a couple of seconds to keep the guns from overheating or jamming. This time, Kearby gave him everything his guns possessed in a thunderous ten seconds of firing. The Hien rolled over and crashed in the trees at the edge of the strip.
He looked back. The Musketeers were right with him, but the sky behind them was filled with Hiens and Oscars—ten to twenty of them. A well-flown Ki-61 was a formidable opponent for a Jug pilot, especially down low and below three hundred miles an hour. The Americans were in a precarious spot, with all their usual advantages squandered. The Japanese smelled blood and piled onto them.
Kearby and the other pilots firewalled their throttles and tried to run away. They sped over Dagua Drome, the antiaircraft gunners below them hammering away, thinking they were under attack again. The diving Ki-61s must have looked like P-40s to those gunners, who’d been under siege for months now by the 5th. They turned their guns on their own comrades. The Hiens twisted out of the line of fire, giving the Jugs a precious few seconds to make their escape. A single Ki-61 broke through the antiaircraft fire and tried to catch the Americans, but by then their two thousand horsepower R-2800 engines pulled them well out of danger.
The men flew to the 348th’s new base at Finschhafen, where Kearby refueled before heading back to Moresby and all his administrative duties. He received credit for one kill, the Ki-61 the flight saw crash into the jungle at the edge of Dagua Drome. It was his seventeenth kill, which put him one ahead of Lynch and four out from Bong’s twenty-one.
The kill had come at a cost. It was the first time Kearby violated his own tactical rules. Perhaps if he’d thought back to his World War I reading, he would have remembered how the Red Baron did the same thing in April 1918. He sacrificed all his carefully measured tactical advantages to drop out of a fight and chase an Allied pilot on the treetops. Another Allied plane got on his tail, and antiaircraft fire erupted around him. Who killed him is still debated, but the eagerness for a victory overcame his tactical sensibilities. He took an enormous risk, and it killed him.
The truth was, Kearby’s similar gamble could have ended in disaster, had the Japanese flak not intervened and shot at the wrong aircraft. He was starting to push, feeling the pressure to score. With McGuire chasing him, Bong’s leave set to end sometime in January, and Lynch growing increasingly agitated by his noncombat role, Kearby felt plenty of heat. Even worse, his days as boss were numbered: Wurtsmith would be coming back to resume command soon, and Kearby’s combat time was short. Wurtsmith would make sure he went back to his desk.
On the twenty-sixth of December, Kearby took his usual hunting trip to Wewak, found nothing, and returned to Finschhafen, where he and his Musketeers refueled and took off on a second mission to New Britain. Though he flew six hours that day, most of it over Japanese territory, Kearby never sighted the enemy.
But McGuire certainly did. That morning, he led the 431st Squadron over the coast of New Britain to cover the 1st Marine Division’s invasion task force steaming off Cape Gloucester. The 348th was also up, covering the vulnerable ships as well. Just before noon, USN radar picked up an inbound strike and vectored McGuire’s squadron for it. The Lightning pilots climbed to twenty-three thousand feet and ran headlong into a formation of Japanese Zeroes at roughly the same altitude.
McGuire committed the squadron to a head-on pass on the Japanese fighters. As they went nose to nose, somebody called out Japanese bombers below them. McGuire glanced down and saw them too: perhaps thirty Val dive-bombers in tight formation, just about to reach their attack points over the Allied ships.
Protecting those vessels was the day’s mission. McGuire made a split-second decision and ordered his men to switch targets and go after the Vals. The Lightnings rolled down on the slow dive-bombers as ordered, but the move gave their Zero escort a perfect setup on the P-38s. Soon, the Americans maneuvered furiously to avoid the Zeroes while still getting to the Vals before they could start their dive-bombing runs.
It was a crazy, twisting race down to medium altitude. McGuire lost his wingman but stayed on the bombers. They were seconds too late. The Vals peeled off and dove on their targets, pursued by a rush of P-38s and Jugs from the 8th Fighter Group whose pilots had just arrived to wade into the fight. McGuire caught up with a Val at eight thousand feet, shot it to pieces, and kept going. Pulling out just above the water, he slipped behind a bevy of dive-bombers fleeing the scene now. He drove right up behind one in a dead-astern attack and unloaded on it. The Val exploded just as a flaming Zero tumbled past McGuire’s P-38 and plummeted into the water nearby. He banked to avoid the fire and debris, spraying bursts at the remaining fleeing bombers before sliding behind a laggard and sending it into the water.
The sky around him was filled with diving P-47s, his fellow Lightning pilots slashing through the dive-bombers with Zeroes furiously scurrying after them. More P-47s piled into the fight, these from the 36th Fighter Squadron. In the chaos, McGuire and a P-47 pilot went after the same Val. It crossed the beach at Gloucester, racing east for Rabaul. Both men opened fire. McGuire was certain his bullets struck the plane, which dipped down suddenly and careened right into a tree to explode with no survivors.
Back at Dobodura, McGuire found that all members of the 431st had returned safely, claiming eleven Japanese planes in the fight. It was a tough one, and nobody would have faulted McGuire for staying after the Zero fighter escort had he chosen that route. Instead, he risked a great deal going after the bombers, doing his best to protect the thousands of sailors below.
Such was the life of a fighter leader. To keep safe those ships or aircraft they were entrusted to cover often meant making a terrible decision: sacrifice fighter pilots, or let the ships and bombers get hit by the Japanese. It was the sort of choice few Americans have ever made. The best leaders make the right call. In this case, McGuire had risked his own life, and his men, for the greater good.
Later that evening, he learned the 8th Fighter Group was claiming his last dive-bomber. He firmly believed his bullets drove it into the trees, but the P-47 guy wasn’t going to cede the kill. Once again, since the 5th did not give partial credit, the two pilots had to decide who would get the Val.
A coin flip didn’t work for McGuire the last time, so this time they drew cards. McGuire’s poker luck evaporated. The Jug pilot got the kill. Tommy was so bent over it that he ordered his crew chief to paint an extra kill flag on his P-38 as a sign of protest. It stayed on Pudgy’s nose for weeks to come. That was the second time he felt robbed by fickle lady luck.
For Neel Kearby, McGuire’s not getting credit for the kill was a break. That fourth kill would have put McGuire even with him. Instead, Tommy was now one behind. To gain ground and catch Bong, Neel flew relentlessly through the end of the month. Yet, while the 348th ran into two large formations of Japanese bombers over Cape Gloucester later on the twenty-sixth and again the next day, Kearby missed those fights. Every mission he undertook ended up being a dry hole.
The year ended with Bong still in the lead with twenty-one, and the pack behind him stalled for lack of opportunity. Wurtsmith was due back at Moresby any day, and the race was closer than ever. Kearby knew he only had a few days left to score.