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149 Squadron close formation flying (Jeff Brown)

Passed CINCPAC CENSOR.

The Colonel is briefing his crews for another raid over Japan. He talks about the weather. It's the one thing he harks back to time and again during the briefing. He mentions the possible and expected fighter opposition and the need for flying tight formation so as to bring the greatest concentration of fire power against the enemy; the absolute necessity for holding each plane steady and on its course during the bombing run, no matter how the flak may be; alternate targets and alternate landing fields in the event of mechanical failure that may prevent a plane making the long trip back to base; escape procedure and what's to be done if there's need for "ditching". But over and again he comes back to the question of the weather, where the fronts are now, where they'll be tomorrow, what might change then, how to get through them. It would seem there's no greater worry over taking a flight of a hundred or so planes up over Japan than the worry whether it might rain at Iwo Jima, be a dull day at Guam or blow a gale off Honshu.

This time it's a matter of the first importance for the target is in inland Japan, a hundred and twenty-five miles north of Tokyo, further than the B-29's have ever ventured on a raid. It means a round-trip distance of 3,600 miles, more than 18 hours in the air and, over that time and distance, weather conditions can vary pretty considerably too, the ceiling is low for more than half the distance to Japan; it's a daylight strike which means a take-off hours before dawn - and it won't be possible to rendezvous for formation till the planes are close up to the Japanese homeland. Pilots and Navigators mutter a little, but somebody says "There hasn't been a weatherman yet who didn't like predicting hurricanes just for the hell of it", and if the pilots look a little worried it's only because the Colonel's been talking so much he must expect it of them. After he's gone over the weather information for the tenth time or so they go happily enough out to the trucks which will take them down to the strip.

There's a checking of the crew, a quick look over equipment -'Mae Wests', parachutes, flak suits - -then the Superfortresses, slim of fuselage for all their tremendous size, are taxiing to the ready strip at the end of the runway, lining nose to tail, their whirling, four-bladed propellers a flashing arc in the glare of the landing lights.

The take-off is easy. There's a slight drop towards the sea after the plane is airborne, then the long, steady climb as the planes head north.

The darkness is complete, and in the darkness there are a hundred planes. It is a relief to come out above the cloudbank to the friendly brightness of the stars, though the only warning of the presence of other aircraft is the sudden, occasional flash of an exhaust.

Pilot and Co-pilot fly the ship in turn over short periods, changing often. They're tensed, obviously, keeping a sharp look out the whole time for planes about them. The Co-pilot takes out a cigarette and puts it between his lips. He asks over the inter phone if anyone of the crew can notice gasoline fumes. The radio operator thinks he can. "No smoking" the Co-pilot says. He places the cigarette down on the instrument panel beside him, but a few minutes later it is between his lips again. It is twenty minutes before he asks again "Any smell of gas?" The radio operator still thinks there is. The Co-pilot says "No smoking yet." When after an hour he gets a "No fumes here" answer to his question his own cigarette is wet from sucking. He tries to light it then takes another.

The Gunners and the Bombardier are asleep, stretched out on the floor of the middle compartment. Each compartment - Pilots, Navigator, Radioman, Central Fire Control section, Rear Gunner's position is pressurized and there is no need for heavy flying suits: as the plane climbs the temperature inside the cabin remains as warm as it was on the ground. The four huge motors make little sound inside the compartments and Pilot and Co-pilot talk across to each other normally without using the inter phone. The Co-pilot is the oldest man in the crew. He was working in a dairy in Florida before the war and he has had twenty months in the European theater. He was flying RAF Lancasters there and he made twenty-eight flights over Germany. He starts to talk about the Superfortress now, saying what a wonderful plane it is and what it can do. It has all the latest improvements. The fire control is the best he has seen, or imagined. "But" he says, "I'm a bit biased. I still like the old Lanc."

The Pilot laughs. He's a youngster who was flying as instructor for three years until he got a B-29. The only operational flying he has had has been up over Japan. He's taken this crew up eight times now, and apart from the Co-pilot, none of them have flown on missions with anyone else. He's proud of them and he knows they are a good team. The plane is named after his hometown; "City of Bakersfield", it's painted on the nose. It already has nine bombs painted below the name, but once it was flown by another crew.

"If it weren't for the hell of a long way you have to go, things aren't nearly as bad here as they were in the E.T.0." says the Co-pilot. "The flak's nothing. Over any of the German cities you could get out and walk on it."

The Flight Engineer happens to hear that. He takes it up over the inter phone. "What about that night over Nagoya when we were in that damned searchlight for two and a half minutes?" he asks. "There was too much of the staff around then for my liking. And those night fighters, you don't get a chance to see em."

"We've been lucky though" says the Pilot. He explains, City of Bakersfield made four incendiary raids on alternate nights - Tokyo, Nagoya, Kobe and Osaka in order. Over Nagoya he thought he wasn't going to be able to lose the searchlight. The only damage was a small hole in the fuselage, but there was more flak around that night than he wants to see again.

The Navigator calls up from his position on the inter-phone "About that" he says, "I used to think I liked night raids best, but now I'd take the daytime. You can see the bastards then, and what's going on."

It is becoming lighter; a grey, green morning with dark clouds above and below. The sea when it appears through a gap in the lower cloud is black and broken with white caps. Ahead and to the left is another Superfortress. "What's its number?" the Pilot asks. "Yes, that's Joe," he says to the Co-pilot. "I told him I'd try to stick with him."

After a short time the lower layer of cloud clears but the morning is still dull. Iwo Jima shows up ahead, a tiny darker spot on the dark sea, the cone of the volcano at one end - little bigger than the ships which are grouped in the shelter of its northern side. Beyond, the front of thick black cloud rests on the sea, stretching from horizon to horizon.

"There's the Rock," says the Pilot. "You wouldn't give two bits for it, would you? Just a goddamned lump of rotten earth, and they reckon it's the toughest place the marines ever tackled. But, by God, it's been worth it. Couple of weeks ago quite a lot of twenty-nines put down there from one raid alone. There are anything up to half-a-dozen forced down or going in for gas every time. It's a cinch now, no matter how much you get shot up, if you can make it back to Iwo."

"They're getting P-51s off there now, too" says the Co-pilot. "We had 'em along for the first time as escort the other day. The Nips aren't going to like it when the Mustangs are making regular trips, they'll take care of any bloody Zeros easy enough."

"Here it is. Now we'll see whether the weatherman's on the ball." He picks up the tiny throat microphone which he hasn't bothered to fasten around his neck and holds it close to his lips. "Co-pilot to tail gunner" he calls over the interphone. "It's going to be pretty thick. You'd better keep an eye out for anything coming behind. Some of the others ought to be catching up fairly soon."

"Roger dodger" says the tail gunner. "What say we give 'em a burst if they come too close. Scare the living daylights out of 'em."

The thick cloud crowds in around the plane, fogging the glass of the cabin. There is little rain save for an occasional sharp, sudden gust. There are breaks in the center of the front and there's an occasional glimpse of the other plane still in its same position ahead and to the left. Wreathed with cloud fog it looks like some gigantic ghost plane, the huge tail fin with its squadron marking alone unchanged from reality as if the one part forgotten in a mystic metamorphosis. "Joe's whooping it up a bit," says the Pilot. "The Colonel's with him. He must be getting anxious or some thing. We'll have to stooge around for an hour or so until the others catch up."

"By the way," he says, "The Colonel was one of the originals with the old Nineteenth, the Group that escaped from the Philippines and was the first American Group in Australia. It was sent back up to Java and then driven back out of there again. He was up around Darwin for a hell of a time. He reckons Sydney's a wonderful joint. I'd like to work a deal to get down there for a while, but I don't suppose we ever will now. This outfit contains many of his old crew mates of those early days in the Pacific."

The plane shoots suddenly out of the cloud, and for the first time as the wisps of fog which edge it rush straggling by there is an illusion of speed. Ahead is only the vastness of the ocean, the sky cloudless and bright with sunshine, and low down upon the sea a thick haze of heat.

The Bombardier is awake. He has come crawling up through the tunnel to his position in the nose of the plane and is rummaging in a cardboard box for a sandwich. "What did I tell you?" he asks. "All those bloody weathermen have to ask their wives if they ought to take an umbrella when they go to the office."

"Hell for all you know this might be next week," says the Navigator. "If there's anyone else in the whole Pacific gets in more sack time on these trips than you do they must have to hold his eyes open while he drops his bombs. Next war I'm going to be a Bombardier or a munitions worker, nothing else." He looks at his chart and makes a few calculations. "Should be about two minutes off," he says.

"That's right, I think it's just over there under the haze" says the Copilot. "Yes, there's Joe just beginning to circle. Hell, we've got 57 minutes to wait before we can take off. Better take her in close and follow in under his side on the turns."

"Let me know when any other ship joins the formation," says the Pilot into the inter phone.

The plane ahead begins a slow wide circle, passing beside the marker for formation. It's a tiny island, just the rim and crater of a long-dead volcano, nothing else, its sides rising sheer in rock hundreds of feet out of the sea. There's a faint fuzz of green on parts of it, which might from this height be huge trees or just low, wind-swept scrub. There's no slightest sign of habitation, nor any place where it would seem an approach to the island might be made from the sea. Perhaps a helicopter might find sufficient level grade to make a landing on the top of the rim. The maps show no other land within fifty miles of the point.

"Two B-29s at six o'clock; coming up to join formation," says the tail-gunner over the inter phone. Then after a little while "Three more high at nine o'clock. Must be another squadron. Can't see their numbers."

"Three B-29s same level at eight o'clock, coming in close; forming up the second element. Yes, they're three, five and seven." The fire control man makes his report.

"The first element has all its planes."

"The second element is still two short. It's closing formation."

"Only three planes in the third element yet."

"One B-29 high at six o'clock. Must be a straggler from' the other squadron. Yes, it's going over the top, circling the other way."

The planes are falling into their pattern now, the several squadrons flying at different altitudes, circling in opposite directions. There is another group forming up in the distance over to the west. The speed of the formations can be gauged again as they cross and pass each other. The pilots wave to one another as they come into position.

"First element right. Second element right, but not closed up yet. Third element still one plane short."

"Three minutes before we leave," says the pilot. "He may have gone off to abort or the alternate target. Can you distinguish the numbers in the third element?" "I can see 9 and 11. Can't make out the others."

There is a slight puff of smoke from the lead plane and three or four red flares from a flare pistol chasing each other down to the sea.

"Here we go," says the Pilot. The planes complete their turn and head north again, flying tight in formation. The third element is still short one plane. Above and below to left and to right there are other formations. The sun glints on the silvered bodies of the planes. The heat haze is rising thick and unsteady from the sea. Everyone is awake now.

"You can switch the guns on and test fire" says the Pilot. "Let me fire the nose guns." The Bombardier gets up out of his position and the Pilot climbs over the seat to the nose of the plane. He fiddles around with the automatic sight, lining the guns up on something far down below on the surface of the sea. He' s like a youngster with a new rifle wanting to shoot it off just for the sake of shooting. Tail and turret gunners each fire a short burst, but the pilot is still working on the sight, adjusting it. It's over a minute before he pulls the trigger, and then far ahead and below is a flash of tracer bullets and a group of sudden tiny splashes on the broken sea. The pilot climbs back to his seat at the controls a little shamefacedly. "I didn't hit the wave I was aiming at," he says. The Bombardier tries to explain: "If you're shooting at something stationary - or practically stationary; those waves aren't moving much - the computer..." "But" the pilot cuts him short "I know all that," he says, "But I just can't hit 'em."

The haze is thickening and reaching higher into the air. "This is what they call the Japanese noon-day haze," says the Navigator. "Looks as though we're not going to be able to see a damned thing. We're coming up off Honshu now. It should be over at about 11 o'clock, about thirty miles or so away."

There is nothing to be seen, but the haze. It is becoming difficult to distinguish the lower formations, though the ones above are bright in the sunlight.

"Better put on the flak suits now," says the Pilot. "And everybody keep a look-out for fighters. They can come any time now. I want a report when everybody is ready." His voice somehow is different, as though he is giving orders for the first time during all the trip.

The heavy flak suits - metal jackets covered with canvas - go on top of all the rest of the gear, hanging down like sandwich boards front and back over the rubber life jackets, or Mae Wests, and over the parachute harness. They fasten on each shoulder, and there is an emergency ripcord that will allow them to fall away. They weigh heavily and make movement difficult. The flak helmets fit down over each ear covering the headphones to the intercom set. The precision instrument operator hangs metal curtains at the entrance to his compartment amidships.

"Tail gunner ready," comes the word over the inter phone.

"Radio ready." "C.F.C ready." "Navigator ready." "Co-pilot ready."

"Pilot to Navigator; where are we now? Can you estimate time to I.P.?

"Due east Tokyo Bay, about thirty miles. Just a minute. I. P. about forty-seven minutes. Can you see the coast line?"

"No, there's nothing but haze."

"Pilot to Engineer: How long have we been in the air? How much gas do we have?"

"Nine hours, ten minutes. Thirty-six hundred."

(Here a line has been deleted by the censor.)

"Roger"

"There's the coast over there," says the Bombardier through the inter phone. He turns to look at the Pilot sitting a couple of feet behind him and points to the west, through the haze.

"God, you've got good eyes," says the Pilot. "I can't see it."

The haze seems to be thickening still, and rising even higher. After a few minutes there can be seen faintly in the west a line of beach and breaking surf. There is no land beyond it in the haze. The formation is flying parallel to the line of surf.

"There it is," says the Co-pilot. "Pilot to navigator, How long to I.P.?"

"Thirty minutes. He's taking it too close in. We should be out about another ten miles."

"Perhaps he's cutting it to make up time. The other formations are in their right places." There is no talk now other than what is necessary. Each ten minutes now seems to be longer than did the long hours of the night."

I'll take it for a while," says the Co-pilot. "So you can have it from the I.P."

"Twenty minutes to I.P." says the Navigator.

The haze seems to be thinning out a little. "I think it may be all right." says the Bombardier. "Anyway, it may be even better over the land."

The line of the beach is clearer now. It is broken by headlands and there are shadowy hills behind.

"Ten minutes to I.P." says the Navigator.

There is no doubt now. The haze is not so thick. There is a river coming down through the beach and beyond it another. The land behind the beach seems covered with lagoons.

"He's got us close in all right," says the Navigator.

"Tail Gunner to Pilot: Fighters, about seven, high at seven o'clock. Not coming in. No," his voice changes, "They're twenty-nines."

"Two minutes to I.P." says the Navigator.

"Yes, there's Joe turning now," says the Pilot. "I'll take it, Steve."

The Co-pilot drops his hands away from the wheel and down by his sides, wiping them on the legs of his trousers below the flak suit. They are wet with perspiration.

The formation turns westward in a wide sweep towards the land. Over the beach the haze has cleared. It is something that is somehow surprising. It is a promise of perfect bombing conditions over the target, this fine bright, sunny day, and the change has come so suddenly.

Behind the beach on the flat land before it runs into the hills, there are small farms and patterned roads. What look like lagoons are probably flooded rice fields. Nowhere is there any sign of life. There is no wisp of smoke from the tiny houses; there is no movement on the roads. The hill country beyond is broken and wild, but the farms seem to run up its sides. It is not very high. The day is hot and the Superfortress bumps surprisingly in the up-currents of air over the hills. It has come through weather fronts over the ocean without any noticeable bouncing. The pilot glances quickly at the Co-pilot and says "It's pretty holey." He doesn't smile any more and for the most part he keeps his eyes on the lead plane to his left. The target is almost fifty miles inland from the coast. The Co-pilot sits leaning back looking completely relaxed in his seat. His head turns slowly the whole time from side to side as he searches for signs of fighter opposition. No-one speaks in answer to the Pilot.

Beyond the low hills is a valley, patterned again with farms and roadways. The formation follows along its length. To the west is the mountainous central range and high in the midst of the broad light blue expanse of Lake Inawashire-ke. It is mid-morning and warm and bright with sunshine, but as far as the eye can see on the west the ridge tops still are capped with snow. It is all a contour map of Japan, colored to show the different elevations - from the light green of the valley floor, through the darker green of the mountain slopes to the snowy ridges, not white, but lightly golden like sand in the sunshine and light haze.

This is Japan. It is a beautiful land; calm, peaceful, like any other land anywhere. This is the land whence come the people who in August of last year on the island of Guam took forty-eight Chamorran laborers into a tiny clearing in the jungle, bound their hands behind their backs, forced them to kneel, then lopped their heads from their bodies with swords, so that they fell one on top of the other and their heads rolled between their legs or hung by threads of skin and sinew, and their old straw hats fell among the heap of bodies. From this land came the people who, when the city was already lost to their forces, burned Manila; (Here again, the censor deleted a line.) These are the things that we have seen and know. This picture-postcard land of valley floor and lake and snow-streaked mountain range is the land from which these people came. The hundred and more huge silvered planes which fly above it now have come from Guam, from off a two mile tarmac strip in a man-made clearing in the jungle.

Below in the floor of the valley there is a winding river and there beside it a railway line. There ahead is the town of Koriyama and to the north of it the target - the Hodagoya Chemical Industries plant. There is no mistaking it. Other formations of bombers have gone in ahead and dark red fires and the thick mile-wide column of lazily-spreading smoke almost obscure the two high, black smoke stacks.

"Hold it," says the Bombardier. "Bomb bay doors open." And then after a little while "Bombs away."

The plane lurches slightly, but it is scarcely noticed. Slowly, like pebbles tossed from a giant hand, a belly full of five-hundred pound bombs are falling away from the planes on either side.

The formation turns south slightly and east, for the long run out to the coast of Japan. The Pilot turns in his seat and looks back towards Koriyama. He points with his finger but he says nothing. The smoke stacks cannot be seen now. The base of the lazy, waving column of smoke is ringed with angry fire. The smoke is billowing slowly five thousand feet above the ground. Just above it there is another formation of planes. There is no sign of life anywhere on all the wide land below. There is no flash of gunfire. In the sky there is only the sun, and beneath it the untroubled formation of American planes.

The line of beach and surf falls behind and then runs parallel to the formation on the west. Out over the sea the Co-pilot says "That's the kind of raid I like. The more of these the better. I'll take it."

The Pilot releases the control. He says nothing. After a long while, he says, "All right, you can stow the flak suits."

The Bombardier climbs up out of his seat. "Right on the nose," he says. "Would you believe it? Go in over Japan at mid-day and the little bastards haven't got a plane in the air and don't even fire a shot. You'd think the suckers would have enough sense to get out of it and let us all go home to mother. I think I'll get some sleep. Won't I tell that weatherman off though."

There is only the long trip home. Pilot and Co-pilot take it in turns to go back to the center compartment and sleep. The automatic pilot flies the plane, but one of them stays near the controls, lying back, relaxed, listening to the music which comes through the earphones tuned to the radio compass.

John Brennan

(Note: This was written by an Australian war correspondent who flew with the crew of Capt. Vernon L. Chandler, 28th Bomb Sq., 19th Bomb Group, on the bombing mission to Hodagoya Chemical Industries, Koriyama, Honshu Japan on 12 April 1945. Squadron Leader was Capt. Joe Simmons, accompanied by Colonel John A. Roberts, Group Commander.)

Pat Chandler -
"Princess Pat" age 1, 1944 (Pat Chandler)

General view of 28th Squadron area. Note black bottoms.
M-2 is the plane furthest from the camera. (19th Bomb Group)



Bomb release over Japan amidst flak bursts. The identities of the planes
in the photo is not known but is believed to show the 19th BG. (S. Smisek)