Fairchild AAFB
0400, May 8, 1952
With the eastern sky just beginning to turn gray, out on the flightline maintenance crews began arming their fighters for the day's mission. 18 P-61Ds were being fitted out to escort a stream of B-50s coming out of Dakotas for a raid on the Japanese-held Queen Charlotte Islands. Last minute maintenance checks were run on the twin T-38s on each plane, weapons crews loading 20mm ammunition, fuel tanks, and the four AAM-A-1 missiles out on the wings; the crew chiefs for each plane wiping down the transparencies.
As the sun crept higher into the sky, the duty officer went around waking the crews for the morning's mission. The crews, some hungover from the night before staggered into the base chow hall. Others were bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having ignored the USO party the night before. Into this cacophony of sound and smell stumped Major William Roberts. With the war in the South Pacific dragging, and as many able-bodied men away to fight in Australia, Continental Air Forces was scraping the bottom of the barrel. Washouts, rejects, members of the WASPs, and recovered injured were assigned to fly and fight. Former Tuskegee squadron members were integrated into the CAF's squadrons, much to the disconcertion of Southern legislators.
Major Roberts had been a B-25 pilot, flying out of RAAF Cairns against targets in Papua New Guinea and long range raids against Japanese targets in Western Australia, until one raid against Port Moresby. His bomber was shot up by ground fire, pounced upon by Zero fighters withdrawing from the fight, and most of his crew killed. Rescued by RAAF Seafires, Roberts limped his wounded plane into a crash landing in Cooktown. Pulled from the wreckage, and taken to hospital, the doctors took his bad leg. Sent back to the States, he learned how to fly again. Requalified into the P-61, he accepted an assignment in the CAF's 2d Air Force, flying patrols along the Pacific Northwest. That was until the Imperial Japanese, with 5 battle-hardened divisions from Manchuria, expanded their toehold on the Aleutian Islands into major holdings in coastal Alaska and advancing as far south as Queen Charlotte Island.
Looking around, Roberts didn't see his usual backseater, but chalked it up to his probably being hungover, or in the intelligence brief and made his way to the crew briefing. Finding an empty seat, he sat and elevated his leg, waiting. Looking around, he noticed all the usual faces, some new ones, some old ones. It wasn't long until the briefing officer entered. “Gentlemen, good morning. Today's mission is a simple one. We're to be escorting a three squadron stream of B-50s coming out of Minot, Grand Fork and Rapid City Airfields to Queen Charlotte Island.
“You'll go wheels up at 0700, rendezvous with a combined bomber and tanker force at 52º 5minutes, 28 seconds by 116º 36 minutes, 28 seconds; refuel and continue on to the mission objective- the new Imperial Japanese Navy Base located in the Masset Inlet. Bomber IP will be Old Masset, on the north coast, and you'll pick up the bomber stream again at Mt Emmons. RCAF Mosquitoes and Lincolns may be in the area as well- so keep an eye out for Allied planes.
“You'll break off at the second tanker rendezvous, at 52º 24'52” by 118º 59'30” and return to base.
“Intelligence indicates multiple Jap fighters including Seans (J7W Shinden), Zeros, and Sams (A7M). There may also be Rufes (A6M-2) and Rexs(N1K1); the last two raids have seen them in the air.
“Your radar operators will have your LORAN and TACAN frequencies and codes. Good luck. Dismissed.”
Roberts stood, and made his way out to the Jeep with his gear in the back. “Major Roberts,” he heard.
“Yes,” Roberts replied as he settled into the driver's seat, and noticed the brunette coming up to the Jeep with her gear.
“I'm Roberta Duffy, your radar operator for the mission.”
“Where Captain Cobb?”
“No idea, Major. He wasn't on the sick call list.”
“You rated on the equipment?”
“Yes sir, including the Fireball.”
“Alright, get in.” Roberts slipped the Jeep into gear and headed out to the apron.
Already props were turning over, the whine of turbines spooling up. Roberts' plane, PK-304 nicknamed “Shenanigan Sally,” sat quiet, except for the maintenance crew around her. Both Roberts and Duffy finished the last of their suiting up and climbed aboard the fighter. Northrop had continually evolved the the Black Widow since the first requirement for a night fighter came down from HAF. The P-61D-5 was, so far, the pinnacle of that development. Turboprop engines, while not quite as reliable as the Pratt and Whitneys they replaced, gave as much power as the old radials with less weight and risk of fire. Ryan AAM-A-1 Fireball missiles gave a better standoff range against slower, more heavily armed targets. Boeing and their “Flying Boom” refueling apparatus allowed staging further to the rear.. And Roberts and Cobb were successful in applying these technological improvements. A three Japanese fighters, including a Sean, had fallen to their guns, and the slate over gray helped hide them over the Northwest Pacific. Props cleared, turbines turned over, and Sally started coming alive as the Furies began taxiing out. Brakes and chocks released, and Roberts' plane joined the formation.
The 18 fighters were lined up on the high speed taxiway on to Runway 23, maintenance doing one final check when the green flare was fired from the control tower. Throttles advanced, propellers tore at the air, and in staggered sequence the P-61s raced down the runway and into the air. As the first pair climbed, they orbited as the rest of the squadron left.
* * *
“Fury Two Seven, Esso Five Six. You are cleared to precontact position,” the receiver squawked in the cockpit of the fighter.
“Esso, Fury Two Seven, roger. Moving to precontact.” Roberts rolled his plane in behind the KC-97, reached over and opened the receptacle doors. Following the cues from the boom operator, Roberts snugged up and topped off the tanks. “Duffy, fuel to drop tanks first, then wing and mains.”
“Already watching the gauges, Major. Fuel flow's normal.” A couple of moments later came “We're full up, Major.”
“Esso, Fury. We're full, moving to disconnect. See you in a few hours.”
“Fury Two Seven, Esso. Good hunting.”
The formation of fighters and bombers continued to drone over western Canada, the fighters weaving every which way, on the odd chance that Japanese interceptors would already be airborne. As the farmlands of British Columbia gave way to the Coast Mountain range, Roberts tightened up his harness. “Approaching the Hecate Strait, Major. Warming up the radar,” Duffy said over the intercom.
“Roger.”
As the bombers began their turn, the cry went out over the radio from one of the crews: “Bandits! 10 o'clock high!”
“Fury Lead to all Fury elements. Break and attack. I say again, break and attack.”
“Fury Two Seven, copy.” Roberts rolled the fighter out of formation and into the swirling mass of Japanese and American fighters. He could feel the fighter shake with each press of the trigger. “Fury Two Seven, got one.”
“Looks like they got Miss Minot. Get out of there, guys,” came over the radio. Roberts spared a moment, and saw the B-50's wing fold up over the fuselage; the bomber spiraling towards the water out of control.
“Fighters! 3 o'clock! They're Canadians!” Up from RCAFB Port Rupert had come a squadron of Canadian Tempest IIs to join this swirling maelstrom of Allied and Japanese fighters.
Relentlessly, the bomber force and fighters continued towards the initial point (IP). A bomber would fall victim to a Japanese fighter, Japanese or Canadian or American fighters would fall to one of their opponents. Anti-aircraft fire began erupting around the IP of Old Masset, the Japanese fighters refused to break off their attacks, even as angry gray puffs of cotton exploded around them.
Roberts had expended three of his Fireballs on two misses and a kill on a Sean, propelling him into Ace status. “Hey, what's that skimming at treetop height, coming in from the west northwest?” Duffy asked, seeing a large green blur racing across the landscape.
“Looks like a transport,” Roberts replied, as he rolled the fighter and dove for the deck. As the gray waters of the inlet filled the windscreen, he kept his eye on airspeed, altitude, and the target. “Its a Emily,” he added as they got closer. “I'm going to swing around for a tail shot, make our last missile shot count.”
Giving the Japanese version of the Shorts Sunderland a wide berth, Roberts sloughed off airspeed in a series of wide S turns, before settling on the flying boat's tail, a good four miles astern. “Target locked,” Duffy called. “We've got tone.”
“Missile! Missile! Missile,” Roberts called over the radio as his thumb mashed down on the release button. The Fireball dropped free from the pylon and raced towards its target, impacting against the trailing edge between the third and fourth engines. Detonating, the warhead ignited an fuel tank full of vapor, tearing the rest of the wing off. The number three propeller tore from its shaft and into the hull of the flying boat, which fell from the sky and impacted with a mighty splash against the water in the bay, sinking quickly before any survivors could escape.
“Time to get the hell out of here,” Roberts said, racking the fighter around into a tight chandelle, and skimmed the tree tops to the exit rendezvous point at Mount Emmons. Getting back into formation, Roberts noticed that they were missing several Widows and B-50s. Off in the distance, another stream of bombers, what looked like Lincolns, were inbound.
* * *
Taxiing in after touching down at Fairchild, Roberts watched the hand and arm signals of his crewchief through the armored plexiglass. Pull into the revetment, set brakes, fuel off, run up the engines and shut them down. Safing the remaining switches in the cockpit, Roberts sat there for a few minutes, before pulling out his logbook and scribbling some numbers down. He'd just completed his 50th combat mission, 15 in B-25s, the remaining in P-61s.
Climbing down on unsteady legs, he unstrapped his kit and tossed it in the back of the waiting jeep. “I'm getting too old for this crap,” Roberts muttered. His 30th birthday was right around the corner. So caught up in his thoughts, Roberts ignored the ride from the flightline to debrief. He was moving on automatic, exiting the jeep, entering the building, talking to the intelligence officers. “A Sean, a Rufe, and an Emily.” A pause as the S2 Intel asked a couple of questions about the Emily. “It was coming in from a westerly bearing. I'd venture a guess, if I had to, Kiska or Attu.” A nod, and a move out the door. Notice that the jeep was gone, probably brought the chutes and gear back to the rigging section; walk to the chow hall, eat, get some rack time and hope the nightmares are kept at bay.
Over in the WASC barracks, Duffy was talking with her roommate about her first day of actual combat. “It was like he barely acknowledged my presence the entire day. I could have sworn I hadn't done anything to offend him.”
“How many missions has he flown, Bobbi?”
“I heard him mutter 'And that's number 50' as I was climbing out.”
Jerri nodded. “I've heard about that before. Old timers don't like getting close to fresh faces; they're afraid to make friends, because they're afraid to lose them. Give him time, and he'll get used to you.”