Whirlwind - Barrett Tillman [39]
Meanwhile, B-29 crews grew more accustomed to their environment. Guam’s North Field was probably the trickiest in the Marianas. Takeoffs were usually made to the northeast, into the prevailing trade winds that had benefited eighteenth- and nineteenth-century merchant sailors. Though the first 2,000 feet or so of runway ran slightly downhill, the latter portion was somewhat uphill, causing some heavily loaded bombers to stagger into the moist tropical air, engines howling and propellers biting in low pitch.
The critical phase of a takeoff came immediately after becoming airborne. Between the end of the runway and the cliff that plunged to the sea was half a mile of “terrible coral.” Once the world fell away beneath a B-29, pilots could nudge their control yokes slightly forward, descending to use some of the 500 to 600 feet above the ocean to accelerate to a safe flying speed. Thrust overcame inertia and lift defeated gravity, elevating sixty-five tons of aircraft, fuel, ordnance, and human souls. Then, with landing gear raised and wing flaps milked up a few degrees at a time, the burdened bomber became a craft of the air.
Yet there were rewards despite the dangers. Amid the hours of tedious routine, and the languorous time spent listening to the pulsing drone of four powerful engines, there were moments of sublime compensation. The glory of a Pacific sunrise, when sea and sky turned from gray-black to vivid golden hues, or the vertical grandeur of a backlit thunderhead cresting 30,000 feet was worth the entire fifteen-hour trip.
After the warm-up period there ensued a maddening time of waiting for the Marianas’ first bombing mission to Japan. Each day aircrews arose, ate, dealt with their pre-mission jitters, and went to briefing. But poor local weather canceled the big event for a solid week: every day from November 17 to the 23rd. Tension rose with each stand-down; some fliers alternated between joy and gloom, all the while knowing that one day they would fly.
On the 24th the bombers went to Tokyo.
Defending Tokyo
Even after the Doolittle Raid, Japan largely ignored what loomed just over the horizon until far too late. The pulsing, throbbing engine of American industry, fueled by rage as much as petroleum, droned an insistent hum that should have been audible across the far expanse of the Pacific. But Tokyo’s ears were deaf to noise; its brain immune to logic.
Combat losses from 1942 onward had badly depleted Japan’s cadre of prewar aircrew, carefully trained fliers who had thoroughly mastered their weapons and their trade. With more squadrons needed to defend the homeland, some of the deficit was made good by withdrawing units from overseas. But inevitably, partly trained rookies were pushed forward to fill available cockpits. The youngsters (some teenagers) were motivated and generally eager, but could not begin to compare with the skill and experience of their increasingly numerous enemies.
Once B-29s and carrier planes began operating almost at will over Japan, every man was needed to defend the home islands. When the draft age was raised to forty-five many men were accepted into military service who never would have been considered previously. The declining standards were brought home to Prince Higashikuni of the General Defense Command in late 1944 when, visiting an antiaircraft site, he found that gun crews included men with physical debilities and even one eye.
The best known example of physical handicap was navy ace Saburo Sakai, who had destroyed or damaged more than fifty Allied aircraft in 1941–42. He lost the use of his right eye over Guadalcanal but returned to combat at Iwo Jima in 1944 and remained active in the home islands.
The army retreads included Burma veterans such as Captain Yohei Hinoki, who had lost a leg to an American fighter in 1943,