Eagles at War (20 page)

The Japanese were unstoppable in the Pacific. President Franklin Roosevelt decided to intervene personally in the tactical conduct of the war, to create a victory as a sop to American morale. Germany was still the main target, but he demanded a reprisal air raid on Tokyo.

On the surface, it seemed impossible. The pitifully few U.S. carriers could not be risked close to Japan, nor were there any bases from which the longer-ranged Army Air Forces bombers could attack.

Yet, by chance, the answer to Roosevelt's demands had already been realized. On January 20, 1942, six weeks after Pearl Harbor, Captain Francis S. Low had suggested to Admiral Ernest J. King, chief of naval operations, that Army medium bombers launched from a Navy carrier could bomb Tokyo. It was unheard of, but the aggressive King liked the concept, and sent Low to ask General Henry Arnold's opinion. Arnold concurred, calling Henry Caldwell in to confer. The meeting was simple. Arnold outlined the problem and Caldwell said, "There's only one man for the operation—Jimmy Doolittle. I'll back him up with some good help, but Jimmy's your man." After the meeting, Caldwell called Jim Lee on the phone and detailed him as Doolittle's right-hand man.

Despite the urgent need for materiel everywhere—warships, aircraft, men, equipment—a task force was created for this symbolic strike at the Japanese heartland. King saw to it that the Navy made the carrier and escorts available and, with Caldwell's backing, Lee saw to it that Doolittle had everything he needed. It was a tremendous learning experience for everyone—and one of the things Lee learned was that he had a talent for management.

As so often in the past, Caldwell had picked exactly the right men for the job. The diminutive Doolittle was world-famed for his record-setting flying. The public was less aware that he was a scientist and a manager of extraordinary capability. His first task was to select the aircraft to be used. The choice was simple, for only one bomber existed that had both the range and would fit on the deck of the carrier—the North American B-25. It was called the "Mitchell," for the court-martialed general who had so long ago preached the vulnerability of warships to airplanes and predicted a Sunday morning attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor.

Doolittle, given carte blanche, sent Lee to the depot in Sacramento to supervise the aircraft modifications. In the meantime, Doolittle worked out the tactics and logistics, trained the pilots and crew members, and had the entire task force on the docks in Alameda, California, ready to sail on the new U.S.S.
Hornet's
first wartime sortie. To Lee's intense disappointment, Doolittle didn't select him for a crew position. To Doolittle it was a simple decision—Lee didn't have enough multi-engine flying time. Lee took the rebuff quietly, making up his mind to check out in every damn airplane at Wright Field.

On April 18, 1942, Doolittle delivered the blow Roosevelt had called for, one that affected the war only imperceptibly but foretold its end perfectly.

Characteristically, Doolittle had been the first man off the
Hornet's
deck. No one before had ever taken off from a carrier in a heavily laden bomber the size of the B-25. There had been only 467 feet of deck between the plane and the ocean. Two white lines, one for the nose wheel and one for the left wheel, were painted as guides down the rolling, pitching deck. If the pilot stayed on the lines the right wing would miss the carrier's island by six feet. Doolittle had made it look easy. The other pilots had followed with confidence.

Each of the sixteen B-25s was carrying three five-hundred-pound demolition bombs and a single special five-hundred-pound canister of incendiaries. Sixteen planes, each with a ton of bombs, was not much of a force compared to Pearl Harbor—yet it made the Japanese blink. And much later, when Caldwell had Jim Lee compile the intelligence summaries on the raid, their planning was reinforced. The country needed the long-range B-29 if it were ever to defeat Japan.

*

Wright Field/July 18, 1942

Bandfield stood at the window, watching the flight line at Wright Field. When he'd been there the first time, in 1933, there had only been a handful of biplanes scattered about. Now there were more than a hundred airplanes on the ramp, everything from Ryan trainers to the huge Douglas XB-19. With a 212-foot wingspan, it was the biggest airplane in the world—and already hopelessly obsolete.

Bandfield followed Hadley Roget into the conference room and Roget nodded to the group of officers sitting around the table, muttering, "I only know a few of these guys. They're pretty big wheels to be lumped in one meeting."

"They head up all the major supply and logistic divisions at Wright and Patterson fields."

Roget, always irritable, moaned, "Well, what does Caldwell want? I've got more to do than stand around jawing with you."

"I'm not sure, but he's only called in you, me, Jim Lee, and the division heads."

Lee, recognized as Caldwell's fair-haired lad since the Tokyo raid, was sitting quietly in the corner, exhausted from his self-imposed schedule. Still furious with himself because Doolittle hadn't selected him, he'd spent the intervening months flying everything he could get his hands on, from PT-17s to B-24s.

At the same time, he knew his non-selection had been fortunate. None of the sixteen airplanes on the Tokyo raid had made it to their planned safe havens; only fourteen of the crews had survived. Jimmy Doolittle came home expecting to be court-martialed for what he considered a failure—instead he'd been given the Medal of Honor and was made a brigadier general.

The door flew open and a grim-faced Caldwell stormed in, both arms clasped around a bulging leather briefcase. Around the table the officers made halfhearted attempts at coming to attention, the mixture of movements that said, "We know what we're supposed to do, but we know you don't go for that stuff."

"At ease, gentlemen, as if you weren't already. I'm sorry to interrupt your schedule, but I want to make sure you understand my message today. Let me go through my list, then we'll have questions later."

Caldwell picked through his briefcase and picked out four manila folders, each one crammed with the crumpled onionskin carbons that poured out of headquarters and sheets of yellow foolscap with his cramped writing scrawled all over.

Looking around, Caldwell said, "Gentlemen, I've called you here to impress one thing upon you. The only way we can win this war is with the best technology. The Germans are smart—we've got to be smarter. For that reason the top priorities for the United States Army Air Forces are the following four projects."

He paused, making sure he had their attention, and went on. "First, the Boeing B-29. The program is just beginning to develop, but it takes precedence over everything, even the other priority programs. I'm going to be the point man, but you are the people who will make it happen.

"Second, the long-range fighter program. We've got to have a fighter that can go all the way to Berlin and back. Don't rule anything out—refueling, towing, parasite fighters, anything—because we won't be able to live in the air over Germany without them. Bandy, I want you to concentrate on this, especially on developing bigger external tanks. Right now I think the best solution is to put a Merlin engine in the McNaughton Sidewinder, and hang some big tanks on it."

Eyebrows lifted all around the room. McNaughton's contribution to the war effort had been marginal so far—more bad technology than high technology.

"Third, Hadley Roger's 'Operation Leapfrog.' We've got to come up with something special. We're getting back reports that the Germans have already flown at least two different types of jet fighters."

There were surprised exclamations; these men were veterans and knew that it took years—decades sometimes—to develop a conventional engine, much less anything radical.

"And last, aircraft for Russia. We're going to send them as many P-40s and McNaughton Sidewinders as we can; Arnold is willing to waive all deliveries on Sidewinders to the USAAF, and send them all to Russia."

He looked up expectantly and asked, "Any questions?"

The lowest ranking man in the room, the just promoted Jim Lee, was the first to speak.

"General, how come we're sticking with McNaughton? I saw Bandfield here get shot down in one by a slant-eye in a Jap Piper Cub over in Hawaii."

"The McNaughton is a good plane—"

"Come on, General, you know as well as I do that the McNaughton is a big disappointment." Lee paused during the stunned silence and said, "Forgive my speaking out, but you didn't make general by being quiet, did you?"

Caldwell knew that stupid familiarity like this was the price for seeking out individualists—and for not pulling rank. He took a moment to control himself, then said, "No, Captain, but that's how I made major."

The group burst into laughter, relieved to have the situation resolved with the general coming out on top. Caldwell looked at Lee for a few seconds, realizing that his work was cut out for him.

"Stick around after this meeting, Captain Lee. I've got a little additional instruction for you." The officers around the table nudged each other and winked; nobody liked a smart-ass and Lee was going to get his. Yet most felt that he was right—Caldwell's support for McNaughton was unusual.

"Any
serious
questions?"

Roget put up his hand. "Yes, General, can you tell us what the source of your information is on the new German engine? Or at least, how reliable you think it is?"

Caldwell thought of Lyra and suppressed a smile. "Hadley, take it from me that it's a very reliable source."

He entertained a little more discussion, then dismissed them, motioning Lee to wait. Bandfield asked if he could wait outside and see him after he was finished with Lee. Surprised and somewhat annoyed, Caldwell agreed.

When the door was shut, Caldwell said quietly, "Captain Lee, you were out of line. You did a terrific job working with Doolittle, and I know you were disappointed that you didn't fly the mission. But it's not becoming for you to behave like that. And it's insulting to me."

Lee automatically came to rigid attention.

Caldwell went on. "At ease. I'm as concerned as you are about McNaughton's performance. And I think you are the man who can help. The Sidewinder has some problems, just like any other new plane."

Lee shifted uncomfortably, feeling that he was being set up.

"In about six months I'm going to need you to go to Seattle to ramrod the B-29 program. That's how much I think of you—how much I value what you did in preparing for the Tokyo raid. In the meantime, I'm getting you an assignment to the 67th Fighter Squadron in the South Pacific. It's reequipping with Sidewinders, using airplanes that the British ordered and turned back. You're just the guy to figure out how to improve them."

Lee saw immediately what Caldwell was doing. It was classic service discipline: give somebody who makes a criticism the task of correcting the problem. And perhaps there was more. Caldwell was giving him a flick of the whip, getting him prepared for the future. Well—okay. Flying even the McNaughton in combat was better than pushing papers at Wright Field.

"I'm trying to do something for you. It would be the biggest mistake of the war to put Merlin engines in the Sidewinder; it's throwing good money after bad. The engines ought to go in the P-51."

"I think you're wrong." Caldwell's voice had gone up a notch, the veins in his neck were thickening, and a rosy hue suffused his face, all signs of losing control of his temper.

"There's something else, too." Bandfield was hesitant. They'd been friends a long time, but this was pretty delicate.

"It's how people perceive it, Henry. Everybody knows the Mustang is a superior plane. The P-51 program is going to need all the Merlin engines Packard can produce. If you send Merlins to McNaughton, the only conclusion people will draw is that you're favoring them."

"Goddamnit, Bandy, I don't care what conclusions people draw. I think I'm doing the right thing, and that's all that counts with me. I believe in McNaughton, just like I believe in you and Hadley. Even like I believe in that smart-ass Lee. Troy McNaughton says he can fix the problems. If he can, we can have a long-range fighter by early 1943. The
best
North American can do is mid-1943. It's a gamble, but I'm used to taking gambles when the odds are right."

He poured and they drank, letting the masculine mixture of whiskey, anger, friendship, and stubbornness mix, then settle. Bandfield could have sworn that he saw tears in Caldwell's eyes.

"Bandy, you're about the only one I can talk to. If I went to the flight surgeon, he'd probably ground me or throw me in the loony bin."

"Sure, spill it. You know it'll never leave this room."

Caldwell drank again, then let the words tumble out. "Maybe I'm spread too thin, working too hard. But, Bandy, this goddamn woman in Nashville is driving me out of my mind. Elsie. I'm obsessed by her."

Caldwell twisted a pencil in his hand.

"I know I'm behaving like a high school kid. I go crazy if I think somebody else is looking at her. I'm jealous of Troy McNaughton, because he gets to spend so much time with her. And now I'm jealous of a dead man—or at least a man she thinks is dead."