6 GARDEN HOSES
“Well … another hour ought to do it,” said Nolan Herndon. He had crawled up from his compartment in the nose and was crouched behind the two pilots. Instinctively, Bob Emmens’s eyes flickered again to the oblong fuel gage on the instrument panel in front of his yoke. After nearly eight hours of checking, rechecking, and trying not to check it, he felt like the gage’s image was permanently burned into his brain.
It was now 1600, Hornet time, and with the 275 gallons of fuel remaining they would at least make the Russian coast, but Plane 8 would never have made it 1,100 miles across Japan to China. Emmens figured that after reaching the coast in another hour they would fly maybe another hour after that to find the airfield circled on Ed York’s map, and by his calculations this would leave them with about one hundred gallons. In the event the fuel tanks were ever inspected, then the remaining fuel level would lend credence to the necessity of diverting to the Soviet Union, which had been the whole point of having the carburetors switched back at McClellan Field.
The dark haze on the horizon had vanished, and except for a single freighter they had seen nothing for the past 313 miles over the Sea of Japan. Nothing like danger and adrenaline to take the edge off hunger, but now, with nominally allied territory within reach, all three men realized they’d been ignoring their stomachs. For his part, Bob Emmens was tired of open water. True, it had been extremely welcome after crossing Honshu, but he would later recall thinking “how good dry friendly land would look.” After splitting a candy bar between the three of them, York spoke after Herndon returned to the nose. “I hope they have 100-octane gas—if we can find an aerodrome.”
The type of fuel available was a big question mark. In fact, everything after reaching Russia was a question mark, but that was part of their purpose. Would they find paved runways capable of supporting medium and heavy bombers, or simply a grass airfield. What about lighting, bomb dumps, roads or railroads from the coastal ports to support the logistics required for a bombing operation against Japan? Lots of questions, and not much time to gather answers.
“We could get away early in the morning,” Emmens replied thoughtfully, “and probably beat the rest of the guys to Chungking.”
Briefed that Stalin would not allow Soviet territory to be used for combat against Japan, York hoped to gather as much on-scene information as possible, then be allowed to fly on to China—but no one knew how the Russians would react. That was the problem. There was also the possibility of Moscow handing over Plane 8’s crew to Tokyo to avoid confrontation, and this was definitely a concern. In Japanese hands, the pilots figured they would be as good as dead for attacking the Home Islands. Well, it was much too late to worry about all that, and besides, there was now no other choice.
Forty-five minutes later “land came slowly into view on the horizon—tall mountains looming dark out of the sea,” Bob Emmens recalled. “Lord … what a welcome sight!” Relief washed over him. The Sea of Japan had been greatly preferable to the islands of Japan and yet, for Army pilots at least, the water was still alien territory and full of unseen menace. At this point, nearly eight hours after leaving the carrier, even Russian land looked good. But both men knew there was no way to fix a landmark, especially on these maps, at fifty feet above the water. York pushed the throttles up a few inches, then eased back on the yoke. As Plane 8 rose higher over the waves, her shadow, their constant companion for the past three hours, slid aft till it vanished behind the wings.
Leveling off at a thousand feet, York walked the throttles back and began comparing the coastline to his map. Emmens did the same, and they both pointed toward a spit of land jutting out from the coast. There was a peninsula pointing off to the south, but which one? It could be Muravyov-Amursky. It could also be Cape Sysoyeva or Cape Povorotnyy; the maps were so bad it could also be the coast of Korea. Holding 160 miles per hour, they flew to three miles off the coast, then York banked up to the right. “I turned and followed the coastline,” he reported to the army assistant chief of air staff, intelligence, in 1943. “This was very inaccurate on your [Military Intelligence] maps.”
Rolling out heading northeast, Emmens took the controls so York could better compare the map with the coast. The shoreline looked like bites out of a pizza; a sawtooth of inlets and small bays backed by ridgelines stepping up in height away from the coast. After ten minutes, both men were sure it was not Korea, which had to be at least another hour’s flying to the southwest. No, this was the Soviet Union: but where in the Soviet Union? York shook the yoke, and Bob released the controls. Banking left, Ed turned toward land and rolled out heading 180 degrees, back the way they’d come. This time, less than a mile offshore, they picked out more details. It “was rugged, with very little beach,” Emmens stated. “One little bay cut inland and a small group of houses could be seen.”
Both pilots agreed that flying around the peninsula’s tip directly into the harbor would likely be a bad idea. The Soviets flew twin-engine bombers, but any air defenses would no doubt be notified of local flights and would therefore know nothing about a strange aircraft suddenly appearing over their port. Of course, the real fighting was some two thousand miles to the west, but the entire Soviet military was no doubt operating on a war footing, so why take extra chances? Especially after already taking so many today. “We cut inland,” Emmens recorded. “As we turned, we could see, off to the left, the fingerlike projection of land extending seaward.”*
Clearing the ridgeline at one thousand feet, Ski suddenly flinched. “Jesus … look!” He pointed over the glare shield and banked up slightly left so his copilot could see a huge aerodrome just off the nose. Built in an inlet on the east shore of the bay, the pilots could see at least “thirty to forty” orange-winged aircraft. Trainers—they had to be.†
“Those must be navy,” Emmens said, craning his neck to see as York brought the bomber farther left.
“Well, whatever they are, let’s get the hell out of here!”
Emmens nodded. The Soviets might decide to shoot the bomber down, then ask questions. Skimming the hills south of the base, they dropped in over the bay and Emmens glanced sideways at the map, then to the right off the nose. The opposite shore was clearly visible, but Emmens quickly saw what he was looking for and pointed north, right of the nose, past a cone-shaped hill.
A river.
Moments later, both pilots clearly saw that the “river flowed seaward through a wide, flat valley bounded by the hills we had just crossed and another, higher ridge ahead of us.”‡
York nodded. It seemed close enough to the location circled on his map, so he pulled the throttles back a bit and brought the bomber around to the north in a descending turn up the river. Leveling off at eight hundred feet, both pilots leaned forward, staring at the clusters of little houses and dirt roads dotting the valley floor. Three minutes later they saw it: a “large, square field” with dirty white buildings on the northwest side. Men seemed to be scurrying about, and Ski banked a bit to the right so he could see better. They were arranging a T from long white strips of cloth, and he noted the long stem was pointing down the river the way they’d flown in, meaning the wind was from the north.
Throttling back to 150 miles per hour, the Mitchell roared over the field, and both pilots watched the men on the ground but saw no weapons, or any signs of alarm. As the T disappeared under the tail, Ed banked left and brought the bomber around directly at the river. Bob was easing the MIXTURE to full RICH and the PROP controls forward when a sudden movement off the right wing caught his eye and he flinched. Glancing right, he was startled to see a small fighter was hanging there, maybe fifty yards away. It was a biplane, single-seat, and he could see the pilot’s helmeted head staring at them from the cockpit.* Without looking away, Emmens reached over and thumped Ski’s arm, then pointed.
“For Christ’s sake,” he shouted, “let’s get our wheels down to let him know we’re going to land and he won’t have to shoot us down!”
York leaned forward and stared past Emmens at the fighter. Nodding, he dropped his right hand to the pedestal between the seats and moved the FLAP lever aft a notch. The bomber immediately slowed as the wing flaps slid out fifteen degrees, and Ski smoothly eased the throttles forward to hold 160 miles per hour. Rolling out perpendicular to the landing strip, he eyeballed the field, then angled gently away to increase their distance. Planning to cross north of the field and then set up on a left downwind, York glanced right and jerked his chin toward the floor as the fighter pulled away slightly.
“Gear.”
Emmens automatically checked the airspeed indicator, leaned left, and wrapped his fingers around the L-shaped handle. Pulling it back and down, as it clicked he flipped up a wire hook that held the handle to the pedestal.
Whirring filled the cockpit as the hydraulically operated gear lowered and thumped into place. From their respective seats, both pilots could check the main gear on their sides, and Bob also tried to check the nose gear by its reflection in the propeller hub. This worked in peacetime with nice, shiny, and clean aircraft, but Plane 8 was streaked with salt spray and he couldn’t see anything. Straightening up, Emmens looked past his yoke to the last round gage on the far right and saw three gear lights on the selsyn indicator. Good enough.
“Down and locked.”
Passing north of the field, York was already banking the bomber to the left. With the Russian fighter hanging off the right wingtip, he rolled out paralleling the field heading south. The serpentine river twisted under the American bomber as both pilots stared left at the open landing area. There was a spot on the south side of the grassy field where other planes had obviously landed, and York used it as a reference point like he would use numbers painted on an actual runway. As the spot passed under and beneath the left wing, he slowed to 150 miles per hour and dropped the bomber’s nose.
Emmens mentally ran through the GUMP check, and verified the gas, undercarriage and pressures, mixture and prop settings while Ski eased the bomber around toward the grass strip. Halfway through the turn the fighter was still off the right wing as Ski went to full flaps. Plane 8 rapidly slowed to 130 miles per hour, and Bob saw the fighter’s belly as it peeled away right and up away from the bomber. Hills bordering the valley slowly swung around as Ed rolled out on final. There was almost no wind, and the late afternoon air was perfectly clear. Playing the yoke, rudders, and throttles, Ski lined up on the patch and held a gentle descent as his copilot scanned the field for signs of trouble.
There were no anti-aircraft guns that he could see, and the group of men were simply standing and watching. Ski noticed his legs were stiff, but his hands and eyes worked together almost unconsciously to bring the Mitchell down. Every landing was different, each one unique in small ways, and this one, on a grass strip on the other side of the world, was no exception. The last time he’d landed Plane 8 was three weeks earlier, at the end of March, at Alameda Naval Air Station, but his experience took over and the bomber dropped in beautifully to a point just short of the bare spot. As the pilot smoothly pulled the yoke back and flared, the nose lifted and the airspeed bled off. Tapping the rudders, Ski leveled the wings, and the B-25 sank to the grass. Then the main mounts touched the Russian earth, but earth nonetheless, and for the first time in nearly nine hours they weren’t flying, but rolling. “Good old ground,” Emmens recalled. “At last dry, good ground. It was a wonderful feeling.”
A line of hills rose up on the right, and as the ramshackle white buildings slid past the left wingtip Ski eased the nosewheel down to the grass and gradually let the aircraft slow. A roar filled the cockpit, and a shadow flitted through the clear overhead panel that suddenly became a plane. Both pilots looked up in time to see the Russian fighter flash past rocking its wings. Ski raised the flaps partway and pointed. “I’m going to taxi over here on the right … leave fifteen degrees of flaps down and let’s take a look at these jokers to see if they’ve got slant eyes. If they have, we’ll take off straight ahead.”
Bouncing slightly on the uneven ground, the Mitchell coasted to a stop and both pilots stared from the side windows at the gathered men. They had round eyes. Round eyes, black overcoats with tight black belts, and blue shoulder tabs. Each man had on a “flat black cap with ribbons in the back and blue lettering on the bands.” Bob knew sailors usually wore caps like that, but what would sailors be doing at an inland airfield? Shrugging, he exhaled with relief and glanced over at Ski. Nolan Herndon appeared between the seats and leaned toward the side windows. “Those guys look friendly enough, don’t they?”
York didn’t know about that, but they weren’t openly hostile. Both pilots nodded, and began shutting the aircraft down. The bomb bay doors were opened, the parking brake set, and Bob opened the cowl flaps then turned off all the boost pumps. Ski set 1,200 rpm on each engine, then pulled the red MIXTURE knobs back to IDLE CUT-OFF. As the revolutions per minute dropped, he opened both throttles to full, and they watched the propellers change from spinning discs to individual blades, then lurch to a stop. Bob Emmens puffed out his cheeks and exhaled again. Over 1,400 miles, including 150 miles crossing the most hostile country in the world at the moment. Leaving the Hornet at 0835, York shut down the engines at 1745; nine hours and ten minutes later.
“The silence was deafening,” Bob remembered. For a long moment neither pilot moved, but just savored the quiet as the hot engines ticked. Unstrapping slowly, he dropped the lap belt ends on either side of the seat and arched his back. Sweat had soaked through his shirt, and Bob realized how hungry he was. Pulling off their caps and headphones, both pilots scratched their scalps then fingercombed their damp hair. Wriggling a bit to get some feeling back in his butt, Emmens saw the black-coated men were openly grinning now, and his arms went weak with relief. Whatever else was going to happen, they had survived a carrier takeoff and bombing Japan. For the moment, at least, they were down safely and Plane 8 was in Russia.
The next part of their mission had begun.
In April 1942, as Ski York and his crew crossed Japan, the Axis powers of Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, and Imperial Japan controlled upward of one-third of the Earth’s surface. Japan alone dictated the lives of some 400 million subject peoples spread over 3,300,000 square miles. The Rising Sun flew from Manchuria, down the east coast of China, through Burma, French Indochina, Malaysia, and southeast through New Guinea to the Solomons. Germany and Italy controlled continental Europe from the English Channel to the outskirts of Moscow, and Africa from Morocco and French West Africa eastward to within a day’s march of Cairo, Egypt. The world was on fire, and metaphoric water was in very short supply.
There were lights of hope, however. The United Kingdom still hung on by a thread following Hitler’s failures at Dunkirk and the Battle of Britain. Similarly, though attacked by the Japanese, Australia was another sanctuary and potential staging ground for the Allies if it could also withstand the Empire. Nine thousand miles northwest of Melbourne, Moscow had survived the Nazi onslaught from Operation Barbarossa, and though the Soviet Union’s western frontier was occupied by the Germans, to date Hitler’s legions had been unable to force a surrender. If Britain and Russia could be supplied with war materiel and, when possible, counteroffensives initiated against the Axis to relieve pressure, then the war was not lost. In early 1942, this hinged on the last hope for continuing the war: North America.
During the 828 days between the invasion of Poland and Pearl Harbor, North America remained more or less untouched and secure behind her oceans. Canada, as a Dominion, had come to Britain’s aid during the Great War, and though not obligated it willingly joined the fight in 1939—its Permanent Active Militia had just 4,169 officers and enlisted men. Canada eventually contributed 10 percent of her population to the war, as well as tremendous amounts of agricultural products and fully half of all aluminum used by the Allies, yet Canada’s production capacity was dwarfed by her powerful southern neighbor.*
It was the industrial might of the United States that would turn the tide, and American industry was expanding exponentially as the German army stood on the French coast, staring at the faint white Dover cliffs—frustrated by twenty-two miles of water and the Royal Air Force. Still, many American political and military leaders, Chief of Staff General George C. Marshall among them, believed Britain could not survive and would certainly be Hitler’s next victim. America would then stand alone against the full weight of the Axis and would desperately need every tank, aircraft, and ship sent abroad. Worse still was the real possibility that captured U.S. equipment would be used against American forces.
Roosevelt was even more committed to aiding Churchill after receiving his eloquent, fifteen-page letter on December 7, 1940, but also painfully aware of London’s cash shortage. Britain still possessed some $2 billion in assets, but even if these were liquidated Churchill’s existing materiel orders would greatly exceed his available resources. The president also recognized the value of British technology provided by Churchill through the British Technical and Scientific Mission earlier that fall.* The English provided a technological treasure trove, including Frank Whittle’s jet engine, self-sealing fuel tanks, gyroscopic gunsights, proximity fuses, and the prize: a technical breakthrough called a cavity magnetron that permitted clear, sharp radar pictures. A key component to winning the Battle of Britain, this development revolutionized radar and even permitted its installation on aircraft.
Recognizing that Britain’s survival was crucial to the defense of the United States, Roosevelt stated, “In the present world situation of course there is absolutely no doubt in the mind of a very overwhelming number of Americans that the best immediate defense of the United States is the success of Great Britain in defending itself.”
Single-minded in his desire to keep Churchill in the war, the president had to conjure a method by which tanks, ships, aircraft, and all the other materiel needed to fight a war could be sent to England without provoking impeachment, or a second American Revolution. The problem was money. Britain still owed over $4 billion to the United States from the Great War, and even American interventionists balked at permitting London to run up its tab.* Sometime during the two weeks before Christmas 1940, Roosevelt arrived at an audacious, yet brilliantly simple political solution, and during a December 17 press conference the money issue vanished like smoke in the wind under the spell of his unique oratory illusion: “Now, what I am trying to do is to eliminate the dollar sign. That is something brand new in the thoughts of practically everybody in this room, I think—get rid of the silly, foolish old dollar sign.”
