Doolittle's Men: A Novel of the Air Raid on Tokyo

By Paul D. Burgess

January, 1942. With Pearl Harbor still smoldering, President Roosevelt seeks to give America hope that all is not lost. The resulting mission called for renowned aviator, Jimmy Doolittle, to lead eighty men in sixteen army bombers off the deck of the carrier, USS Hornet. They would bomb targets in Japan, proceed to allied bases in China, and give America that hope. Almost nothing would go as planned.

In this novelization of the Doolittle raid, we follow three of those sixteen crews as they struggle off the storm-tossed flight deck of the Hornet, attack their targets, and escape against all odds to the Chinese mainland where their most harrowing experiences await.

Doolittle's Men is more than an edge-of-your-seat telling of an iconic war story. It is also an analysis of the human qualities required of those facing unimaginable challenges.

RECOGNITION FOR DOOLITTLE'S MEN:

Gold Medal -- 2023 Military Writers Society of America Book Awards

Gold Medallion Recipient, 2023 -- Indie B.R.A.G.

Honorable Mention & Five-star Medallion recipient -- 2023 Readers Favorite Book Awards

Independent Authors Network, 2023 Book of the Year Awards;
Finalist-(Debut Novel);
Finalist-(Inspirational/Spiritual)

Clive Cussler Adventure Writing, 2023 Grandmaster Award Semi-finalist

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667863856

Book preview

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Doolittle’s Men is a work of fiction. All figures, incidents, and dialogue, excepting those extant in the historical record, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the historically nonextant situations, incidents and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Paul D. Burgess

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to

the author, addressed Attention: Permissions at www.pauldburgess.com.

Shrewd Communications, LLC

Paul D. Burgess

Fredericksburg, Virginia

www.pauldburgess.com

Ordering Information:

For details, contact Shrewd Communications, LLC (www.pauldburgess.com)

Print ISBN: 978-1-66786-384-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66786-385-6

First Edition

For my mother and father

"And those have the greatest souls, who,

most acutely sensible to the miseries of war and

the sweets of peace, are not hence in the least

deterred from facing danger."

—Pericles

Prologue

Part I The Launch

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part II The Attack

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part III China

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part IV Reckonings

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Coda

Acknowledgments

Prologue

December 2006

Was it worth it? I used to hear that question now and again, usually around springtime when the anniversary would draw near. I struggled with it early on, but anymore I just have no use for it. It’s one of those hindsight-type questions that depend on your frame of reference.

Here’s what I mean: Today everyone knows that Japan is a bastion of democracy, and the Japanese people are doers of good deeds all over the world. But this is a modern perception that conveys none of the desperation we felt in early ’42, having been licked by the Japanese everywhere we encountered them. Today’s young people seem to know only one thing about that war—that we won it. But in its first months, victory was not a foregone conclusion—not at all—and if you don’t understand what a close-run thing it was in early ’42, you might not think the hardships we suffered were worth it.

For those of us on the flight deck of the Hornet that morning, the answer would have been different, even if we’d known what was coming.You see, the Japan of today and the Japan of ’42 were poles apart. Like chalk and cheese, as the Brits used to say. Back then Japanese culture amounted to a medieval death cult, and blood was what fueled it. I mean, the things those generals ordered—ordered, mind you—their soldiers to do in Nanking in ’37 defied every human decency. The diplomats in that city’s German embassy were all Nazis, and even they were shocked by it. Can you imagine the depravity it took back then to shock a Nazi? All we knew that April morning in ’42 was that we were losing a war for the world and some very bad people were winning. Quite a different frame of reference between then and now.

But here’s a bigger reason I don’t like that was-it-worth-it question: it’s too modern. It asks if the payoff was worth the sacrifices. Today, the word for that kind of thinking is transactional. Well, Americans back then just weren’t transactional about questions like that. There was a job to do, and by God, we were going to do it. Cut and dried. People might laugh at this nowadays, but back then doing your duty was the payoff.

And one more thing about that question: it’s trivial. It demands that you know what you’d be willing to die for, and to me, that’s too easy. Everybody today seems to know what they’d be willing to die for—family, freedom, justice, and the like. All well and good. But to my mind, a more important question is: What are you willing to kill for? Because if you’re only willing to die for something, you must not value it much.

There’s a conversation-stopper. Ask somebody that question these days, and they’ll look at you like you just sprouted horns.

Was it worth it? I stopped trying to answer that question long ago.

Chapter 1

Across the half mile of storm-tossed ocean, the battery of Nashville’s number one turret flashed with another salvo. Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle’s eyes darted from the cruiser to the tiny boat several thousand yards ahead, appearing and disappearing between crests and troughs. There, geysers of water leapt skyward like milky exclamation points against the slate gray background, bracketing the boat just as the thunderous report reached his ears and those of a gaggle of army lieutenants manning the rail of the Hornet. The young men cheered. Again the target emerged unscathed from the cascades of water, then disappeared into the next trough.

Each of their chocolate-brown flight jackets, glossy with rain, displayed one of several squadron emblems—a kicking mule here, an Indian thunderbird there, with winged helmets and lion heads rounding out the menagerie.

Why don’t that big tub just run it down? suggested one of the young men.

Yeah, ’cause it sure don’t look like she’s ever gonna hit it, added another.

Nearby, a sailor manning a fire hose was a sullen counterpoint to the delight the young army officers seemed to take in Nashville’s difficulty. With the task force at general quarters, every sailor was properly turned out in bulky kapok life vests and steel helmets, while the same gear was strewn disrespectfully at the feet of the army officers. Doolittle pondered the helmets in particular. They were a perfect metaphor for his army’s—his air corps’—unpreparedness at the start of another world war. Flat, antiquated relics from the last one. The air corps’ state was little better. It was being shredded by Japanese fighters that nobody in Washington thought, even for a minute, could be as advanced as they were proving to be. And their armies, slicing through all opposition like hot knives through butter, in Malaya and the Philippines, in Burma and Hong Kong, and their navy an implacable juggernaut in whatever waters it chose to enter.

Those silly, flat, antiquated dinner-plate helmets manifested his country’s desperation—and the desperation of the mission he was there to fly.

One of the young lieutenants was draped helplessly over the rail, retching out his breakfast. Doolittle took a step back to evaluate him, nearly tripping on his own kapok and helmet in the process. It was starting to feel too much like a Dodgers game. His men were starting to look undisciplined. Un-military. Too frat-house. Those sailors were watching them, judging them, and, by association, judging their commander. Some kind of admonishment was in order for their lack of professionalism—hell, for his own lack of professionalism. He stuffed his cap into his flight jacket and pulled the wet kapok over his head.

All right, fellas, listen up— he yelled down the railing as he fumbled with the straps, but the Nashville’s guns interrupted with another broadside. Again the lieutenants cheered. Again they laughed when the geysers bracketed—but missed—the little boat.

They stood in the lee of Hornet’s hangar deck, largely protected from the wind and spray generated by each plunge of the bow. Behind them, Hornet’s massive curtain doors were closed to the gale. Behind the doors was the carrier’s cavernous hangar containing the scores of gull-gray, single-engine navy aircraft lashed securely inside, wings folded, tight and close as a pallet of bricks. On the flight deck above, the olive wings and tails of twin-engine army bombers reached out over their heads and the frothing seas below.

Nashville fired again, this time obliterating the tiny boat and inducing wild cheers among Doolittle’s officers. Doolittle donned the helmet, cold and wet on his bald head, and pulled the strap past his nose and under his chin.

Scratch one fishing boat! Well done, navy! The war’s half won! said a laughing lieutenant.

His fishing license just expired! added another.

Hey, navy, this is what Smitty thinks of your marksmanship, joked a third as he slapped his vomiting comrade on the back.

Fishing boats have radios too, muttered the humorless sailor with the fire hose. Doolittle heard the comment. His men did not.

He squinted at the distant wreckage as the flotsam disappeared into a trough, then hurried up a nearby ladder onto the flight deck and into the teeth of the storm, picking his way under wings, around propeller blades, and through a thicket of tie-down ropes and chains. He scaled the ladders to the bridge as the klaxon sounded and the ship’s speakers competed with the din of the storm.

ALL HANDS SECURE FROM GENERAL QUARTERS. SECURE FROM GENERAL QUARTERS. ALL FIRE CONTROL PERSONNEL STAND DOWN. STOW ALL HOSES AND FIRE GEAR.

Doolittle stepped through the hatch and dogged it behind him. Inside, a marine stood guard at a half-open doorway. Freeing himself of the kapok and helmet, he dropped the gear on the deck, flung the water from his hands, and pulled his cap from his jacket as he addressed the marine.

Colonel Doolittle requests permission to speak to the captain.

C’mon in, Jimmy, came a voice through the door. Doolittle entered, nodding a greeting to the old man inside who was bent over a sea chart spread on a table. The eagles of a navy captain adorned his collar. His sun-browned face, like cracked leather, was attended by curls of cigarette smoke.

Sir, Doolittle said, what if that wasn’t—

—wasn’t a fishing boat?

Minutes later, Doolittle emerged from the captain’s quarters as the klaxon sounded.

NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS: ALL ARMY FLIGHT CREWS REPORT TO THE READY ROOM ON THE DOUBLE. ALL ARMY FLIGHT CREWS REPORT TO THE READY ROOM ON THE DOUBLE.

The marine held out the life vest and helmet, but Doolittle ignored him. He stepped out onto the exposed flying bridge and paused at the railing. Each descent of Hornet’s bow generated a dull boom and a wall of spray that towered over the forward end of the flight deck before being blown to the side. Barely visible through the rain and spume were the ghostlike profiles of the carrier, Enterprise, and the task force’s two cruiser escorts slamming through the swells on parallel courses. Beneath him, water shed from the broad wings of sixteen bombers—his bombers—and the wind beat furiously against canvas covers tied over Plexiglas noses, machine-gun turrets, and engine cowlings. Sixteen bombers. Eighty men. At almost forty-six—retirement age—he gazed below at his very first command.

Straightening himself and resetting his cap, he stepped smartly down the ladder to the flight deck below and disappeared through a hatch at the base of the island. He strode briskly through the warren of passageways, ladders, and hatches, eventually converging with other army personnel at the entrance to the ready room. Inside, the first man to see him sprang to his feet and called the room to attention. Chatting and joking ceased as all present stood. Doolittle took position at the lectern.

At ease. Be seated. Smoke if you like. We haven’t much time, so this will be brief. The good news is that none of us should have any difficulty getting airborne in these winds.

Will we have ’em for tomorrow’s launch, sir? came a voice from the seats.

"That brings me to the other news. I just came from the bridge. Captain Mitscher says the fishing boat the Nashville just sank was actually a Jap picket boat. Comms intercepted a radio transmission from it just before it went down. The jig is up, boys. They know we’re coming. Curtain. Behind the lectern, a navy officer pulled the string to open a curtain, revealing a floor-to-ceiling map of the western Pacific. East of the Japanese islands was a small carrier icon magnetized to the map. Doolittle produced a pointer from behind the lectern. Has this been updated since our last briefing?" he asked the navy officer.

Yes, sir. Current as of ten minutes ago.

Using the pointer, Doolittle measured the distance between Tokyo and the carrier, then held it against the legend at the bottom of the map.

We’re about six hundred miles from Japan, he said over his shoulder. About two hundred miles short of our planned launch point. He turned to his men. Here’s our dilemma. Either we take off now and proceed to our targets in Japan, or the navy will have to push our aircraft over the side so they can launch their own. They’re probably gonna have to fight their way back to Pearl, so they’ll have to get scouts and fighters into the air as soon as the weather allows. The question each crew must now decide for themselves is, do you launch now or do you head back to Pearl with the navy? All eyes shifted from him to the map. I want you to consider the implications. The plan was to hit our targets at dusk, escape in the dark, and arrive over China at dawn. Now we’ll be hitting them in daylight and arriving over China in the dark. And no element of surprise. They’re gonna be waiting for us.

Will we even have the fuel to make it to China, Colonel? one of the men asked.

Probably not, son. Doolittle leaned heavily on the lectern. Fellas, I’ve been flying airplanes for twenty-five years. I’m still alive because I believe in planning. I believe in engineering. I believe in graphs and numbers. I do not believe in luck, and I emphatically do not believe in suicide missions. But here’s the straight dope. Any crew who launches for Japan this morning is probably not coming back. I want to give you all one last chance to change your minds. If you decide not to go, your positions will be made available to the alternate flight crews. You can go back to Pearl, back to your squadrons, no questions asked.

Another voice piped up. What are you gonna do, sir?

He left the lectern for a nearby table and boosted himself onto it.

"Here’s how I see things. We’re losing this war in every corner of the world. Hell, this task force represents half of all the sea power we have left between Tokyo and San Francisco. We all heard the radio last week. Most of the guys who surrendered in the Philippines were army—some of them personal friends of ours. Corregidor’s surrender is probably just a matter of time. A lot of the brass back in Washington think this mission is just a stunt. Maybe they’re right. Sixteen planes aren’t gonna do much damage. But right now, this is what’s needed. At least that’s my opinion.

You men are all young. You’re only at the start of your lives. Your decisions today will probably be very different from mine. But as for me, I’m an old man. I’ve lived a full life. I’m going. Doolittle turned to the navy officer, who handed him an envelope from a pile. Anyone else who’s coming, draw your charts and target folders from the lieutenant.

One by one, then in twos and threes, then en masse, army fliers swarmed the navy officer, who dispensed the envelopes as quickly as he could pick them from the pile. Doolittle gauged the sight, then grabbed a phone receiver from a wall hook.

Bridge, this is Colonel Doolittle. Tell Captain Mitscher we’re launching. All aircraft.

Within moments the klaxon sounded. NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS: ARMY FLIGHT CREWS MAN YOUR AIRCRAFT. ARMY FLIGHT CREWS MAN YOUR AIRCRAFT. FLIGHT DECK PERSONNEL PREPARE TO LAUNCH AIRCRAFT.

The fliers hustled out of the ready room to a ship exploding with activity. Doolittle stood aside, occasionally shaking hands with young men as they exited.

I’ll pay any pilot a hundred bucks to let me go in your place! one of the alternates called out.

I’ll pay one-fifty! That offer’s open to copilots too! called another.

Doolittle headed topside, encountering army crewmen in the narrow passageways hurrying from their quarters, B-4 bags in hand, and stepping around a navy chaplain who listened, one by one, to the whispered confessions of a queue of men.

Moments later Doolittle stepped through a hatch onto the flight deck. On the pitching deck, and with great difficulty in the driving rain, navy plane handlers hauled ammo cans, fuel hoses, and bomb carts about the aircraft. Tugging on ropes tied to wingtips, sailors rocked each aircraft, shaking air bubbles from the wing tanks for the fuel handlers, who lay on their stomachs atop the wings as they wrestled with the hoses. Armorers winched bombs up through open bomb bays to the racks, where they were shackled and armed. Sailors pulled canvas covers off engine cowlings and gun turrets. Others loaded spare gas cans into aircraft. Still others rotated the props by hand in preparation for engine start. In the days since he had boarded the Hornet in San Francisco, he had learned that such flight deck chaos was in fact a practiced choreography.

Doolittle and his crews gathered in a sheltered recess by the island, protected from wind and rain, but not the gale’s noise. Each man was on one knee as a brace against the ship’s roll. Scattered among the army fliers were navy plane handlers, each wearing goggles over canvas flight helmets to ward off the stinging spray.

The launch officer, identified by the checkered flag in his hand, stood to brief the fliers. Yelling to be heard, Launch reviewed the takeoff procedure and reinforced that if any of them had an engine problem, he would give them only seconds to correct it before he drew his thumb across his throat, the signal to shut down the engines and abandon their airplane so it could be pushed over the side to make way for the next one. And, he added, if it came to it, he would order their aircraft pushed over the side with them in it. He also stressed that the destroyers were miles behind, the heavy seas preventing them from keeping up, so any crew that went into the drink that day would not come out.

Asking for questions and receiving none, Launch stepped aside for Doolittle.

We don’t have the fuel to form up after takeoff, the colonel bellowed, "so you’re each gonna have to get to your targets on your own. Expect lots of fighters and anti-aircraft. Most of us are still having trouble with gun turrets, so your best defense will be speed and stealth. Go in as low as you can, then go lower. This low ceiling is a blessing. It’ll give you a place to hide after you drop your eggs, so review your instrument flying procedures on your way in. After you drop, it’s every crew for themselves. I know we’re taking off a day early, but this possibility was factored into the plan and the homing beacons are transmitting as we speak. So find one and follow it to Chuchow, or as close as you can, any way that you can.

Lastly, these winds will help us get off the deck. After that, they’re just another headwind we’re gonna have to buck, so run your engines lean."

He scanned the faces looking up at him. Only a couple over twenty-five.

I’m proud of you boys. I’ll see you all in Chuchow.

He returned the floor to Launch.

Each crew will now proceed to their aircraft in turns, he yelled. "Maintain three-point contact at all times so you don’t get swept overboard. My men will help you carry your gear. Good luck, and give ’em hell for the Hornet!"

The fliers responded with a loud cheer, then Doolittle and his crew handed their bags and cases to several sailors and ventured into the storm. Picking their way, handhold to handhold, through tie-down chains and ropes, they ducked under aircraft tails and around propeller blades, negotiating fuel hoses, bomb carts, and all manner of equipment.

Arriving at the first aircraft in line, Doolittle popped open the belly hatch just behind the nose wheel. The hatch deployed its ladder and Doolittle climbed in, followed by three of his crew. A fifth crewman entered through a belly hatch aft of the bomb bay. The sailors hefted their bags up to them, and handshakes and good luck wishes were exchanged. One crewman took his seat in the navigator’s well just behind the elevated pilot’s station. Another man took to his belly and wriggled through the small tunnel under the pilot’s seat that led to the bombardier’s station in the Plexiglas nose.

Lieutenant Dick Cole pulled the hatch shut, wiped the water from his face and flung it from his hands, then worked his way into the copilot’s seat. Next to him, Doolittle was already flipping through checklists.

Doolittle stuck his arm out the window and rotated two fingers. Deck crew hurried from the area, dragging their equipment behind them. One sailor remained by the right engine, manning a large dolly-mounted fire extinguisher. He and two sailors—one kneeling by the chocks at each of the bomber’s main wheels—were now the only deck crew attending.

Doolittle and Dick strapped on throat mics and donned headphones.

Engine start, Dick. Number two, Doolittle said.

Dick pulled a checklist from under his seat and read from it.

Ignition.

Ignition off, Doolittle replied.

Emergency shut-off valves.

Emergency shut-off valves set.

Gunner’s station is manned, a voice broke in over Doolittle’s headphones.

Roger, Paul, Doolittle answered.

Thank God for Paul Leonard—Top Leonard to everyone else on the mission. Command prerogative allowed the assignment of the mission’s senior sergeant to the commander’s aircraft. But that didn’t necessarily make it the right assignment. Paul Leonard knew more about that balky Bendix turret than any of them. If anyone could get it working, it was him. And yet, for that reason alone, would a better commander have assigned him to an aircraft with a less experienced flight engineer? An aircraft whose turret was in even worse shape? That kid in Lawson’s ship—Thatcher, not even old enough to drink yet. He’d never get that turret working, not between Hornet and Tokyo. Smart enough kid, just green. But then, they were almost all green.

Bombardier’s station is manned, a voice interrupted.

Roger, Fred, Doolittle answered.

Maybe he should have switched Paul and Thatcher. Too late to agonize over the question at this stage of the game. Besides, Lawson flew that bomber like a P-40. He’d do just fine without a gun turret. Dammit! They weren’t supposed to need the turrets.

Cowl flaps, Dick continued.

Doolittle gazed dead ahead.

So little deck between the nose wheel and the edge. The pitching and the rolling. And the swells—like mountains rolling toward the bow. But the navy pilots operated under those conditions all the time. Army pilots were their match, pride in service notwithstanding. Navy technique just needed to be scaled up for a twin-engine bomber, that’s all. Even still, the whole production—multi-engine bombers taking off from a carrier deck in storm conditions—was ridiculous on its face, especially considering that not one of his pilots had done it before. Not even in training. But math was the language of the gods. It never lied. It never deceived. Two and two equals four in this galaxy, same as in any other galaxy in the universe. And the math promised it was doable. At least the getting airborne part of it. As for the rest of it …

That goddamn picket boat.

Sir?

What?

Cowl flaps?

Cowl flaps open.

Oil shutters.

Oil shutters closed.

Keep an eye on those fuel connections, Lieutenant Potter, Leonard interjected. Let me know if they start leaking on your side.

Will do, Top, Hank Potter replied from the navigator’s well.

Battery disconnect, Dick continued.

Off, Doolittle replied.

Fuel booster pump.

Fuel booster pump on. Priming. Doolittle pushed and retracted the primer several times. Dick slid back his side window and yelled to the sailor manning the fire extinguisher.

CLEAR TWO!

TWO CLEAR! the sailor called back, barely audible over the shrieking wind.

Doolittle pressed the starter button. The prop turned slowly as the massive radial whined, caught, then coughed to life, generating a cloud of blue smoke that was immediately dispersed by the wind.

Cylinder head temperature, Doolittle recited.

One hundred.

Starting number one. Doolittle primed as the sailor dragged the fire extinguisher to the left engine. Opening his side window, he yelled, CLEAR ONE!

The sailor, extinguisher at the ready, responded, ONE CLEAR.

Doolittle pressed the button, and the engine came slowly, then loudly alive.

Hank left his navigator’s desk, mounted the step behind Doolittle and Dick, and took in the view. "Hey, sir, Enterprise is signaling something."

Doolittle wiped condensation from his side window and squinted through the half mile of spume and rain at the Enterprise smashing through the swells. A faint light blinked, barely visible from her bridge.

Can you read that stuff, Hank? Dick asked.

Nope.

If it’s meant for us, they’ll put it on a board, Doolittle said. Keep your eye on that cylinder head temperature, Dick. Let me know when it’s at one-fifty.

Yes, sir. One-twenty and climbing.

•••

Behind Doolittle’s plane, another crew filed under their bomber’s nose art, which consisted of a crudely painted Donald Duck head sporting a flight helmet and goggles, floating above a pair of crossed crutches. Supporting the image were large block letters reading Ruptured Duck. The lead man popped the forward hatch, and the four lieutenants climbed into their mount. At the base of the ladder stood Corporal David Thatcher, Ruptured Duck’s turret gunner, flight engineer, and, at twenty, the mission’s youngest member.

The navy porters handed Thatcher the crew’s bags, which he passed up into the cabin one by one. He then climbed the ladder until his head and shoulders were inside. Mac McClure was finding room for the bags in his navigator’s well. In the copilot’s seat, Dean Davenport was already flipping through