Author: William Robinson

Pappy Gunn's B-25's 
Steven Wilson | May 09, 2006

There was a time when the Japanese controlled the whole world. Well, if not the entire world then just that little corner of it around New Guinea and New Britain. But that was the corner that mattered to the Americans and Australians who were trying to stem the seemingly inevitable tide of Japanese conquest in 1943. The situation was close to hopeless. The Japanese Zero could virtually sweep the skies of any Allied fighters courageous enough to go up against it. The Imperial Japanese Navy with their Long Lance torpedoes, aircraft carriers and big guns had captured the sea and guarded it jealously. And the Japanese army, battle-hardened and flush with victory, was poised to take all of New Guinea.

“It must have been an angry God who made this place,” an Australian medical officer said of the 3,000 square-mile island. With the rugged Owen Stanley Mountains supplying an almost impassable backbone, the body of New Guinea was one vast jungle. For the Australians an Japanese the most dangerous and debilitating enemy was the jungle—and unforgiving environment that didn’t differentiate between Nipponese or Aussie. Both succumbed to its lush charms. The fliers who fought in the skies above the green carpet carried parachutes that offered little hope if they had to bail out—they knew that the jungle would swallow them up, with little hope of returning them to their comrades alive. It was a green hell on earth, but its position off the shoulder of Australia made it invaluable.

The Japanese supplied their forces by ship, convoys of men and materials that left Rabaul on New Britain, sailed into the Bismarck Sea, passing Gazelle Peninsula and Kimbo Bay, slid through the Dampier Strait and made landfall in the Huon Gulf. These supply runs were not uncontested, of course; P-40s, P-38s, B-17s and B-25s of the Fifth Air Force harassed the enemy ships along the sea route and attacked the off-loaded enemy troops until they sought refuge in the jungle. It wasn’t enough, however—the Japanese, determined, skilled, and resourceful, had the upper hand. New Guinea was in danger of falling and with it Port Moresby, and from there the Imperial Japanese Army could invade Australia.

The first B-25s to arrive in New Guinea were almost too few to matter and they had teething problems. Their only armament was one .30 caliber machine gun in the nose, a twin .50 caliber dorsal turret, and a bottom turret. The radio operator controlled the bottom turret, also armed with twin .50 caliber machine guns through a periscope sight. The sight’s field of vision was severely restricted, making the turret almost useless. In effect, this reduced the bomber’s defense. The B-25 with its two, 2,000
horse-power engines was fast, and she was ruggedly built—but early conventional tactics and lack of firepower made her an easy target for Japanese fighters. And the battles were not always in the air; American and Australian aircraft were destroyed on the ground by constant enemy air raids. Just the wear and tear experienced by the bombers began to take its toll. Downed or severely damaged aircraft were cannibalized for spare parts while pilots and ground crews waited impatiently for new aircraft.

One of the men who waited, but not patiently because Pappy Gunn was anything but patient, was the colonel who commanded the Fifth Air Force Service Command; Paul Gunn. Pappy Gunn because he was older than most of the men who served with, or under him—and also because his experience dictated that he be treated with respect. He was the former director of the Philippine Airlines before he was snapped up by the U.S. Army Air Force and given a captain’s commission. He was inventive, blunt, a terror to underlings, and called the “Mad Professor” for the endless stream of innovations he produced. Most men that flew with him were convinced he was simply mad. His superior was Brigadier General Ennis Whitehead, deputy commander of the Fifth Air Force and just as irascible as Pappy. Together they made a formidable team.

It was Pappy that considered the twin-engine bomber and its sister, the A-20, and found potential in the aircraft far above what the North American Aviation Company had planned. The B-25 Mitchell, named after the opinionated aviator who was convinced that air power would supplant the navy’s big guns, carried a crew of from 4 to 6, had a wing span of just over 67 feet and was just a shade over 54 feet in length. Her maximum speed was a respectable 315 miles per hour and she had a range of approximately 1,500 miles. These specifications changed as the aircraft evolved, ending in the B-25J model. It was the B-25 Mitchell, under the command of Colonel James Doolittle, that took off from the U.S.S. Hornet and bombed Japan in 1942. It was a dramatic attempt to give Americans something to cheer about when the front page of hometown newspapers carried nothing but accounts of Japanese victories and American defeats. But it was a raid that resulted in negligible damage to the Japanese with traditional tactics; high-level bombing by the Mitchell medium bomber.

High-level bombing against ships, despite Billy Mitchell’s enthusiastic comments, simply wasn’t feasible. Ships move—and once bombs are dropped it is easy to track their trajectory. And enemy convoys traveled close enough to land to be protected by land-based aircraft, the formidable Zero.

Pappy Gunn gave the problem some thought, as he did any problem that presented itself, and came up with a solution. Or, several solutions.

The B-25’s bottom turret, virtually useless anyway, would be removed and a droppable gas tank would be installed in its place. The dropping part of this solution was a little tricky—a crewman had to strap himself in so he would not be sucked out of the aircraft as he manually freed the tank. Pappy was also convinced that North American’s twin-engine bomber had a future as a fighter-bomber so he removed the plexi-glass nose canopy, the bombardier’s station, and the bombardier himself. The nose of the bomber was converted into a gun platform; in early models 6, .50 caliber machine guns and a .40-millimeter cannon. Later came a 75-millimeter M4 cannon, 14, .50 machine guns (all stations) and a 75-millimeter T13E1 cannon. Some J-models were produced sans cannon but carried 18 machine guns.

Pappy’s bombers still carried a bomb load, anywhere from 1,700 to 3,000 pounds depending on the circumstances, but now the B-25s could act as buzz saws, slicing through enemy troop transports and cargo vessels with their massive firepower. Some of the crewmen on Pappy’s earliest prototypes (with the Mad Professor himself at the wheel), swore that the plane’s forward progress stopped when all the guns let loose at once. They also swore that Pappy was trying to kill them because he flew the medium bomber like a pursuit plane. “This Major Gunn was the toughest, wildest airplane driver in the Pacific,” one veteran commented in alarm. “We were upside down half the time. We did vertical and horizontal loops, spins, dives, and many near stalls.” Pappy may have been difficult and caustic, but he was not careless or foolhardy—he knew what the bomber could do and he knew how it had to be flown in its new role. He came up with another innovation—skip bombing.

It was very simple and incredibly dangerous. It was like skipping a rock across a quiet mill pound, except it was the ocean and people were shooting at you. B-25 crewmen who were used to flying high above enemy anti-aircraft fire, now had to be convinced to fly directly into the guns at wave height. The bombs were fused to explode eleven seconds from release, giving them time to skip across the water, strike the hull of the enemy vessel, slide to the waterline, and explode. The bomber should be well clear of the explosion, if all went as planned. One training exercise resulted in the loss of a bomber and several men and severe damage to another. Aircraft were so precious that the incident brought on a confrontation between General George Kenny, commanding officer of the Fifth Air Force, and the volatile Whitehead. Kenny wasn’t convinced that Pappy knew what he was doing and they couldn’t risk losing any aircraft in combat, let alone training. Whitehead, certain of Pappy’s skills and as pugnacious as Kenny, didn’t back down. Give Pappy a chance, Whitehead urged, he’s never failed us before. “Just tell them to be more careful,” Kenny finally muttered. What concerned Kenney was a critical lack of both aircraft and crews, and those that he had were beginning to wear out.

Despite the original misgivings of some of the Fifth Air Force crews, they began to understand that they had been given a new potent weapon. Now, speeding at enemy vessels over the wave-tops, pilots could kick their rudders back and forth, spraying the decks and superstructure of the vessels with their machine guns, and cannon. And, on the deck, enemy fighters were denied an opportunity at the bombers soft underbelly.

It appeared that Pappy Gunn had finally provided the Fifth Air Force with the weapon that it needed to stop the Japanese convoys from Rabaul, but the question was, would circumstances and the weather conspire to defeat the Australian and American airmen? The Japanese were formidable opponents whose clever tactics and skill had kept men and materials streaming, unabated, to New Guinea. The weather in this region was always unpredictable, and the enemy was proficient in utilizing it to conceal their ships. The contest for New Guinea was not only to be decided in the jungle; it was to be decided on the rolling, green swells of the Solomon Sea, Kimbo Bay, Huon Gulf, and the Bismarck Sea.

New Britain is an irregularly shaped island that splits the Solomon and Bismarck Seas to point like at dagger at New Guinea. The Japanese had lost Guadalcanal just six months before and now the contest centered on the fighting in the green hell of the New Guinea jungles. By March 1943, the Australians, American, and Japanese had proved themselves proficient at jungle fighting, or for that matter, simply surviving in the endless tropical forests. It was a battle that was rapidly grinding away both sides and each depended on supply by sea. It was these broad avenues that were a salvation to the infantrymen, and it was on the ocean that much of the vicious fighting that was often no quarter, was played out. The weather, like the ancient gods,  took capricious delight in first aiding one side, and then the other, and the weather in early March 1943 had thrown in its lot with the Japanese Imperial Navy.

The Lae ReSupply Convoy had set off from Rabaul under the command of Admiral Masatomi Kimura, a veteran of the Tokyo Express. His ships carried over 15,000 men, the largest Japanese invasion force since the attack on the Philippines. It was a do or die situation. This force was to sweep the American and Australian forces back to Port Moresby and into the sea. With daring, and a little luck, Kimura, known as the “Eel of the Pacific” for his lightning-like movements, would take his ships from Rabaul, around the New Britain’s Gazelle Peninsula, across Kimbo Bay, through the Dampier Strait, and onto Lae on New Guinea’s Huon Gulf. His movement would not go unnoticed by the Americans and Australians. Nor did he expect it to. Between the coast watchers and dozens of enemy scout planes Kimura realized that his convoy would become known to the Allies almost immediately. But he counted on two allies of his own; the weather, and his own skill.

Elements of the American Fifth Air Force were warned about the Japanese fleet’s movements and scrambled a force of B-17s with P-38 escorts on the morning of March 2, 1943 to intercept the enemy ships. Kimura’s fleet was just north of Kimbo Bay when the Americans struck. It was a futile effort from the very beginning. As powerful as the 28 B-17’s were, they were simply not designed to hit a moving target. The convoy simply scattered, zigzagging across the Bismarck Sea, the bridge crews timing their course changes to the bombs’ releases. The bombers, flying at 5,000 feet, did nothing more than sink one transport and damage several other ships. One B-17 was downed and several were slightly damaged. While the American bombers returned to base, the Lae Resupply Convoy continued on its way.

Later that day twelve B-25s of the 38th Bomb Group carrying conventional bombs took their chance with the convoy, but after the early B-17 attack, the weather deteriorated. Thick clouds would form, dissipate, and then reform all along the convoy route. The sky might be clear one hour, and the next visibility could be reduced to less than a mile. Kimura knew this of course, and skillfully used the fast moving weather fronts to camouflage his convoy. For the Americans and Australians, especially the B-25s and A-20s of the 3rd Bomb Group based at Dobodura, the situation was becoming frustrating. When members of the 38th reported in from their attack they claimed one cruiser and one transport sunk, but the 3rd’s attempt to reach the convoy was called off when they were enveloped by a dense fog. Flying in formation with dozens of other bombers, P-38s, and P-39s was dangerous enough. Besides the weather the problem was that conventional bomb runs, high or low altitude traditional attacks, wouldn’t work. The Japanese crews were just too skillful in maneuvered their ships out of the path of the falling bombs. The Americans could inflict some casualties, but not enough to turn the convoy back or significantly reduce its effectiveness.

Now Kimura demonstrated why he was known as the “Eel of the Pacific.” He had planned to take the convoy through the Dampier Strait and enter the Solomon Sea about 50 nautical miles northeast of Finschafen. That was the shortest and most logical approach to Huon Gulf and Lae. But Kimura, knowing that 1.) he was still being watched from the jungles of New Britain and by irritating enemy aircraft, and 2.) knowing also that his path would be obvious to anyone who could read a chart, chose to make a feint. His gunners had kept up a sporadic fire at the circling PBYs, occasionally chasing them into a cloudbank for safety, so Kimura decided to sail into the Dampier Strait, trailing the pesky reconnaissance aircraft. Halfway into the Strait, his gunners let loose a terrific barrage, driving the enemy planes off. Then Kimura ordered the fleet to reverse course, steam back out of the Dampier Strait, and head due west to the Vitiaz Strait. In other words, he disappeared.

When Kimura and the 19 ships of his convoy reappeared the next day he was just three hours from his destination, Lae. He had alerted Japanese army and naval aircraft to be on standby because now the convoy was entering an area of true danger. As he was hours away from safety he was hours away from virtually every Allied aircraft on New Guinea. And the Allies had decided on a new tactic; the B-25s and A-20s would launch skip bomb attacks on the convoy just as the heavy bombers, B-17s and B-24, were ending their attacks. The Americans and the Australians were praying that the Japanese would be so preoccupied dodging high level attacks they wouldn’t see the skip bombers coming in on the deck.

It hadn’t been easy to convince General Ennis Whitehead, deputy Fifth Air Force commander; skip bombing was unproven except in training, and it was especially dangerous, some might suggest almost suicidal. The skip bombs were fused at fifteen seconds there was no room for error. But Colonel Bob Strickland pointed out the obvious to General Whitehead, Pappy Gunn’s skip bombs were all they had left. Even if the clouds reduced the ceiling to virtually nothing, if the pilots could see the water, they could see the enemy ships. It was a gamble, a gamble that might result in the deaths of hundreds of Americans and the loss of precious aircraft, but to do nothing would result in even more destruction and possibly the loss of New Guinea and Australia.

But if the weather had been unkind to the Allies, Fate offered her condolences. Some Australian P-40 fighters flying near Lae noticed Zeros parked wingtip-to-wingtip awaiting deployment. When word got back to Whitehead, who, after some thought, ordered the 38th Bomb Group and RAAF Operational Group, mobilized with instructions to attack the Zeros only when the convoy had been spotted. The proposition was simple enough; if the Americans and Australians struck Lae too soon the Japanese could call up protection for the convoy from other sites. The skip bomb attack on the convoy and the fragmentation, napalm attack on Lae field had to be timed perfectly.

The Lae ReSupply Convoy was spotted by two Australian P-40s at 13:30 on March 3, 1943 and things happened as Whitehead predicted. The Japanese base at Lae was notified by the convoy, ground crews of the Japanese 7th Fighter Division began preparing their aircraft, and all hell broke loose. Thirty-two Australian and American bombers thundered over the base at tree-top level, dropping napalm and fragmentation bombs on the closely packed enemy aircraft. Those Japanese planes that were not destroyed were damaged, but even for those that could get off the ground, the situation was dire—it would be hours before the airstrip could be repaired.

The A-20s and B-25s came in low, the tips of their props throwing spray over the olive-drab wings. They were so low that many of the ships larger anti-aircraft guns could not be depressed enough to hit them. And just as bad, the bombers guns chewed into the ships as they approached. Ships swerved to dodge the on-coming aircraft, putting up a storm of fire. The sea was churned into a white froth by speeding vessels careening out of the way, and the impact of thousands of bullets. This was unlike any attack that Kimura and his men had experienced before. These bombers behaved like torpedo planes, hugging the tops of the waves, but they did not release their deadly cargo until they were 25 yards away. They should have been caught in the explosion of their own bombs; but they weren’t. What Pappy Gunn had drilled into the men was to keep your intervals—fifteen second, the bombs were fused for fifteen seconds. In a matter of minutes fifteen planes managed 34 hits with skip bombs. Ships were stopped and listing, or twisting wildly to get out of the way, or sunk. It wasn’t over. The American planes returned to Dobodura to rearm and refuel and Whitehead, cautiously elated at the success of the attack, called up every aircraft he could get his hands on. He didn’t want to destroy the Lae ReSupply Convoy; he wanted to annihilate it.

The second attack found the remaining12 ships of the convoy speeding through Huon Gulf. When the Allied bombers left, all that existed were five destroyers and a transport. The remnant was symptomatic of the effectiveness of the skip bombers; only the fastest, most maneuverable ships survived. In all, the Lae ReSupply Convoy lost 16 ships over a two- day period. The cost in dead, wounded and missing (not counting aircrews) was grim. Several thousand of Japanese sailors and some 14,000 army troops were lost. American and Australian fighters strafed pitiful bundles of troops floating on the gentle swells of the Bismarck Sea. The reason was obvious; they could still swim to their destination.

Pappy Gunn was called a wild man, and some flyers thought he was crazy, but what he and his skip bombers proved in March 1943 was that sometimes, crazy is good.