Despite the fear, Bobby was also feeling relief. All along, he hadn’t been able to reveal to his squadron mates their real purpose for being in Alaska. This meant he didn’t have to admit to his part in the fiasco. But the guilt had started eating him up inside. As a Catholic, he’d been taught to expel his guilt through confession. Yet in this case he couldn’t confess because doing so would have revealed a military secret.
And then a miracle happened. Contrary to everyone’s real expectations, the Japanese had attacked Alaska.
Naval intelligence had somehow intercepted Japanese communications and was able to warn Army Air Forces. When Japanese torpedo bombers attacked Dutch Harbor on Unalaska Island, P-40 Warhawks flown by the 11th Army Air Force quickly drove them off.
But the Japanese weren’t about to go away, so Bobby’s squadron of P-39s was hastily flown down from Nome to Fort Randall Army Airfield on the tip of the Alaskan peninsula. There they were refueled and fully armed.
The Airacobras intended as gifts for their Russian allies were suddenly desperately needed. They weren’t Trojan horses anymore; they were warplanes defending America.
Every American airman knew an unfortunate truth, however: the planes weren’t up to the task. The Airacobra was largely an example of failed aircraft development. Designed as a low-altitude fighter, it should have excelled against other low-flying aircraft like Germany’s infamous Stuka dive-bombers. But the Japanese didn’t stay low. Their aircraft operated at many different altitudes, and their Mitsubishi Zeros could outmaneuver any American plane yet built. The Japanese had become masters of the sky, outdueling the Americans in any but the most lopsided engagements. To win, they had to outnumber the Japanese. Every aircraft mattered. Bobby’s Airacobras were desperately needed now.
On this spring day, Bobby and his squadron were coming in high, even though the Airacobras were low-altitude fighters. To compensate, American pilots had come up with a successful tactic called the Boom and Zoom. The American fighters were not as maneuverable as their Japanese equivalent, but they were faster. That advantage was multiplied when gravity helped accelerate them in a dive. Boom and Zoom tactics had them diving down from above and trying to knock out as many enemy aircraft as possible during that one good dive.
“Bandits, twelve o’clock low,” Major Bovington announced over the flight channel.
It was good news. Twelve o’clock meant at the twelve on an imaginary clock—directly in front of the reporting pilot. Conversely, six o’clock was behind—“on my six”—meaning an enemy aircraft was on your tail, ready to kill you. “Low” meant the enemy bandits were below them. Bovington’s report told Bobby that their strategy could work. They were above the enemy and would get one good pass, diving at high speed down toward their prey. With any luck, the Japanese planes would be “Kate” torpedo bombers, the same planes that had been driven off from Dutch Harbor the day before. The Kates, weighed down by their bombs, weren’t as agile as Mitsubishi Zeros. If Bobby’s squadron could damage enough of the torpedo bombers with their first dive, they might be able to break the enemy formation and blunt the Japanese attack before it began.
“Anyone got an ID?” Bobby asked, trying to hide the anxiety in his voice.
“Looks like Zekes,” replied Max, Major Bovington’s wingman, at the front of the American formation. “Zeke” was the Americans’ nickname for the Mitsubishi Zero.
Each pilot was assigned a wingman. It was the most basic tenet of aerial combat. Since your guns faced forward, the worst thing that could happen to you was getting an enemy aircraft behind you on your six. You couldn’t shoot behind you, so your only option was to try to shake him by performing a series of aerial acrobatics he eventually couldn’t follow. But that took time, during which the enemy was relentlessly shooting at your tail with heavy-caliber machine guns or automatic cannons. You had to be both lucky and good to survive by yourself.
It was your wingman’s job to protect you. If an enemy got on your tail, your wingman immediately tried to shoot him off. You did the same for your wingman. It was the buddy system. Despite his fear, it always gave Bobby confidence to know that his own wingman was also his best buddy, Jack.
“Yup,” Max reported grimly, “definitely Zekes.”
Bobby’s chest tightened. The Japanese were covering their bombing attack with the more agile fighters. Bobby’s squadron had a dangerous fight on its hands. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
“They’re starting to climb,” Max reported in. “They’ve seen us.”
That the Zeros were climbing meant they were trying to negate the Americans’ one advantage. Major Bovington commanded, “All right, boys, let’s not give ’em all day. Attack formation. We’re only gonna get one shot at this. Make it count. Whites of their eyes and all that. Ready… go! Go! Go!”
Bovington’s voice was immediately drowned out by the scream of the aircraft, the engines’ pitch rising to a deafening roar as they twisted and began to dive.
Bobby’s stomach turned, and he felt like he was going to vomit. He’d dived at such high speeds before; they’d all trained in the tactic. But during training, the ground was the only point of reference, and it was so far away that it didn’t provide a proper scale for measuring speed. Now came a new frame of reference—the Japanese plane before him—and he was shocked at how fast the Zero expanded in his view. What had first looked like a toy now grew to a threatening size.
Bobby momentarily panicked, fearing he was about to crash into the Zero. The Japanese pilot was craning his neck and looking up at Bobby in alarm. Then Bobby remembered his 37mm cannon. He triggered the weapon and felt the reassuring shudder of the gun’s recoil vibrating through his fuselage. Then he was past the Japanese fighter. Had he even hit it? He couldn’t be sure. It had all happened so fast.
But he did know he was losing the advantage of altitude. He was now below the Zeros, and he had to level out fast. His stomach sank into his bladder as he pulled back on the stick.
“Got him!” someone announced in triumph.
“I’m hit!” someone else shouted in terror.
“Bail out!” a wingman urged.
“They’re coming around!” Max alerted them.
Bobby jerked his head back to look over his shoulder. A parachute bloomed behind him, but it wasn’t Japanese. He’d missed. He realized too late that he should have used his higher-RPM machine guns instead of his heavy cannon. Somehow the Zero he’d attacked had passed right between his cannon’s shells and was now circling around at an impossible angle. Already its nose was facing Bobby’s flank.
Bobby jerked his stick forward and sent his plane back into a dive as the Zero’s twin machine guns opened up. Tracer rounds zipped over Bobby’s head, his sudden burst of speed saving him from the bullets. But he was flying right into the Japanese pilot’s hands. He was still below the Zero, and it was child’s play for the agile enemy fighter to lock on Bobby’s tail.
“Zeke on my six!” Bobby yelled into his radio, not bothering to hide the panic in his voice.
“Hang in there, I’m coming!” Jack replied.
Again, Bobby heard the report of the twin machine guns, and he felt the Airacobra shudder as bullets punched through its frame. “I’m hit!”
“Almost there!”
Tracer bullets corkscrewed around Bobby. But Bobby recognized the illusion—the bullets weren’t corkscrewing; he was. But his aerobatics gave no escape from the agile Zero. “I can’t shake him!”
“Stop juking!” Jack responded.
“He’ll hit me again!”
“But I can’t get a bead on him!”
Bobby continued to dive, trying to maintain speed and outrun the Zero. “Stop diving!” Jack insisted. “You’re gonna run out of real estate!”