BY Robert L. Scott, Jr.
Robert L. Scott was an old fighter pilot, thirty-four, when World War II started, but he proved, again, that if you really want it, there’s always a way. He wound up in China and was soon fighting Zeros in a Curtiss P-40. He had racked up an enviable combat record — a dozen kills — and was a group commander when he was ordered back to the States — the Army Air Corps PR types wanted a hero to hype war bonds. He was elected whether he liked it or not.
Scott was as good on the stump as he was in the air. He dictated God Is My Copilot in three days between speaking engagements in 1943. The book had everything — shooting, flying, dying, a titanic struggle against merciless villains, victory beautiful and sweet, all set in exotic China, foreign and mysterious — no wonder it became an instant best-
Seller. Hollywood immediately cranked out a patriotic movie, now long forgotten, but the book is today a classic of aviation literature. The selection that follows is my favorite passage.
Col. Meriam C. Cooper was the chief of staff to the general. His business was war, too. Cooper had been one of the greatest heroes of the First World War and was one of the greatest soldiers I have ever seen. I never discovered when it was he slept. At any time of night he was apt to come into my room, when he visited us in Kunming from his usual headquarters in Chungking. Or when I’d go to see him, I could find him smoking his ever-present pipe at any hour. Cooper had served in the American Air Force in the last war, and when the war was over, he had kept right on fighting. He had enlisted with the Poles in the Russian-Polish war and had been second-in-command of the Kosciuszko Squadron. After leading many dangerous strafing raids, he was awarded Poland’s highest military decorations. Later he made a reputation as an explorer in Persia, Siam, and Africa. Following an active part in the formation of Pan-American Airways, he became one of the best known moving-picture producers in America.
Cooper was a soldier through and through, one of the most intelligent men that I could hope to meet, and the perfect chief of staff for General Chennault. Through his constant attention to our espionage in eastern China, we learned of the Japanese task forces coming through Hong Kong on their way to the Solomons and Saigon, and also of the large amount of shipping in Victoria harbor.
Now Cooper was working tirelessly to plan our greatest raid against the Japanese. I remember vividly how he toiled for six days and six nights at the general’s house on the logistics for our proposed attack on the largest convoy that had come through Hong Kong. Morning after morning, when I went in to breakfast, the floor around the table would be ankle deep with Walnut tobacco from Cooper’s pipe, but the plans would be those of a master. General Chennault and Colonel Cooper made, in fact, the perfect tactical team. Everything was ready for the bombing raid by the middle of October, and we merely waited for word from the east that the harbor between Kowloon and Hong Kong was filled with Japs.
Toward the end of October came the word we had so long been waiting for. Victoria harbor was filled with Japanese shipping. In deepest secret we got ready to go.
Our ships would leave from Kunming, but we would of course use the intermediate bases in the Kweilin-Hengyang section, 500 miles to the east. Hong Kong, you will recall, is about 325 miles southeast of Kweilin. It is protected by surrounding enemy fighter fields at Canton and Kowloon. Our objectives would be the shipping in the harbor, the shipping at the docks in Kowloon, and the ships at the dry docks in Hong Kong.
Early on the morning of October 25 our twelve bombers took off from Yunnan for Kweilin, and shortly afterward Hill, Alison, Holloway, and I led the fighters off. We were all to infiltrate into Kweilin, a few ships at a time, so as not to alert the coast of eastern China.
For two weeks I had worried about this attack. I thought it would come any day, and because of the tension I couldn’t sleep. But now I was on the way. I could see the shark-mouths of the P-40s all around, and the whole thing was easy — just what I had wanted all the time. We sat down at Kweilin at one-minute intervals at eight o’clock. The bombers were soon in, and the Chinese were busy servicing the field full of ships. They were the happiest people I had ever seen. They’d point toward Japan and point down with their thumbs and say, “Bu-hao.”
While they serviced the ships, we hurried to the alert cave and were briefed by the general. We had to work fast, for we were so close to Japanese bases that we could have been caught on the ground with our Air Force if we hadn’t been careful. In fifty minutes we were away, the fighters first, then the bombers. Making our assembly over the designated point, we were off on our greatest mission to date.
All of us were proud to be going. But as I looked at those seven P-40s escorting ten bombers, I could not help feeling apologetic for that greatest country in the world that we were representing. Oh, God, if the day could soon come when we could go against this enemy with a thousand bombers, even a hundred bombers!
Now I had the familiar “wind-up” feeling that precedes combat. The palms of my hands perspired freely. As I wiped them on the legs of my trousers, I saw that the sweat was like mud; it had mixed with the red dust of Kweilin Field through which we had taken off.
Our altitude kept increasing to 20,000 feet, while down below at 17,000 were the medium bombers in javelin formation: two V’s of three, and the last element a diamond of four. We passed one of the river junction
Checkpoints that enabled me to compute our ground speed. In fifty minutes I could see the glint of the sun on the Pacific Ocean. As I saw the bomber formation again, I felt proud of the crews of those perfectly spaced ships. This really was like a football game: the bombers were carrying the ball while we in the peashooters ran the interference.
Now I could even smell the freshness of the Pacific. The sky had never been so blue. The beauty of the day and the beauty of those weapons flying so smoothly under us made me forget the scratching of the oxygen mask on my sunburned neck. It was a joy to look back and see the six shark-mouths on the other P-40s grinning at me.
As we got closer to the target, we split our formation of fighters automatically. Tex Hill, Hampshire, and Sher stayed with me; Marks took the other three on the opposite flank of the bombers. The country below had become lower in elevation but was green and still hilly. Over the radio, as we reached the point north of Macao, came the jabbering of Japanese voices on our frequency, and we knew from its ominous sound that they were warning of our attack.
I tensed a little and looked about for enemy planes. Far to my left I could see the three rivers meeting at Canton, could see two
Fields from which I knew Zeros were taking off to intercept us. We had bypassed Canton purposely by thirty miles. I saw the bombers changing course: we were around Canton now and were going to steer straight for the north of Kowloon peninsula. The blue Pacific looked friendly, reminding me of the southem-California coast. The old, familiar fog banks that should have been covering San Clemente and Catalina were shrouding instead the Ladrones Islands, with only their hilltops visible, sticking out from the fog on the China Sea.
We were turning over Macao, where the Clippers used to land. To the south I could see another Jap field, Sanchau Island. Now to the right was Hong Kong Island, shaped like a kidney and mountainous, just about nine miles long and three or four miles across. I could make out the indentations of the romantic-sounding bays whose names I knew — Sandy, Telegraph, Kellet, and Repulse. There were points of land jutting toward the mainland — Quarry Point, with its naval drydock, and Shek Tong Tsui, the point over which we would fight our aerial battle. Reaching toward the island like a finger was Kowloon Peninsula, separated from it by the blue waters of Victoria harbor. Near the end of the spit of land closest to
Hong Kongj I saw the large modern Peninsular Hotel. All of us knew that Japanese generals and staff officers slept there.
We came across the Great West Channel, passed north of Stonecutters Island, and came to our turning point, seven miles north of Kowloon. The bombers were turning south now for the bombing run. This was the crucial moment.
I crossed around and over General Haynes and his formation, watching vigilantly. Far below I saw dust on Kai Tak airdrome and knew that enemy ships were taking off to attack us. My throat felt dry and I had trouble swallowing; I turned my gun switch off and on nervously.
Now I saw the bomb-bay doors opening, and I couldn’t keep the tears of excitement from burning my eyes. Antiaircraft was beginning to dot the sky with black and white puffs. As I dove almost to the level of the bombers, I could feel the ack-ack rock my fighter ship. I kept S-ing to watch for the enemy fighters that must be coming. The white stars on the upper wings of the bombers below were like an American flag waving, and it gave me the same feeling that I get when I see home after a long absence. As loud as I could against the roar of the engine, I shouted, “Come up, you devils!”
I saw the yellow bombs begin to fall in long strings, imposed on the dark green of the world below. They got smaller and smaller as the noses pointed slowly down. Remembering my movie camera, I tried to take pictures of the explosions. The bombs seemed to take years to fall, and I began to think they were all duds. The ack-ack burst closer as the Japs got the range while we went straight in. I know I was never more excited in all my life. I yelled, “Okay, Hirohito — we have lots more where those came from!” I kept looking behind and under us for the bombs to burst.
And then I saw the first white explosion — right on the docks of Kowloon. After that they came so fast you couldn’t count them. I let my camera run as the explosions turned from white to black — there were oil fires now. I could see the flash of the antiaircraft guns from the north shore of Hong Kong Island as we continued across Victoria harbor. I risked another look at the target; it was covered with smoke from one end to the other. Then I got my eyes back to searching for enemy interceptors — we had to be extra careful now.
Why didn’t the bombers turn for home? They had dropped the bombs, but they were still going on endlessly toward that point of
Shek Tong Tsui. All of us were keyed up. But then the long javelin of B-25s began to turn to the right. Mission accomplished — now they had the downhill run to base, and I began to get that old feeling of relief. Then, somehow, I felt cheated. Where were the enemy fighters? I raised my camera, sighted again, and took the formation as it swung over the burning docks.
Then, as I glanced about, I saw them, silhouette after silhouette, climbing terribly steeply toward the bombers. I know now that they had got there from Kai Tak below in four minutes; they had made the 16,000 feet in that short time. I felt my camera drop to my lap, hit my knee, then drop to the metal floor of the fighter. I was fumbling now for the mike button on the throttle; then I was calling, “Bandits ahead — Zerooooos! At eleven o’clock.” Fumbling again for the throttle quadrant, shoving everything as far forward as I could, I marveled at the steepness of the climb the enemy ships were maintaining. I called, “Zeros at twelve o’clock,” to designate their direction clock-fashion from us. I heard Tex Hill reply, “Yes, I see ’em.” I could hear the jabber of the Japs still trying to block our frequency.
I was diving now, aiming for the lead Zero, turning my gunsight on and off, a
Little nervously checking again and again to see that the gun switch was at ON. I jerked the belly-tank release and felt the underslung fifty-gallon bamboo tank drop off. We rolled to our backs to gain speed for the attack and went straight for the Zeros. I kept the first Zero right in the lighted sight and began to fire from over a thousand yards, for he was too close to the bombers. Orange tracers were coming from the B-25s, too, as the turret gunners went to work.
Five hundred yards before I got to the Zero, I saw another P-40 bearing the number 151 speed in and take it. That was Tex Hill. He followed the Zero as it tried to turn sharply into the bombers and shot it down. Tex spun from his tight turn as the Jap burst into flames. I took the next Zero — they seemed to be all over the sky now. I went so close that I could see the pilot’s head through the glass canopy and the little tail wheel that was not retracted, and I knew it was a Navy Zero — the little wheel was built for the arresting gear of a carrier. My tracers entered the cockpit and smoke poured back, hiding the canopy, and I went by.
As I turned to take another ship below me, I saw four airplanes falling in flames toward the waters of Victoria harbor. I halfrolled again and skidded in my dive to shake
Any Zero that might be on my tail. I saw another P-40 shooting at a Jap, but there was a Zero right on his tail. I dove for this one. He grew in my sights, and as my tracers crossed in front of him, he turned into me. I shot him down as his ship seemed to stand still in the vertical bank. The ship was three or four hundred yards from me, and it fell toward the water for a time that seemed ages. An explosion came, and there was only black smoke; then I could see the ship again, falling, turning in a slow spin, down — down — down.
I shot at everything I saw. Sometimes it was just a short burst as the Jap went in for our bombers. Sometimes I fired at one that was turning, and as I’d keep reefing back on my stick, my ship would spin, and I’d recover far below. I shot down another ship that didn’t see me. I got it with one short burst from directly astern, a no-deflection shot. In this attack I could see the Japanese ship vibrate as my burst of six 50-caliber guns hit it. First it just shook, then one wing went up. I saw the canopy shot completely off; then I went across it. Turning back in a dive to keep my speed, I watched the enemy ship, as it dove straight down, stream flames for a distance the length of the airplane behind.
As I looked around now, the bombers were
Gone, but climbing up from the south I saw four twin-engine ships that I thought were I-45s; later we decided they were Japanese Messerschmitts. I had plenty of altitude on the leader and started shooting at him from long range, concentrating on his right engine. He turned to dive, and I followed him straight for the water. I remember grinning, for he had made the usual mistake of diving instead of climbing. But as I drew up on the twin-engine ship, I began to believe that I had hit him from the long range. His ship was losing altitude rapidly in a power glide, but he was making no effort to turn. I came up to within fifty yards and fired into him until he burned. I saw the ship hit the water and continue to burn. We had been going toward the fog bank in the direction of the Philippines, and I wondered if the Jap had been running for Manila.
I shot at two of the other twin-engine ships from long range but couldn’t climb up to them. Then I passed over Hong Kong Island, flying at a thousand feet, as I was too low but didn’t want to waste any time climbing. And I saw something that gripped my heart — a fenced-in enclosure which I knew was Fort Stanley, the British and American prison camp. There was a large group standing in the camp and waving at my ship. My
Saddest feeling of the war came over me then. Here were soldiers who had been prisoners of the Japanese for nearly a year. Month after month they had waited for the sight of Allied airplanes attacking Hong Kong — and at last it had come. Even in their suffering they were waving a cheer to the few United States planes that had finally come, and I swore to myself I’d come back again and again.
Then I saw above me the crisscrossing vapor paths of an area where fighter ships have sped through an air attack. They almost covered the sky in a cloud. Here and there were darker lines that could have been smoke paths where ships had burned and gone down to destruction.
I was rudely jerked back to attention by a slow voice that yet was sharp: “If that’s a P-40 in front of me, waggle your wings.” I rocked my wings before I looked. Then I saw the other ship, a P-40 nearly a mile away. I think from the voice it was Tex Hill. I went over toward him and together we dove toward home.
The presence of the other P-40 made me feel very arrogant and egotistical, for I had shot down four enemy ships and had damaged others. So I looped above Victoria harbor and dove for the Peninsular Hotel. My tracers ripped into the shining plate glass of
The penthouses on its top, and I saw the broken windows cascade like snow to the streets, many floors below. I laughed, for I knew that behind those windows were Japanese high officers, enjoying that modern hotel. When I got closer, I could see uniformed figures going down the fire escapes, and I shot at them. In the smoke of Kowloon I could smell oil and rubber. I turned for one more run on the packed fire escapes filled with Jap soldiers, but my next burst ended very suddenly. I was out of ammunition. Then, right into the smoke and through it right down to the treetop levels, I headed northwest to get out of Japanese territory sooner and went as fast as I could for Kweilin.
I was the last ship in, and the general was anxiously waiting for me, scanning the sky for ships to come in. He knew I had shot down an enemy, for I had come in with my low-altitude roll of victory. But when I jumped from my cramped seat and said, “General, I got four definitely,” he shook my hand and looked very happy. “That makes nineteen then,” he said, “for the fighters and the bombers.”
We had lost a fighter and a bomber. The bomber had become a straggler when one engine was hit by antiaircraft; then it was
Shot to pieces by one of the twin-engined Jap fighters. The pilot had managed even then to get it down, but he had remained in the ship to destroy the bombsight and had been shot through the foot by a Jap cannon. Two of the bomber crew had bailed out and were captured. The other two carried the injured pilot until he had begged them to leave him alone and escape. They had bandaged his foot tightly, but had refused to go without him.
As they moved on through the enemy lines that night, they stopped to rest, and the wounded pilot crawled away from them to insure their getting away to the guerrilla lines. They escaped, and later we received a letter signed by the other two crewmen, which said that the pilot had been captured and was then in a Japanese hospital. The letter was a Japanese propaganda leaflet that the Japs had dropped near Kweilin, but being properly signed, it gave us hope for the remainder of the crew, and for the heroic pilot. Lieutenant Allers.
World History
