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Night Ambush The sky was a maelstrom of exploding bombers, twisting tracers, flaming parachutes, and Alison's own burning fighter . . . Then his engine quit! |
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THE SUDDEN FLASH of bright light to his right startled Major John R. Alison as he maneuvered
his P-40 closer to a Japanese bomber. A moment before he had been straining his eyes to see the Mitsubishi "Sally"
through the inky blackness of the night, ignoring the other enemy planes in the formation. Now, however, as the gunners
aboard the aircraft to his right spotted the silhouette of his P-40 against the moon and opened fire, the whole sky
lighted up.
Quickly, Alison thumbed his microphone button and called Captain Albert T. "Ajax" Baumler. "I'm hit, Ajax, I..." "Hold on, John. I'm closing from your right and below," Baumler replied immediately, "I see them." Alison tried to answer but another barrage of shells from the enemy bomber smashed into his P-40 at that moment, ripping through the cockpit. Glass from the shattered fuel supply indicator dug into his cheeks and he could feel the warm blood running down his face. A tracer scorched his arms and the sudden, sharp, intense pain made him release the control stick momentarily. The P-40 nosed down. For a fraction of a second Alison sat in the cockpit stunned, his arm hurting, his cheeks covered with blood—listening to the thump of the Japanese shells methodically tearing his fighter apart. Alison's only chance to escape alive was to dive out of range of the enemy bomber's guns, to make a run for it. No one would blame him. His fighter was already mortally damaged. He was wounded. Only a fool would stay to fight under those conditions. Alison ran his hand over his face, looked at the red streak on his glove, and instantly his eyes narrowed into pinpoints of anger and hatred. "No damn Jap is going to make me run," he cursed. "Now or never." He yanked back on the control stick and nosed the P-40 directly into the stream of enemy fire. The fighter shook from nose to tail as enemy shells hit the propeller, throwing it off balance until it vibrated violently. "Shoot and be damned," the major muttered as he fought to get his sight ring centered on the Sally. Each time his plane was hit and swung left or right, Alison kicked rudder and eased the nose back toward the bomber he had selected as his victim. It was a grim battle, a one-sided fight to the death which the major knew he would not survive. But he wouldn't give up. Keeping the Jap bomber focused in the orange ring of his gunsight, and ignoring the barrage of shells from the other plane, he pressed the trigger to his six guns. The first burst missed. Take it easy, fellow, he told himself. Make it count. You don't have much time... The second burst hit home. He saw the Mitsubishi 97 swing left wildly and leave the formation. From the flash of the guns he saw a black streak of oil streaming back across the wing of the bomber and puffs of black smoke. "Get back home, John, while you still can," Captain Baumler called as he whipped his own P-40 past Major Alison's and closed fast on the damaged Sally. "I'll take care of this one." But on that night of July 30, 1942, Major John R. Alison had no intention of leaving the battle and heading for home. He was so sore at the sneak attack the Japs had staged on Hengyang that he was determined to stay until they were driven off or his P-40 fell apart underneath him! Ignoring Baumler's advice, he kicked his damaged fighter into a sharp right turn and headed for the bomber which had sighted him first. Maneuvering his P-40 until he was almost flying parallel with the Sally, Alison waited until it started its bomb run. Now... now... he whispered. Banking left, he slid in behind the bomber and fired. He watched his bright tracers dig into the enemy aircraft's wing root and grinned. Cooling his guns a moment, he pressed the trigger once more and suddenly a large yellow ball of flame nearly blinded him. "I got the wing tank!" he yelled jubilantly. The Jap bomber turned over slowly onto its back and plunged toward the dark ground below. There were no chutes. "My God, John, half of your crankcase is blown away." Baumler suddenly called as he spotted Alison's P-40 in the glow of the exploding Sally. "Get down or get out before she catches fire! You know ..." "The lead bomber is still on the bomb run, Ajax. Get him ... Get him ..." He saw Baumler turn away, but instead of heading for the Jap plane making its bomb run on the airstrip at Hengyang, Ajax closed on another three-ship formation coming from the north. Major Alison hesitated. Should he make one last try to get back on the ground? There was a bare possibility that he might be able to make it. He looked at his oil pressure. It was dropping. Swinging his head slowly he stared at the pinpoint of blue-yellow light which he knew was the exhaust of the lead Japanese bomber making its run on the airstrip. "Hell, I can't let him clobber the runway," Alison muttered. "He'll put the whole 75th out of business." Once again he nursed his doomed fighter upward toward the enemy bomber making its target pass. The engine of the major's P-40 was knocking so loudly now it sounded as if a hundred hammers were hitting the cowling one after another. The cylinder head temperature needle was up past the red line, the oil supply needle reaching for zero. He didn't have much time. Luckily the distance between the two aircraft wasn't great, and for the third time that night Alison maneuvered his fighter onto the tail of an enemy bomber. Knowing that his ammunition was low, he waited until the entire sight ring was filled, then hit the gun trigger. He could see flashes from the rear guns of the Sally, could hear the thud of enemy bullets hitting his aircraft, but Alison refused to break away from his attack. With his few remaining rounds of ammunition he ripped a chunk of the bomber's right wing off, leveled it's vertical tail fin, hurtled shells into the rear of the canopy. Still the stubborn Japanese pilot held his bomber on course for the airstrip. Alison pressed the gun trigger down and held it. For a fraction of a second after this final barrage from his six guns, the Sally continued unwaveringly straight ahead as though nothing had happened. Then, with a suddenness that shocked the major, the Jap's right wing tank exploded. Alison actually saw the flames following the fuel lines into the fuselage, saw the fabric burning away from the framework of the body and tail until only a skeleton of an aircraft remained. Crew members began bailing out. Most of the parachutes were burning as they jumped and Alison involuntarily shuddered. There was one final blast and the Jap bomber fell earthward, a ball of flaming wreckage. "Well, that takes care of ..." The knocking of the P-40 engine suddenly quit. So did the unsteady roar. The night was abruptly filled with an unnatural quiet as the straining engine which had absorbed so many enemy shells finally gasped its last revolution and quit. Alison glanced hurriedly at his shattered altimeter. Three thousand feet! Was it registering correctly? He had no way of telling. Below him was nothing but a solid black blanket. He couldn't see even the outline of the airstrip nor did he expect to do so. The night was too dark and every light on the field was blacked out to hide the strip from the enemy. "Well, this night fighting was my idea," he muttered. "Maybe it wasn't such a good one." Alison looked at his parachute. The harness seemed intact, but he couldn't see the seat pack upon which he was sitting. The way the bullets had been flying around his cockpit, the odds were 50-50 that the canopy was punctured. He shook his head. "I'll ride her down before I'll gamble on bailing out with a parachute that looks like a sieve." Once again he stared out into the darkness. "Can't see a damn thing. Can't ..." A yellow glare suddenly lighted up his smashed canopy. Alison jerked his head around, thinking he was under enemy attack again. It was a full minute before he saw the source of the glare. The oil in his shattered crankcase had caught fire. His P-40 was burning like a torch. "On fire and going down, Ajax ..." There was no answer. Alison looked over the side of the cockpit for some indication of where he was, of where the ground was, but now the flames blinded him. He was trapped. As he watched the altimeter unwind, he knew that his night fighting plan had been a good one except for one detail - there were no provisions made for a damaged fighter to get home safely in the darkness. "On fire, Ajax, and going down ... The name John R. Alison first became noticed by U.S. Air Force officials early in 1941 when the stubby, sandy-haired then-second lieutenant arrived at Bolling Field in Washington. That day, as he did later in China, Alison was piloting a P-40. He had been assigned to give a demonstration of the plane's capabilities before Chinese and American officials. Johnny Alison did things with the rugged fighter in his five-minute exhibition that the manufacturer never thought possible. The Chinese, visibly impressed after he finished, pointed at the P-40. "We need 100 of these," they said. General Claire Chennault, famed CO of the Flying Tigers, shook his head and answered, "No. What you need are 100 Johnny Alisons." Nor did the general forget the short, stocky second lieutenant when he met him 15 months later at Kunming, China. During those long months, however, Alison had not gone stale. Shortly after his demonstration in the P-40 at Washington, he was sent to England to train British pilots in the aircraft. A few days after his arrival there, an order came through sending him to Russia to teach Soviet fliers how to handle the P-40's they were getting from the United States through the Lend-Lease program. Alison was there eight months, mainly at Moscow and Basra. But an instructor pilot's role was not his slot, especially after the U.S. officially entered the war in December, 1941, and Alison kept arguing with his superiors for a combat assignment. He finally got his chance in July, 1942, when the Flying Tigers in China—the civilian blind for the USAF pilots fighting the Japanese prior to Pearl Harbor—gave way to the U.S. Tenth Air Force. When Alison and three companions arrived at Kunming from India in their P-40's, the first man he saw was General Chennault, now head of all U.S. air forces in China. It was a crucial time for the Allies in the theater. The Japanese were well aware that the veteran Flying Tiger aces were leaving, to be replaced by the green Army pilots. To add to the general's troubles there were only three squadrons and one flight of U.S. fighter planes in the entire Chinese combat zone. The Nips, knowing these facts, were determined to wipe the whole force out. "Alison," Chennault said, "you fly down to Hengyang and join the 75th Fighter Squadron. Tell Tex Hill you are his new deputy CO." Alison, now a major, nodded. "Fine." The grizzled general, wise in the ways of aerial tactics and Japanese thinking, warned, "It will be rough down there. Those Nips are going to send fighters and bombers over every day to knock out that airstrip. Do what you can to stop them." Chennault forgot to mention one other fact—perhaps intentionally. Not only did the Japs send their aircraft over during the day, when the P-40's could at least go up after them, but they started using their night bombers after dark, too. Their plan was to crater the red clay runway so the American fighters couldn't take off at dawn when the enemy fighters came over. Alison learned of these tactics on the night of July 28. He was sound asleep under his mosquito netting when he was suddenly awakened by Chinese boys running through the hostel. One stopped and roughly shook him. "Air raid. Get up please." A Chinese-operated warning network consisting of listeners stationed on practically every hilltop in the country had reported enemy bombers heading south toward Hengyang. Alison jumped out of bed, grabbed his pants, and raced outside. In the darkness he bumped into Colonel "Tex" Hill, the commanding officer of the 75th. "What's the plan? Any briefing?" Hill looked at Alison in amazement. "What the hell are you talking about, Major?" "Aren't we going after them?" "In a P-40? You know damn well the P-40 isn't equipped for night fighting. Neither is our airfield. Don't be crazy." Alison listened to the hum of the approaching enemy bombers for a minute, then turned to the colonel." You mean we're going to stand here and do nothing?" "That's about it, Major. Unless ..." An ear-shattering explosion drowned out his words, and both men were knocked to the ground by the concussion. Flying debris and dirt covered them as the Japanese bombardiers, with no American fighters to harass them, calmly dropped their bombs. Looking up from his prone position, Alison could plainly see the exhaust of the enemy planes, and at that moment he made a decision. Turning to Hill, the dirt-splattered Alison made a vow. "If they come over again tomorrow night, I'm going to go after them " Hill grinned. "In a P-40?" "In a P-40, that's right." Another flier lying nearby, Albert T. "Ajax" Baumler, a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, spat out a mouthful of mud and muttered, "I'm with you, Major. No damn Jap is going to make me eat dirt again without a fight on his hands." The words came out easy, but as both Alison and Baumler found out the following day, the operation wasn't going to be simple. It would involve a night takeoff on an unlighted runway. Nor could they use their plane lights for fear of being seen by lurking Japanese aircraft. Once in the air they would be strictly on their own. Radar was an unobtainable luxury in the theater. Only a few hints given by the ground radio station and the pinpoint flame of the exhausts from the enemy bombers would guide them to the attacking formation. In the darkness they could easily ram their targets before they saw them or be shot down by keener enemy gunners. However, by late afternoon they had finished with their preparations: their parachutes were in the cockpits; their P-40's were parked at the northern end of the runway; their flashlights were placed in the cockpits so they could glance at their instruments. Alison looked at Ajax Baumler and grinned. "All set?" "Guess so." "I figure they will come over at 8,000 feet just as they did last night. We'll try to get to 10,000 or 12,000 first, circle the field and wait for them. That will give us the advantage of altitude." The pair shook hands. Shortly before dark they ate the usual meal of fat, greasy pork, sweet potatoes, bean sprouts and rice. Then Alison and Baumler carefully placed their flying clothes near their beds and stretched out for some rest. If the Japs came, they were ready to ambush them. They came. At 02:00 Alison sat straight up in his bed as he heard the Chinese boys hammering on their tin cans and yelling, "Air raid ... air raid ... air raid ..." As soon as the import of the warning hit him, the major leaped from the bed, pulled on his light khaki pants and shirt, and hurried to the battered tan station wagon parked outside the hostel, where the pilots lived. Baumler leaped in just as the driver started the engine. "Wouldn't miss this show for the world," Baumler muttered, tying his shoes as he bounced from one side of the seat to another. As soon as the station wagon slid to a stop, the pair leaped out and raced to their respective aircraft. Alison climbed into his cockpit, shrugged into his parachute harness and buckled it, slapped the earphones over his head, and waved to the crew chief. "Starting engine." Cracking the throttle, he made sure the cowl flaps were open and the mixture was in "rich," then hit the energizer button. After a few seconds of the high whine he pushed the "engage" button and the engine coughed once and roared to life. There was no time to warm up the 1100-horsepower engine. Giving the instruments a quick check with his light, the major released the brakes and the fighter rolled down the runway. Ahead of him was a black wall. He could not see the edge of the runway or the end of the strip. Glancing sideways he ruddered the fighter parallel to the border of the runway, looked
Every time the compass needle went off one degree, Alison knew his plane was headed for the nearby Siang River or swamp bordering the strip on each side. Twice he glanced out of the cockpit straight ahead but the black curtain was like a blanket thrown over his head. He couldn't see a thing. "Are you airborne, Alison?" the ground radio station asked. The major had no time to answer. He felt the left wheel hit something rough at that moment, and glancing out of the side of the canopy, saw that he was headed directly off the runway. It was a crucial moment. Making a split-second decision, Alison yanked back on the control stick, praying that he had enough flying speed to lift the heavy P-40 off the ground before it hit the swamp and cartwheeled. For a long second nothing happened and the major braced himself for the crash. Suddenly, however, the P-40 lifted smoothly over the swamp a few feet, wavered, dropped a little, then started a steady climb. "Whew!" Alison muttered, wiping his face. "That was a little too close." Thumbing his microphone button, he contacted the radio station. "Airborne and climbing." "Roger." As previously planned, Alison circled the field in a left turn and climbed his fighter toward the desired 12,000-foot level. It was slow, hazardous flying. He could barely see his ball-and-needle, the instruments which told him whether he was right side up or upside down. The horizon simply didn't exist. The earth and sky and river were just one black ball with no reference points visible. At 9,000 feet the radio operator called him again. "The bombers are definitely coming to Hengyang. They are at ..." Suddenly there was a screeching sound in his earphones, an intermittent noise that drowned out the ground operator's words. "Jammed! Those --- Japs are jamming his transmissions," Alison groaned. Now it was up to him alone. He would have to spot the enemy bombers in the night sky visually—and hope he didn't meet them blindly in a head-on crash. At 12,000 feet he leveled off and searched the murkiness for some sign of the Japanese planes. Nothing but inky blackness met his eyes. Tense, apprehensive, the major dropped his forefinger to the gun trigger on the control stick and waited. All he could hear was the screeching in the earphones and the roar of the engine. All he could see was a blackness which he knew hid a force of Japanese bombers headed directly toward him. Suddenly there was a short break in the jamming and he heard part of the radio operator's message "... crossing field from right to left. They are..." Again the screeching noise blanked out the transmission. Alison cursed softly and swiveled his head, scanning the entire sky for some sign of the enemy aircraft. North, south, east, west. Nothing. Neither at 8,000 feet where he expected them, nor at his own level of 12,000 feet, could he see any exhaust glows. Finally, in desperation, he glanced upward. His mouth dropped open and he rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't dreaming. There, at 15,000 feet, were the tiny, glaring telltale lights of the Japanese exhausts. "I see them, Ajax. Above me. Starting climb now." "I hear you, Johnny, but I don't see you." "Just watch for a ball of fire. That'll be the first Jap going to hell," Alison called. "Good luck." Alison shoved the throttle wide open and climbed until he was directly behind and slightly below the bomber formation, which was now headed north. The silhouettes of the bombers were plain now as they passed between the major and the moon. "Sallys!" he said softly. He was in ideal attacking position. Snapping on the gun switches, he eased his P-40 in closer ... closer ... closer ... "Now," he whispered. But just as his finger tightened on the gun trigger which would send the armor-piercing shells blasting from his six machine guns, the bombers made a sharp turn right. The turn took him by surprise. Since he was on the outside of the turn and unprepared for it, his plane swung wide and out of firing position. By the time he increased his power and caught up to the Sally, they were heading directly back for the airfield at Hengyang on the bomb run. Once again he ruddered his fighter into position, but this time he ignored one fact: Now he was in the vulnerable position. It was his plane that was now silhouetted by the moon which had come out from behind the clouds. A moment later, as he prepared to fire his initial burst at the nearest enemy bomber, the gunners on the Sally to his right sent a barrage into his P-40. From then until his engine finally quit a few minutes later, the sky was a maelstrom of exploding bombers, burning fighter, twisting tracers, flaming parachutes, and death. It ended as abruptly as it had begun, and in the unnatural silence of the night sky, the major maneuvered his doomed P-40 earthward, its engine dead and fuselage pierced from enemy shells. He knew he was trapped. There was no place to go but down and all that he could see below him was a blanket of blackness hiding the earth. "On fire, Ajax, and going down ... The altimeter ticked off the space remaining between the P-40 and the earth, a countdown to a crash landing: 1500 feet ... 1,000 feet ... 800 feet ... 600 feet ... Keeping the airspeed at a minimum of 100 mph so he won't stall and spin in, the major glanced down through the cracked canopy glass. Seeing nothing, he slid the canopy open and looked again. This time, straining his eyes, he spotted the north edge of the strip at Hengyang. "Too close," he muttered, realizing that he was almost to the runway. Still it was the only chance he had of getting down. He dropped the nose of the fighter, put down the flaps, and tried to slip the P-40 onto the clay strip. At 300 feet he crossed the edge of the runway, too fast and too high. "C'mon, baby. Sit down ... down ... down ..." In the quiet night, broken only by the whistle of the airstream as it flowed across his open cockpit, his words were clear and loud—but useless. The P-40 refused to touch down, stubbornly refused to lose flying speed. The major looked around wildly. He had no power to make a go-around for another landing attempt. Yet he couldn't get down on this pass. Within a matter of seconds he knew the P-40 was going to crash—and if he didn't want to be crushed to a lifeless pulp, he had to find a place to put his battered fighter down in one piece. Nothing in front of him offered any encouragement. The Siang River and the town of Hengyang! He eased the stick back, pulled the gliding fighter over the trees at the far end of the airstrip and headed for the river. Crossing the near bank at 100 feet—flame, oil, and smoke trailing the P-40—Alison banked it sharply left, away from the town, and started up-river. Ninety feet ... 80 feet ... 70 feet ... "My God, the bridge!" He had been concentrating on getting the damaged fighter into the river safely and had completely forgotten about the bridge spanning the water at Hengyang. There was no room to go under it. Closely-spaced pylons prevented that. It was over or into it. There was no other alternative. Yanking back on the stick, the sluggish fighter—down to minimum airspeed now—wobbled upward and cleared the bridge by inches; and as the control stick began to shudder, the major dumped the nose sharply to prevent a spin and headed for the water. He barely had time to level off. The plane hit hard, skipped back into the air, bounced again on the water, and as the propeller dug under the surface of the river, nosed up. Momentarily, it threatened to flip over on its back but finally settled slowly on its belly and began to sink. Inside the cockpit Alison slumped unconscious, blood streaming down his face from a deep cut sustained when his head hit the instrument panel. Cold water aroused the injured pilot. Seeing that the cockpit was already half-filled with the muddy water of the Siang River, he loosened his harness and seat belt and stood up on his seat. Far to his right he saw a log raft tied to the bank, and as the P-40 disappeared under the surface, he dove toward the raft. His clothing soon dragged him down like an anchor. Three times his head went under the water but each time the determined major forced himself back up to the surface. The water around him was stained red from his face wounds and his arm pained him from the effort of swimming. Finally, although nearly to the raft, he was too weary to lift his arms or kick his legs. They refused to move. Slowly he began to go down again—for the last time. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled him to the side of the raft. Shifting his grip to his armpits, the unknown rescuer yanked him onto the raft, where Alison lay several moments trying to get his breath. He looked up to see a Chinese boy grinning down at him. "Thanks, kid," he gasped. "I thought I..." He stopped talking as three Chinese soldiers appeared out of the darkness, their bayonets aimed directly at his stomach. "Hey, I'm an American," he protested. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the small Chinese flag all American fliers carried for identification and waved it in front of the soldiers. After several minutes of babbling among themselves, the trio dropped their bayonets from the weary pilot's middle and motioned for him to follow them. The soldiers took him to a small house near the river, where they sat him on a bench. For 45 minutes the exhausted flier rested on the bench. At that time two young boys entered the house and motioned for him to follow. The boys and the soldiers led him down a narrow path to the river and pointed to a boat they had secured for him to cross the river back to his base. Although the water was 200 feet wide, Alison jumped into the boat. Waving his thanks to his benefactors, he started rowing toward the opposite shore. By this time the first light of dawn was cutting through the dark sky. Alison had gone about halfway across the Siang River when he heard a high-pitched whine; a second later a bomb hit the dock where he had been a few minutes earlier. One of the Chinese boys fell lifeless, while the soldiers and other boy raced for cover. The Japanese planes had returned to Hengyang at the first light of day to get revenge for the night ambush of their bombers. Alison saw the string of bombs coming his way, marked by spouts of water where they hit, and there was nothing he could do but sit in the boat and wait. The boat rocked violently as a bomb exploded 50 feet away, and the major knew the next one would be practically in his lap. Bracing himself, Alison waited expectantly for the whistling sound which would indicate that the bomb was falling toward him. It never came. Miraculously, the enemy planes had unloaded all their bombs and were now circling for a strafing pass. Aware that the respite would be short, the major rowed frantically for the left bank, reaching it just as the first enemy plane dove for him. Machine gun bullets cut a path up the bank a few feet to his right, throwing mud and weeds over him but leaving the flier unscathed. Throwing himself into the tall weeds at the top of the bank, Alison lay motionless while the Japanese planes strafed the entire area. Soon there was a loud roar and Alison saw "Tex" Hill and his hedgehopping pilots headed for the oncoming Japs. "Get them, Tex! Get them!" he yelled jubilantly. He didn't yell any more enthusiastically than the squadron CO did when Alison—bloodied, muddy, and near exhaustion—arrived at the hostel later that same day. Since the last report they had received stated that his P-40 was burning and diving towards the Siang River in the darkness, the entire 75th Squadron figured they had lost Johnny Alison. His unexpected arrival cheered the entire unit. More important, though, was the success of his pioneering night interception experiment. For a long time the Jap bombers refused to attack Hengyang at night, proof that they considered Alison's ambush a defense technique to be reckoned with seriously. As the war progressed and additional equipment, including radar and more elaborate radio equipment plus aircraft specially designed for night fighting, became available, night interception became a standard procedure. The Air Force recognized Alison's significant contribution to the Allied victory in China by awarding him the Distinguished Service Cross for the mission. Alison's flying career was far from over, however. He became one of the great aces of the CBI Theater, served as second in command of Colonel Phil Cochran's First Air Commando Unit which landed Wingate's raiders 200 miles behind Jap lines in Burma, and became operations officer of the 700-plane Fifth Air Force in the Philippines and Okinawa. After the war he served as assistant secretary of Commerce for Aeronautics and as vice-president of the Northrop Corporation. The flier from Micanopy, Florida, has gone far, but it is doubtful if he ever contributed more to aerial warfare than he did that dark and fateful night of July 30, 1942 over Hengyang, China, when he ambushed the Japanese bombers. |
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