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Authors: John D. Lukacs
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“running around like mad.” But he instead veered toward the north shore and its supply dumps and warehouses. At 1,800 feet, he loosed his final “egg.” His aim was true; fire, smoke, and debris exploded into the air. Dyess and his new weaver, Lt. John Burns, swept the docks with their guns, adding to the conflagration before arcing skyward with a ferocious hail of tracer bul ets, antiaircraft, and smal arms fire on their tails.
Just as the pilots began their homeward journey, their radios informed them that observers on Mariveles Mountain had spotted a large transport, with landing barges in tow, trying to slip out of the bay.
Dyess immediately veered into an interception course. Il uminated by the glow of the fires in the west, the vessel made an inviting target. He could see the six streams of his wing guns spitting shel s from amidships to the stern, sparking several fires.
Burns fol owed Dyess and pumped additional fire into the vessel. Gunning Kibosh ’s engine, Dyess climbed to 4,000 feet before screaming down on another strafing run. With Kibosh ’s nose pointed at a 45-degree angle, he mashed down the trigger and stitched several deadly rows of .50 caliber bul ets across the ship’s bow and bridge. The vessel then exploded in a blinding flash. Dyess jerked the plane’s stick to avoid being caught in the thick wash of black smoke and debris. The move was so sudden, he blacked out for a few seconds. “Colder than a pair of ice tongs,” he later wrote. When Dyess came to at 4,000 feet, he saw the boiling, blue-black waves below him cresting with orange flames.
Dyess sighted another ship silhouetted in the fiery glow and, despite the large volume of antiaircraft fire it was throwing up, swooped down for another kil . In his report, Burns would identify the ship as a cruiser.
it was throwing up, swooped down for another kil . In his report, Burns would identify the ship as a cruiser.
Dyess made three passes, raking the vessel with fire from his .50 cals until his trigger clicked unresponsively. Mortal y wounded, the ship lunged for the shore, beaching on the sand. Dyess could see the effects of the damage he had wrought through several large bul et holes in the underside of the plane.
After giving Burns the high sign, the signal to disengage, he set a course for Bataan Field.
He thoughtlessly cruised over Japanese lines at 1,000 feet, “the stupidest thing of my flying career,” he later admitted. Flak sent the plane quivering into a turbulent fit of exploding shel s and tracer streams. “It was like flying down Broadway,” said Dyess. He survived. Climbing from the cockpit back at Bataan Field, he pressed into the excited crowd gathering in wonderment around Kibosh ’s sievelike fuselage. “We got one that time,” exclaimed a shaken Dyess. They got more than one. As the excited reports of the observers crackled in and the damage estimates climbed, Captain Ind raced outside the operations shack to relay the news. The defenders of the Philippines final y had a reason to celebrate. Bataan Field erupted in joy.
“It was stuff much too strong to be taken with calm and reserve,” he explained. “The lid blew off our long jammed-down feelings. Restraint went to the winds, and the jungle resounded to our whoops.”
Nine pilots contributed to the success of the raid—including Lt. Sam Grashio, who, after a locked release handle prevented him from dropping his bombs, skil ful y landed with the bombs dangling from his wings, thus saving his P-40 for another mission. But Dyess’s individual exploits were staggering. His score included one 12,000-ton transport destroyed, one 5,000- or 6,000-ton vessel burned, at least two 100-ton motor launches, and a handful of smal er barges and lighters sunk. It was impossible to estimate the ful extent of the dockside damages, but the cumulative Japanese losses were so severe that Radio Tokyo reported that fifty-four American four-engined bombers and swarms of
Just as the pilots began their homeward journey, their radios informed them that observers on Mariveles Mountain had spotted a large transport, with landing barges in tow, trying to slip out of the bay.
Dyess immediately veered into an interception course. Il uminated by the glow of the fires in the west, the vessel made an inviting target. He could see the six streams of his wing guns spitting shel s from amidships to the stern, sparking several fires.
Burns fol owed Dyess and pumped additional fire into the vessel. Gunning Kibosh ’s engine, Dyess climbed to 4,000 feet before screaming down on another strafing run. With Kibosh ’s nose pointed at a 45-degree angle, he mashed down the trigger and stitched several deadly rows of .50 caliber bul ets across the ship’s bow and bridge. The vessel then exploded in a blinding flash. Dyess jerked the plane’s stick to avoid being caught in the thick wash of black smoke and debris. The move was so sudden, he blacked out for a few seconds. “Colder than a pair of ice tongs,” he later wrote. When Dyess came to at 4,000 feet, he saw the boiling, blue-black waves below him cresting with orange flames.
Dyess sighted another ship silhouetted in the fiery glow and, despite the large volume of antiaircraft fire it was throwing up, swooped down for another kil . In his report, Burns would identify the ship as a cruiser.
it was throwing up, swooped down for another kil . In his report, Burns would identify the ship as a cruiser.
Dyess made three passes, raking the vessel with fire from his .50 cals until his trigger clicked unresponsively. Mortal y wounded, the ship lunged for the shore, beaching on the sand. Dyess could see the effects of the damage he had wrought through several large bul et holes in the underside of the plane.
After giving Burns the high sign, the signal to disengage, he set a course for Bataan Field.
He thoughtlessly cruised over Japanese lines at 1,000 feet, “the stupidest thing of my flying career,” he later admitted. Flak sent the plane quivering into a turbulent fit of exploding shel s and tracer streams. “It was like flying down Broadway,” said Dyess. He survived. Climbing from the cockpit back at Bataan Field, he pressed into the excited crowd gathering in wonderment around Kibosh ’s sievelike fuselage. “We got one that time,” exclaimed a shaken Dyess. They got more than one. As the excited reports of the observers crackled in and the damage estimates climbed, Captain Ind raced outside the operations shack to relay the news. The defenders of the Philippines final y had a reason to celebrate. Bataan Field erupted in joy.
“It was stuff much too strong to be taken with calm and reserve,” he explained. “The lid blew off our long jammed-down feelings. Restraint went to the winds, and the jungle resounded to our whoops.”
Nine pilots contributed to the success of the raid—including Lt. Sam Grashio, who, after a locked release handle prevented him from dropping his bombs, skil ful y landed with the bombs dangling from his wings, thus saving his P-40 for another mission. But Dyess’s individual exploits were staggering. His score included one 12,000-ton transport destroyed, one 5,000- or 6,000-ton vessel burned, at least two 100-ton motor launches, and a handful of smal er barges and lighters sunk. It was impossible to estimate the ful extent of the dockside damages, but the cumulative Japanese losses were so severe that Radio Tokyo reported that fifty-four American four-engined bombers and swarms of
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