lasted almost until one o’clock in the morning, and would have gone on longer if Kenney hadn’t promised to get Knudsen back to MacArthur in time for a breakfast meeting. 4 As Knudsen recalled, “In our talk we practically took planes apart and put them back together”—just the kind of talk he loved. 5 They talked about the B-24 Liberator, which Kenney believed was the perfect bomber for long-range operations among the widely scattered islands between New Guinea and the New Hebrides, and North American’s twin-engined B-25 Mitchell, which Kenney’s engineering wizard Irving “Pappy” Gunn and North American field rep Jack Fox were transforming into a low-flying strafing machine—at one point even trying out a 75mm cannon in the nose. 6
Knudsen in turn told him his impressions of the captured Japanese planes he had seen when he stopped in Brisbane, including themuch-vaunted Japanese Zero. He had been less than impressed. The planes struck him as “standard construction, but generally lighter than ours”—and the products of a Japanese industrial base that was still stuck, like the German’s, in a handcraft tradition. 7
But mostly they talked about the twin-engined Lockheed P-38 fighter, which the British had nicknamed the Lightning and which had become the mainstay of Kenney’s fighter force. “The Jap fliers give her wide berth,” Kenney told him, and with her twin Allison turbocharged engines with sixteen hundred pounds of thrust supplying her speed (up to 414 miles per hour) and power, and allowing her to carry four .50-caliber guns, a 20mm cannon, and enough fuel to travel 475 miles, the Lightning was just the sort of long-range fighter needed over the big distances of the Pacific. 8 *
The Lightning had proved indispensable, but now the Army Air Forces had newer planes and designs than the Lightning, including the P-51 Mustang (Knudsen had seen a plant in Brisbane where the Australians would be making Mustang engines), and wanted to shift production away from the Lightning. 9
Don’t do it, Kenney and Whitehead pleaded. They took over an hour explaining how the P-38 was the ideal airplane for long hops over water and jungle, and how unlike in Europe if a pilot ran out of fuel and had to bail out, the enemy wouldn’t just capture him but torture him to death. They fumed and stormed until “we finally ran out of both breath and argument,” Kenney remembered.
Knudsen said nothing. Then, absolutely deadpan, he turned his face to Kenney and said in his biggest Danish accent, “George, I gather you like P-38s. Okay, we’ll build them for you.” 10
Kenney laughed. That’s what he and other Air Force people loved about Knudsen, his ability to cut through the red tape and fog of decision making and close in on the heart of the matter, and get it done. The P-38 would remain in production, and almost 10,000 would bemade during the war. Together with Grumman’s Hellcat, it would sweep the once-feared Zero from the skies and help to clear the way for the last stage of the war in the Pacific: the invasion and defeat of Japan.
Knudsen learned that was not going to be easy. What amazed him, touring aircraft plants on both coasts and the Midwest, was how confident everyone was that America was going to win, and win without effort. He feared it was beginning to affect production schedules, as both managers and workers were unwilling to work flat-out—in fact, people were feeling more and more free to take time off. The very success he and his colleagues had achieved, of making war production look simple and straightforward, had its downside. “In general, everyone patriotically supports the war,” he told Don Nelson and his WPB colleagues back in July, “but too many are confident of an early and easy victory”—this, almost four months before the battle for Tarawa and almost a year before D-day. 11
Kenney showed him the other, grimmer side of the war. The next day he personally flew Knudsen and
Knudsen in turn told him his impressions of the captured Japanese planes he had seen when he stopped in Brisbane, including themuch-vaunted Japanese Zero. He had been less than impressed. The planes struck him as “standard construction, but generally lighter than ours”—and the products of a Japanese industrial base that was still stuck, like the German’s, in a handcraft tradition. 7
But mostly they talked about the twin-engined Lockheed P-38 fighter, which the British had nicknamed the Lightning and which had become the mainstay of Kenney’s fighter force. “The Jap fliers give her wide berth,” Kenney told him, and with her twin Allison turbocharged engines with sixteen hundred pounds of thrust supplying her speed (up to 414 miles per hour) and power, and allowing her to carry four .50-caliber guns, a 20mm cannon, and enough fuel to travel 475 miles, the Lightning was just the sort of long-range fighter needed over the big distances of the Pacific. 8 *
The Lightning had proved indispensable, but now the Army Air Forces had newer planes and designs than the Lightning, including the P-51 Mustang (Knudsen had seen a plant in Brisbane where the Australians would be making Mustang engines), and wanted to shift production away from the Lightning. 9
Don’t do it, Kenney and Whitehead pleaded. They took over an hour explaining how the P-38 was the ideal airplane for long hops over water and jungle, and how unlike in Europe if a pilot ran out of fuel and had to bail out, the enemy wouldn’t just capture him but torture him to death. They fumed and stormed until “we finally ran out of both breath and argument,” Kenney remembered.
Knudsen said nothing. Then, absolutely deadpan, he turned his face to Kenney and said in his biggest Danish accent, “George, I gather you like P-38s. Okay, we’ll build them for you.” 10
Kenney laughed. That’s what he and other Air Force people loved about Knudsen, his ability to cut through the red tape and fog of decision making and close in on the heart of the matter, and get it done. The P-38 would remain in production, and almost 10,000 would bemade during the war. Together with Grumman’s Hellcat, it would sweep the once-feared Zero from the skies and help to clear the way for the last stage of the war in the Pacific: the invasion and defeat of Japan.
Knudsen learned that was not going to be easy. What amazed him, touring aircraft plants on both coasts and the Midwest, was how confident everyone was that America was going to win, and win without effort. He feared it was beginning to affect production schedules, as both managers and workers were unwilling to work flat-out—in fact, people were feeling more and more free to take time off. The very success he and his colleagues had achieved, of making war production look simple and straightforward, had its downside. “In general, everyone patriotically supports the war,” he told Don Nelson and his WPB colleagues back in July, “but too many are confident of an early and easy victory”—this, almost four months before the battle for Tarawa and almost a year before D-day. 11
Kenney showed him the other, grimmer side of the war. The next day he personally flew Knudsen and
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