Subsequently, he shifted his attention to New Guinea.
At half past noon on Sunday, April 11, a strike force of approximately a hundred planes from Ozawa’s carrier groups attacked Oro Bay, fifteen miles south of previously contested Buna. One small cargo ship was sunk, a second beached, and a minesweeper damaged. The effort was relatively feeble compared to the blow that Yamamoto could have delivered. Kenney thought as much, later stating thathe was “puzzled” by the enemy’s choice of targets. The nearby airstrip complex at Dobodura, undergoing rapid expansion, housed dozens of aircraft. A concentrated attack there might have set the Allies back several months.
Realizing he was fortunate, Kenney found himself in a grim chess match. The most pressing challenge would be to correctly anticipate the enemy’s next target and intercept the attack. Aware that Milne Bay was “full of shipping,” he moved the majority of his fighter strength to Dobodura and Milne Bay, on the other side of the Owen Stanley Mountains, leaving only twenty fighters at Port Moresby.
His defenses established, Kenney knew he was not compelled to wait for the enemy to make the next move. Inclined to think offensively, he decided to hit Rabaul.
THAT AFTERNOON, IN the 43rd Bomb Group’s tent city at Port Moresby, orders were posted for another night attack on Rabaul. Lieutentant Colonel John A. Roberts, who had assumed command of the group less than two weeks earlier, would lead the effort. Two of his squadrons, the 64th and 65th, were to commit every available B-17 to the mission.
An hour after midnight on April 12, startup procedures commenced at Jackson Field, often referred to by its former name, Seven Mile airdrome. Roberts occupied the copilot’s seat of Lulu Belle , which had been fitted with extra fuel tanks in lieu of bombs to conduct weather reconnaissance and general observation. At 0130, the B-17 roared down the runway and climbed alone into the darkness.
Fifteen minutes later, the main strike began. A B-17 named Blues in the Nite taxied to the downwind end of the runway. This was McCullar, heading up the main formation as commanding officer of the 64th Squadron. His aircraft had two extra sergeants aboard who had volunteered as spare gunners. Anyone who got to fly with McCullar owned a lot of bragging rights.
Throttling up to full power, McCullar released the brakes at 0147. In the control tower, Maj. David W. Hassemer watched the heavy bomber accelerate normally. But something went wrong. The B-17 was about halfway down the runway, nearing takeoff speed, when Hassemer distinctly heard “a loud metallic crack” over the sound of the four radial engines. He later reported: “At a point opposite of the tower a long streak of bluish-white sparking flame appeared below the number-three engine nacelle and in the right wheel assembly. This flame lasted for five or six seconds and then went out momentarily.”
Multiple failures may have occurred independently. The metallic bang was possibly the bursting of an expander tube in a brake line on the right landing gear. A stream of pressurized, highly flammable hydraulic fluid contacted hot metal, either the brake bands on the wheel or the engine exhaust outlet, igniting the fire seen from the control tower. Other witnesses saw the flames spread quickly from the engine nacelle across the upper and lower wing surfaces, until a stream of fire reached back the length of the aircraft. At roughly the same moment, justas the heavy bomber got airborne, the tire on the left wheel separated from the landing gear.
Engines howling, its right wing burning brightly, Blues in the Nite pitched up sharply. After rising only a few hundred feet, it stalled. Rolling drunkenly to the left, it staggered along for several seconds at a sixty-degree angle of bank, an indication that McCullar and his copilot were trying to fight the stall. Gravity prevailed, however. A few hundred yards beyond the southeast end
At half past noon on Sunday, April 11, a strike force of approximately a hundred planes from Ozawa’s carrier groups attacked Oro Bay, fifteen miles south of previously contested Buna. One small cargo ship was sunk, a second beached, and a minesweeper damaged. The effort was relatively feeble compared to the blow that Yamamoto could have delivered. Kenney thought as much, later stating thathe was “puzzled” by the enemy’s choice of targets. The nearby airstrip complex at Dobodura, undergoing rapid expansion, housed dozens of aircraft. A concentrated attack there might have set the Allies back several months.
Realizing he was fortunate, Kenney found himself in a grim chess match. The most pressing challenge would be to correctly anticipate the enemy’s next target and intercept the attack. Aware that Milne Bay was “full of shipping,” he moved the majority of his fighter strength to Dobodura and Milne Bay, on the other side of the Owen Stanley Mountains, leaving only twenty fighters at Port Moresby.
His defenses established, Kenney knew he was not compelled to wait for the enemy to make the next move. Inclined to think offensively, he decided to hit Rabaul.
THAT AFTERNOON, IN the 43rd Bomb Group’s tent city at Port Moresby, orders were posted for another night attack on Rabaul. Lieutentant Colonel John A. Roberts, who had assumed command of the group less than two weeks earlier, would lead the effort. Two of his squadrons, the 64th and 65th, were to commit every available B-17 to the mission.
An hour after midnight on April 12, startup procedures commenced at Jackson Field, often referred to by its former name, Seven Mile airdrome. Roberts occupied the copilot’s seat of Lulu Belle , which had been fitted with extra fuel tanks in lieu of bombs to conduct weather reconnaissance and general observation. At 0130, the B-17 roared down the runway and climbed alone into the darkness.
Fifteen minutes later, the main strike began. A B-17 named Blues in the Nite taxied to the downwind end of the runway. This was McCullar, heading up the main formation as commanding officer of the 64th Squadron. His aircraft had two extra sergeants aboard who had volunteered as spare gunners. Anyone who got to fly with McCullar owned a lot of bragging rights.
Throttling up to full power, McCullar released the brakes at 0147. In the control tower, Maj. David W. Hassemer watched the heavy bomber accelerate normally. But something went wrong. The B-17 was about halfway down the runway, nearing takeoff speed, when Hassemer distinctly heard “a loud metallic crack” over the sound of the four radial engines. He later reported: “At a point opposite of the tower a long streak of bluish-white sparking flame appeared below the number-three engine nacelle and in the right wheel assembly. This flame lasted for five or six seconds and then went out momentarily.”
Multiple failures may have occurred independently. The metallic bang was possibly the bursting of an expander tube in a brake line on the right landing gear. A stream of pressurized, highly flammable hydraulic fluid contacted hot metal, either the brake bands on the wheel or the engine exhaust outlet, igniting the fire seen from the control tower. Other witnesses saw the flames spread quickly from the engine nacelle across the upper and lower wing surfaces, until a stream of fire reached back the length of the aircraft. At roughly the same moment, justas the heavy bomber got airborne, the tire on the left wheel separated from the landing gear.
Engines howling, its right wing burning brightly, Blues in the Nite pitched up sharply. After rising only a few hundred feet, it stalled. Rolling drunkenly to the left, it staggered along for several seconds at a sixty-degree angle of bank, an indication that McCullar and his copilot were trying to fight the stall. Gravity prevailed, however. A few hundred yards beyond the southeast end
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