You don't open a bottle of 1896 Cognac for just any occasion.
The opening of the bottle was to be the culmination of ceremonies, but before we talk about the bottle, the real story begins more than 70 years ago.
Following the Pearl Harbor attack, America was reeling for an opportunity to strike back at her aggressor. A special task force, led by James Doolittle, was formed with the specific intent of striking the Japanese mainland. The concept was simple enough: fly a squadron of medium bombers from an American aircraft carrier to bomb targets in Japan, and then land at designated airfields in China.
Doolittle, America's premier aviation pioneer, was an appropriate choice to lead such a mission. The B-25, with its short takeoff distance, extended range, and bomb capacity, was the only aircraft capable of carrying out such an attack. All that was needed were volunteers.
Co-pilot Richard E. Cole wrote, "They had a note on the company bulletin board that they were looking for volunteers for a dangerous mission. I signed my name." Just like that, 80 men who may have otherwise never crossed paths were united in the most extraordinary circumstance.
The volunteers were given three weeks of specialized training - just three weeks of preparation for one of the most crucial missions in military history. Not one of them had ever taken off from a ship. None of them, including Doolittle, had even seen a B-25 take off from a carrier. To maintain secrecy, the men were not told of their intended target until the task force was en route to Japan. Here and previously, the volunteers were given the opportunity to withdraw, no questions asked and without threat of reprimand. Not one man stood down.
A Japanese early warning system alerted the presence of the American task group. Thus, the B-25s were forced to launch early, and in broad daylight. The airplanes would run out of fuel before reaching friendly airfields in China. No matter - it was go time.
Crew Number One, Doolittle's plane, was the first to takeoff. He started the engines, let them warm up, and ran through the checklist. When everything checked out, he gave a thumbs-up to the signal officer of the carrier deck. By now, the aircraft carrier Hornet had turned into the wind at full steam. Her bow heaved with each ocean swell, as towering waves crashed over the flight deck.
The signal officer motioned to Doolittle to bring his engines to full power. At this moment, timing was everything. As the bow of the Hornet plunged downward into a trough, Doolittle held his bakes. Microseconds passed as all waited for the inevitable seesaw of the ship. At that slight, subtle moment when the ship had barely begun its upward trend, brakes were released and chocks pulled from the wheels. Thus, when each pilot began his takeoff run, he looked down the flight deck, directly into a trench of water.
Ever so slowly, the airplane inched forward. At the same time, the Hornet rocked back on her stern. Two white stripes were painted down the length of the carrier deck. If the pilot kept his wheels on the appropriate lines, the right wing would miss the carrier's island by about six feet.
Faster and faster, the superstructure raced past the wingtip and, just as the bow reached its apex, Doolittle's B-25 was airborne with space to spare. In the days before GPS navigation, Doolittle swung his aircraft around in a circle, and flew over the carrier deck once more to check his compass heading with the direction of the ship.
Fifteen airplanes and crew followed suit, but not without incident - the deck of an aircraft carrier is traditionally among the most dangerous places on earth. Each B-25 was jockeyed into position by a host of Navy crewmen. The pilot of the last plane, Lt. Bill Farrow, watched mortified as the prop blast from the preceding airplane threw a deck handler into his spinning propeller. The sailor's arm was nearly severed as he was tossed aside like a rag doll. There was nothing Farrow could do - seconds later, it was his turn to gun the engines for departure.
It took one hour for the Hornet and her crew to launch all 16 of Doolittle's B-25s. Immediately, the American task force turned around to avoid further detection. Doolittle and his men were on their own, their premature departure ensuring there was not enough fuel to make their intended landfall in China. The isolation of the small group of American aviators was now complete.
On the flight from the Hornet to Japan, some of the crews spotted enemy vessels and aircraft, a few of the B-25s took evasive maneuvers, and some were fired upon but received minimal damage. It seemed as though the enemy was confused. Scores of aircraft were spotted, a few bursts of gunfire erupted, but people on the ground smiled and waved to the Doolittle Raiders as they made landfall, flying in at treetop level.
Of the flight to Japan, Richard Cole, the co-pilot of Crew #1, experienced something truly bizarre: "... the tune "Wabash Cannonball' kept running through my mind. One time I was singing and stamping my foot with such gusto that [Doolittle] looked at me in a very questioning manner like he thought I was going batty," ("The Doolittle Raid," Carroll Glines).
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The opening of the bottle was to be the culmination of ceremonies, but before we talk about the bottle, the real story begins more than 70 years ago.
Following the Pearl Harbor attack, America was reeling for an opportunity to strike back at her aggressor. A special task force, led by James Doolittle, was formed with the specific intent of striking the Japanese mainland. The concept was simple enough: fly a squadron of medium bombers from an American aircraft carrier to bomb targets in Japan, and then land at designated airfields in China.
Doolittle, America's premier aviation pioneer, was an appropriate choice to lead such a mission. The B-25, with its short takeoff distance, extended range, and bomb capacity, was the only aircraft capable of carrying out such an attack. All that was needed were volunteers.
Co-pilot Richard E. Cole wrote, "They had a note on the company bulletin board that they were looking for volunteers for a dangerous mission. I signed my name." Just like that, 80 men who may have otherwise never crossed paths were united in the most extraordinary circumstance.
The volunteers were given three weeks of specialized training - just three weeks of preparation for one of the most crucial missions in military history. Not one of them had ever taken off from a ship. None of them, including Doolittle, had even seen a B-25 take off from a carrier. To maintain secrecy, the men were not told of their intended target until the task force was en route to Japan. Here and previously, the volunteers were given the opportunity to withdraw, no questions asked and without threat of reprimand. Not one man stood down.
A Japanese early warning system alerted the presence of the American task group. Thus, the B-25s were forced to launch early, and in broad daylight. The airplanes would run out of fuel before reaching friendly airfields in China. No matter - it was go time.
Crew Number One, Doolittle's plane, was the first to takeoff. He started the engines, let them warm up, and ran through the checklist. When everything checked out, he gave a thumbs-up to the signal officer of the carrier deck. By now, the aircraft carrier Hornet had turned into the wind at full steam. Her bow heaved with each ocean swell, as towering waves crashed over the flight deck.
The signal officer motioned to Doolittle to bring his engines to full power. At this moment, timing was everything. As the bow of the Hornet plunged downward into a trough, Doolittle held his bakes. Microseconds passed as all waited for the inevitable seesaw of the ship. At that slight, subtle moment when the ship had barely begun its upward trend, brakes were released and chocks pulled from the wheels. Thus, when each pilot began his takeoff run, he looked down the flight deck, directly into a trench of water.
Ever so slowly, the airplane inched forward. At the same time, the Hornet rocked back on her stern. Two white stripes were painted down the length of the carrier deck. If the pilot kept his wheels on the appropriate lines, the right wing would miss the carrier's island by about six feet.
Faster and faster, the superstructure raced past the wingtip and, just as the bow reached its apex, Doolittle's B-25 was airborne with space to spare. In the days before GPS navigation, Doolittle swung his aircraft around in a circle, and flew over the carrier deck once more to check his compass heading with the direction of the ship.
Fifteen airplanes and crew followed suit, but not without incident - the deck of an aircraft carrier is traditionally among the most dangerous places on earth. Each B-25 was jockeyed into position by a host of Navy crewmen. The pilot of the last plane, Lt. Bill Farrow, watched mortified as the prop blast from the preceding airplane threw a deck handler into his spinning propeller. The sailor's arm was nearly severed as he was tossed aside like a rag doll. There was nothing Farrow could do - seconds later, it was his turn to gun the engines for departure.
It took one hour for the Hornet and her crew to launch all 16 of Doolittle's B-25s. Immediately, the American task force turned around to avoid further detection. Doolittle and his men were on their own, their premature departure ensuring there was not enough fuel to make their intended landfall in China. The isolation of the small group of American aviators was now complete.
On the flight from the Hornet to Japan, some of the crews spotted enemy vessels and aircraft, a few of the B-25s took evasive maneuvers, and some were fired upon but received minimal damage. It seemed as though the enemy was confused. Scores of aircraft were spotted, a few bursts of gunfire erupted, but people on the ground smiled and waved to the Doolittle Raiders as they made landfall, flying in at treetop level.
Of the flight to Japan, Richard Cole, the co-pilot of Crew #1, experienced something truly bizarre: "... the tune "Wabash Cannonball' kept running through my mind. One time I was singing and stamping my foot with such gusto that [Doolittle] looked at me in a very questioning manner like he thought I was going batty," ("The Doolittle Raid," Carroll Glines).
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
