Kelly

The Legend of Colin Kelly by Robert Taylor

Let’s get out of here!

Banking the giant B-17 170 degrees starboard, I put us on a new heading (south by south-east) so we’re in line with Clark Field.

Just as I finish the turn, Money in the top turret calls out, “Fighters 5 o’clock high!”

“Altman, before you get in the bathtub, let Clark know we splashed a battleship!” I order to our radio operator.

“Yes, Cap” he replies.

From multiple points behind the cockpit, the staccato cracks of machine guns clatter as hammers strike the rear end of belted shells, propelling each explosive projectile toward the incoming Jap Zeroes.

Robbins turns his head to look out over his right shoulder toward the incoming flight of Japs, “A whole swarm of ‘em! This is going to get ugly.”

We hit that ship on a mission that might never have happened, so we’re already ahead.

Despite the on-rushing enemy machine gun and cannon shells tearing through the thin skin of my lumbering giant bird, my glove-covered hands steady the vibrations, keeping trim and level flight.

Now we’ll see how much of a flying fortress this bird really is.

Shearing metal, human screams, staccato shell impacts, whizzing streaks of near-missed rounds, and blood-curdling shrieks of plane fragments torn away from the man-made contraption holding me aloft combine to crescendo into a cacophony of impulse overload silence.

Keep the plane flying, just fly the damn plane.

“Delehanty’s down, he’s bleeding,” someone yells into the coms in a voice too excited to be identified.

“You get Delehanty, I’ll cover your gun,” Bean offers over the coms.

He must be talking to the new guy, waist gunner Altman.

“Take out the one with the yellow stripe” Sergeant Altman, now in the bathtub turret, orders in a confident voice, perfectly calm, as if he is walking along a beach rather than fighting for his life and that of our plane.

Two Robert Altmans on my crew, what were the odds?

Keep it steady and fly the plane.

“Where’s the stripe?” Money asks.

“7, he’s at 7 High,” Halkyard, the other waist gunner, replies.

“Got ‘em. Take care of 4 Level,” Money calls out.

“He’s going too fast for me,” Halkyard grudgingly concedes.

“I got 3 low,” Altman offers from the tub.

“Whoa, did you see him go by?” Money asks no one in particular.

“Shut it, only use coms to call them out.” Robbins pipes in, attempting to keep the coms clear for the gunners.

“Engine 2’s hit, CATCHING FIRE!” Money shrieks into the coms.

Shit, a fire in 2. We can still make it back if the fuel doesn’t catch.

“I’m shutting down the fuel to 2 and feathering the props,” Robbins tells me, not looking in my direction.

“They’re breaking off,” Levin calls out from the nose.

“How’s Delehanty?” I ask, hoping new Altman’s got him covered.

Silence.

“Atman, how’s Delehanty?” Money chimes in.

“Money, get down there and check on Delehanty and Altman,” Robbins orders.

After a few moments of silence, Money comes back on the coms, “Delehanty’s dead, Altman’s bleeding Cap.”

Tub Altman comes on the coms, “Engine 4’s leaking, Cap. A dark stream streaking out.”

Engine 4 is leaking fuel. If the fire in 2 touches the fuel from 4, we’re done for.

“Shutting down the fuel feed to 4 and feathering the props,” Robbins informs me.

This bird has a good chance of exploding.

“Japs are coming back,” tub Altman reports on coms.

Summoning an air of gravitas despite my sense of dread, I order, “EVERYONE OUT, NOW!”

“I MEAN IT, JUMP NOW!”

Turning right so my vision is in line with Robbins, I order, “YOU TOO!”

“Someone break me out of here,” tub Altman orders more than requests.

I can’t imagine being stuck in the ball turret, dependent upon someone else in the plane to open the door for me.

Keep her steady.

Robbins starts to get up from his co-pilot seat, pauses for a moment while looking at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “Level it off and get out too.”

“I will.”

He folds himself in half, disappearing through the bulkhead.

My hands tremble in rhythm with the jittering plane.

Hold it together girl, we’ll get you home.

A Jap Zero streaks past so close I can see the pilots face.

Keep it steady.

The plane, despite its now violent vibrations, is staying level and steady, offering a perfect jumping platform for my crew.

I flip the switch to engage the autopilot, but when I let go of the steering column the wings bank slightly to port. 

If the autopilot doesn’t work, I can’t get to an exit fast enough before this bird flips over and starts spinning.

One engine on each side, with two feathered, if I put them in sync, even though they are not parallel, they could keep the bird stable.

I reduce the power to Engine 3, so that 1 is dominant.

Ok, that should do it.

Engaging the auto-pilot again, I pause for a moment to observe the plane.

Steady and stable, great!

Lifting myself from the Captain’s seat, my eye catches an incoming fighter at 3 O’clock, fiery bursts streaming from behind his prop.

Get out!

*****

Returning from what they believed to be a successful bombing run against a Japanese battleship, the crew of Captain Colin Kelly’s B-17(c) was jumped by a squadron of Japanese Zero fighters commanded by one of Japan’s most vaunted aces of the war, Saburo Sakai. Captain Kelly held the plane steady long enough for his six surviving crew members to escape before (and sources differ here) it either blew up or crashed. The Japanese fighter pilots could not definitively report which occurred, so a probable kill was split between several members of the squadron. This B-17 was the first American bomber lost in actual combat in World War II. Captain Kelly, a graduate of West Point, died in the loss.

The Legend of Colin Kelly by Robert Taylor

The crew that day were:

Pilot Captain Colin Purdie Kelly, Jr. (KIA, BR) Madison, FL

Co-Pilot 2nd Lt. Donald Robbins (survived)

Navigator 2nd Lt. Joe M. Bean (survived)

Bombardier Cpl Meyer Levin, 6975479 (survived) NY

Engineer SSgt William J. Delehanty (KIA, BR) NY

Radio/Bathtub Gunner Pfc Robert E. Altman (survived)

Assistant Radio/Gunner Willard Money (survived)

Gunner Pvt Robert Altman (WIA)

Waist Gunner SSgt James Halkyard (survived)

In the haste to share a small victory with a depressed military and civilian populace still reeling from the attack on Pearl Harbor and the surprise destruction of the U.S. air units at Clark Field the next day, the details of Kelly's sacrifice were confused and exaggerated. Reports of him crashing the bomber into a Japanese battleship, together with other equally false claims, encouraged many Americans to believe he was the first American suicide pilot of the war and deserved to be awarded The Medal of Honor. Kelly was a hero for saving his crew on America’s first bombing mission of World War II. He received the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second highest award for heroism, both for the assumed damage or destruction of the Japanese battleship Haruna but, especially, for the persona sacrifice which saved his crew.

Captain Kelly is considered the first American hero of World War II. Several streets, schools, post offices, and monuments around the country bear his name. His remains are buried in Madison, Florida (his hometown), and a statue in his honor resides in Four Freedoms Park. Kelly was survived by a small child, Colin B. “Corky “ Kelley III. A nation-wide effort, spearheaded by a Tampa newspaper, raised thousands of dollars for a Corky fund to help care for the child. President Roosevelt penned a request to the President of the United States in 1956. In the letter, F.D.R. asked that the airman's infant son get a West Point appointment. Colin Kelly III did attend and graduate from West Point, eventually becoming a priest and serving as an Assistant Chaplain at West Point.

http://airartnw.com/colinkellylegend.htm - To learn more about this mission, and those who were on both sides of it.

http://img834.imageshack.us/img834/9351/boeingb17cflyingfortres.jpg - graphic of early model B-17 (likely in the Philippines)

NISHI

“It’s 11 already!” Susanne, the hurried nurse in the white uniform complete with the folded red-crossed nurse’s cap, blurts out to me as she rushes up to Mr. Barrymore’s room. 

“Yep, and he’s not in the best mood today.” I call back, doubting that the Master of the house can hear me through the thick plaster walls of his Mediterranean-style Beverly Hills villa. 

“Take me outside now!” I hear in a yell muffled through the walls.   

I better hurry on his lemonade, or I won’t hear the end of it until his nap at 2. 

Quickly, I begin picking out the ripest lemons from the box delivered this morning. 

Mr. Barrymore’s mood seems to shift rapidly from confused and docile old man enjoying the last wisps of life to frustrated curmudgeon energetically angry at a world he no longer understands.   

My fingers burn from the acidic lemon juice pouring over them into the measuring cup as I slowly turn the juicer with my left hand and the lemon with my right. 

“Mary, can you help with the stairs?” Susanne calls to me from atop the staircase. 

“I’ll be right there.” 

Choosing between finishing his lemonade and allowing him his daily time outside is never easy.  Why don’t I ever start making the lemonade earlier? 

Shuffling to the bottom of the staircase, I wipe my lemon-scented hands on a dishtowel that I then stuff into the beige apron wrapped around my waist. 

The Master’s wheelchair is descending slowly down the side of the staircase with machine precision so that his frail body is not jostled as he moves from one level of the house to the next.   

This German-built contraption may be the last piece of German machinery imported to the United States before the Germans declared war on us. 

Having just been installed, the wheelchair elevator is a machine that Mr. Barrymore accepts, but he does not appreciate having to use. 

“This damn NAZI machine is not needed in my home.  I can take these stairs myself!” he barks out. 

“Yes Sir,” Susanne replies. “We’ll walk back up on our return.” 

Missing the irony in this response, Mr. Barrymore grunts an affirmation, before looking up at me. 

“Where is my lemonade?” he demands. 

“I’ll have it ready as we step outside” I reply as I take his right hand to help him dismount from the wheelchair connected to the wall. 

Susanne comes down the staircase quickly and takes his left arm in her own to guide him out the door. 

 Rushing back to the kitchen to put the final touches on the lemonade, I can hear the front door open as the two of them burst into the garden. 

I pour in three soup-spoonfuls of white Hawaiian sugar, mix in a cup of ice-cold water with the lemon juice, and stir the mixture into a tall pitcher before pouring the sugary concoction into a carafe that I place on a tray next to a spotless drinking glass. 

The Master cannot accept spots on his drinking glasses; a lesson I learned only too well again yesterday when I had to clean up the shattered remnants of one off of the walkway outside the front door. 

Carrying the tray out the front door, I overhear Mr. Barrymore ask, “What are those soldiers doing with Nishi and his family?” 

I had completely forgotten that today is the day that Nishi, the gardener, and his family are being taken away. 

“They’re going away,” Susanne replies. 

“Why?” Mr. Barrymore asks, a look of concern on his face.  

Mr. Barrymore looks across the well-trimmed hedges toward the driveway, where a large ugly green truck sits surrounded by soldiers.  Nishi, his wife, and two sons fervently gather their meager belongings at the behest of multiple gun-toting boys in uniforms that match the wretched truck. 

Susanne looks up at me, hoping I can save her from having to explain to Mr. Barrymore why he is losing his gardener. 

“Sir, Nishi is Japanese. We are at war with Japan.” I softly offer as I set the tray of lemonade on a side table. At the same time Susanne lowers Mr. Barrymore into a chair on the freshly mown lawn. 

“But is there a war on with Nishi and his family?”  Mr. Barrymore asks. 

Susanne and I look at each other. 

How do I answer that? 

One day in the early spring of 1942, at the door of John Barrymore’s California mansion, Barrymore saw his Japanese-American gardener Nishi with his family and their belongings waiting to be carried away by soldiers. Barrymore was dying, his mind fading in and out of reality, and he did not understand what was happening.  When someone explained that America was at war with Japan, Barrymore could only murmur: “But is there a war on with Nishi and his family?”   

         On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the Secretary of War to prescribe certain “military areas” and to exile “any or all” persons from them. Though couched in broad language, the order was aimed at Japanese-Americans.  Under this order, in the spring and summer of 1942, 112,000 Japanese-Americans were removed to internment camps throughout the country, eventually ending up in 10 permanent camps away from the coasts. Germans, Italians, Romanians, Bulgarians, and Hungarians were all exempt from this roundup. Not a single Japanese-American was ever brought to trial on charges of espionage or sabotage in the United States. Thousands of Japanese Americans fought and died for the United States in World War II while their family members were held in camps for the duration of the war.  One of whom, Daniel Inouye was awarded the Medal of Honor, and became the highest ranking Asian American in United States politics. 

Source: The Home Front U.S.A., Time Life Books, 1978, pp. 27.