JAPAN AND RETURN

Missing after the first Superfortress raid on Japan, TIME Correspondent Harry Zinder and the crew of a wrecked B-29 turned up later last week at their base. Zinder cabled:

We took off in the early afternoon with clouded mountains beckoning; by darkness we had crossed into Jap-held territory. The Superfortress' four big engines throbbed rhythmically under the careful hands of her pilot, 26-year-old Captain Robert Root. Beside him, watchful and calm, was his copilot, blond Lieut. Clifford Anderson. I sat on the cold escape hatch just opposite Lieut. Peter Coury, the flight engineer, who kept steady watch on his multitude of instruments.

The sky was brilliantly lit by warm Oriental stars as we hit the Yellow Sea and passed into the trickiest part of our trip--the long jaunt across the water. We put on our Mae Wests and settled down for the run that would bring us around midnight over Japan's biggest iron and steel works, on Kyushu Island. The senior gunner, Sergeant Allen, asked the pilot for permission to blow the guns: there was a chattering rattle all round us as Allen and his mates tested their powerful armament.

Company in the Night. Allen spoke up through the intercom: "There is a B-29 on our left," and almost simultaneously from other sections of the ship the intercom was full of reports. There were other Superfortresses around us.

Our ship was gently pitching when we made the landfall on Japan. We hooked on our flak suits, adjusted our helmets and got into position for the bomb-run. Pilot Root increased the tempo of his gum-chewing. The copilot settled himself solidly in his seat, the engineer edged forward, his eyes glued to the instruments. The navigator, Lieut. James Stanley, checked and rechecked our position.

I stood weighted down with equipment behind the flight deck, where I could see scores of searchlights spotting other aircraft over the target and see the red glare of ack-ack bursting both high and low. Root checked each station on the ship with a "You all right?"--All set.

"Here We Go!" "You're on course, Captain." Stanley said. Our course lay right into the center of six converging searchlights. By now we could both hear and feel puffs of ack-ack. Root ordered the bomb-bay doors opened, gripped the wheel tighter and said: "Here we go, fellows." He pointed the nose right into the midst of the fiercest glare of lights, the worst bursts of ack-ack.

Root spoke to the bombardier, Lieut. Charles M. Albright.

"See the target, Charlie?" "Goddamit, those lights are blinding me."

"Take your time, Charlie, take your time. It's gotta be here somewhere."

I stood there in a sweat as the seconds ticked off. The ship was now caught in the full glare of the lights. It moved at bombing speed like a huge, whited apparition in the skies.

"There it is, Captain, there it is," Charlie screamed into his mike.

"Well, hit it, boy, hit it quick."

"Bombs Away!" Then Root nosed the ship down slightly as thousands of pounds of bombs shot down onto Yawata. Root made a steep left turn. Through the copilot's windows I could see another Superfortress on the bomb-run below us; there was another overhead. Then there was a brilliant flash below.

Root turned the ship over to Anderson and sat beside me. He spoke in a quiet, cool tone. "Guess old 293 isn't a virgin any more," he said.

"They must have been caught with their pants down," he said. "Not a single fighter anywhere."

The China coastline was dark when we returned. It was getting toward dawn. Just as the first light broke over the weary crew, old 293 lurched a little.

"There's black smoke coming out of No. 3 engine," one of the gunners reported. Root cut out No. 3 engine and gunned up the others. His commands came fast, terse, unexcited.

"Stanley, give me our position. When we get into friendly territory look out for possible landing fields. Coury, give me the gas consumption every 15 minutes. Robinson [this to the radioman]--as soon as you hear we are in Free China, send out our position and emergency landing signal. All crew: get ready for an emergency landing."

It didn't seem possible. Just two hours away from our base, we were in trouble. There was a look of deep personal injury in Coury's eyes, as though his big baby was letting him down. We cruised across the mountains waiting for some radio reply.

"Captain, I am afraid our radio is out of commission, too." Robinson finally reported. Said Root to all hands: "Prepare for emergency landing."

The River Valley. He headed the ship for a winding river bed. When the ground mist cleared we saw green, grassy fields and a little village set alongside the river. Root swung the ship in a semicircle and headed her in--"Here we go."

We hit the field at fair speed, wheels down, and it seemed as though we were going to nose over when Root braked her to a dead stop. We piled out.

Across the field we saw a long column of men running towards us. Root said, "Get the guns trained on them." I looked at them through glasses. They were Chinese soldiers, and an officer.

We bowed low and exchanged greetings. With the battle line only a few miles away, they said, Jap planes would be over any minute. "What can we do?" an interpreter asked.

Root, all business, asked for 1,500 gallons of aviation fuel, tools to repair the engine, and a strip to be leveled so we could take off.

Death Sentence. Officer and interpreter consulted hurriedly and agreed. They left an armed guard around the ship while Coury and the crew opened No. 3 engine to check on repair possibilities. Coury's face was dark and unhappy when he reported to Root, "Captain, there is not much we can do with the engine. We'll have to destroy the plane and get out as best we can."

Root looked steadily at Coury, then looked at 293. For a full minute he said nothing. The crew looked away or down at their shoes. Then:

"Okay. Doolen and Robinson, you come with me into the ship. We'll destroy the equipment and papers, then burn her."

The rest of us sat there for a few minutes and then suddenly we heard planes. Two fighters were streaking across the low mountains. We saw the Rising Sun on their sides.

We yelled to Root, Doolen and Robinson and rushed for a shallow ditch 50 yards away. The fighters roared across, pulled up and then turned on our ship. They spattered bullets across the fuselage and wings, then started a little fire on the left side.

The Long Attack. We hugged the ground closer as bullets kicked up dust and grass alongside the ditch. They made many passes. When the fire was fully blazing they left. We went to see what had happened to Root. By the time he joined us from inside the plane we heard more planes.

There were 15 this time--six bombers and nine fighters. The fighters peeled off first and did a strafing job, and then the bombers went to work and finished the job. We were in the ditch again, renewing our prayers. We felt sure they must have seen us because we could see their bomb-bay doors open, see their bombs fall on the ship and around it. We decided to spend the rest of the morning in the ditch.

There was nothing we could do for 293. We covered ourselves with grass, leaves and tree limbs. Through the next three hours more and more Jap planes came over, strafing and bombing, and just as suddenly as it started, it all stopped. The sky was quiet.

But 293 lay dead and gutted, finished on her first trip. That night we spent in a farm house near the carcass. Next night after a long motor ride we were home again.

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