60 Japanese bombers, one American fighter.
No backup, no escape.
February 20th, 1942.
The USS Lexington floats 400 m into enemy waters.
When the radar screen explodes with contacts, 60 bombers inbound, 18 minutes out, every aircraft on deck is refueling.
The carrier is defenseless.
Two wild cats scramble into the sky.
Then the radio crackles.
Wingman’s guns jammed.
Lieutenant Edward O’Hare is suddenly alone.
One Wildcat against a formation that could erase an entire carrier group from existence.
450 rounds of ammunition.
9 minutes until they reach the Lexington.
The math is impossible.
But O’Hare doesn’t turn back because this fight didn’t start today.
It started years ago with a father, a gangster, and a family name destroyed beyond repair.
What happened in those 9 minutes would save500 lives and change naval warfare forever.
But first, you need to understand what brought him here.
Edward Henry O’Hare was born March 13th, 1914 in St.
Lewis, Missouri.
His friends called him Butch.
His father, Edward Joseph O’Hare, was one of the most successful lawyers in the city.
Successful because he represented one client better than anyone else.
Al Capone.
EJ O’Hare wasn’t just Capone’s lawyer.
He managed the Hawthorne Smoke Shop, a front for Capone’s dog racing empire that laundered millions.
He knew every detail of Capone’s operation, the books, the payoffs, the bodies.
And for years, he kept his mouth shut and got rich doing it.
But EJ had a son, and by the early 1930s, that son was applying to the United States Naval Academy.
EJ O’Hare looked at Butch and saw something he could never be.
clean, honorable, a chance to make the name O’Hare mean something other than blood money and mob connections.
So EJ made a choice.
He walked into the offices of the Internal Revenue Service and started talking.
Everything, names, locations, financial records that would bury Capone forever.
The information EJ provided became the foundation of the federal case against Al Capone.
On October 17th, 1931, Capone was convicted of tax evasion and sentenced to 11 years in federal prison.
Butch got his appointment to Annapolis, but the price was marked.
Everyone knew who turned on Capone.
Everyone knew EJ O’Hare was a dead man walking.
November 8th, 1939.
EJ O’Hare was driving through Chicago when a car pulled alongside him.
Shotgun blast through the window.
He died instantly.
No arrests were ever made.
The message was clear.
Betray the outfit and the outfit never forgets.
Butch O’Hare graduated from the Naval Academy in 1937.
He immediately applied for flight training.
Naval aviation in the late 1930s was still finding its identity.
Battleship admirals controlled the fleet.
Carriers were considered support vessels, scouts.
The idea that aircraft could be the primary striking arm of naval power was still radical, still unproven.
But O’Hare loved it.
The speed, the isolation, the absolute clarity of action and consequence at 300 mph.
He excelled.
Gunnery scores nearperfect.
Aerobatics smooth and controlled.
By 1941, he was assigned to Fighting Squadron 3 aboard the USS Saratoga, flying the Grumman F4F Wildcat.
The Wildcat was not a beautiful aircraft, stubby, heavy, slower than almost every Japanese fighter it would face, but it was tough.
It could take punishment that would shred a zero, and it had six 50 caliber machine guns that could saw a bomber in half.
O’Hare trained relentlessly.
Deflection shooting, high-speed gunnery runs, combat tactics that assumed you’d be alone and outnumbered.
Most pilots treated gunnery practice as a formality.
O’Hare treated it like his life depended on perfect accuracy because he knew one day it would.
December 7th, 1941, Pearl Harbor.
The entire Pacific battle line shattered in two hours.
The war O’Hare had been training for was suddenly real and immediate.
Fighting squadron 3 transferred to the USS Lexington in early 1942.
The Lexington was one of America’s most valuable assets, a fleet carrier, 80 aircraft, 1,500 crew.
She was also alone.
The Pacific Fleet was scattered, damaged, desperately trying to reorganize after Pearl Harbor.
In February 1942, the Lexington was ordered to raid Japanese positions near New Guinea, a strike mission deep into waters the Japanese now considered their own.
It was aggressive, it was dangerous, and it was exactly the kind of action America needed to show the world it was still in the fight.
February 20th dawned clear and warm.
The Lexington launched her strike aircraft before dawn.
Bombers and torpedo planes headed toward Rabul, the major Japanese base on New Britain.
The carrier air patrol stayed behind, routine, defensive, boring.
O’Hare and his wingman, Lieutenant Marian Dufilo, called Duff, sat in their wildcats on the flight deck, engines warm, ready for launch if needed.
The morning dragged on.
Then at 11:55, the radar operator made contact, bogeies inbound, bearing 320°, distance 47 mi.
At first, it looked like a small patrol, maybe a reconnaissance flight.
Then the returns multiplied.
The radar operator recounted.
Nine aircraft.
No, wait, more contacts.
He counted again.
His voice came over the radio tight and clipped.
Multiple bogeies.
Estimate 50 to 60 aircraft inbound fast.
The flight deck erupted into controlled chaos.
Aircraft were being refueled.
Ordinance carts lined the deck.
Nothing was ready for immediate launch.
The deck crew started pushing planes toward the catapults.
Two wildcats, that’s all they could get airorn in time.
O’Hare and Dufilo launched at 12:05.
They climbed hard toward the incoming formation, 12,000 ft.
Radio reports kept updating.
The formation was huge.
Twin engine bombers, Mitsubishi G4M Betty bombers, the most dangerous attack aircraft in the Japanese Naval Air Force.
Each one carried a ton of bombs or a massive aerial torpedo.
Any one of them could the Lexington.
60 of them could erase her from existence.
At 1212, O’Hare spotted them.
a V-shaped formation stretching across the sky.
Massive, disciplined, heading straight for the carrier.
He pushed the throttle forward and started his intercept run.
Then Dufelo’s voice came over the radio.
Guns jammed, all six.
He was flying a fighter with no way to fight.
O’Hare told him to stay clear.
Dufilo broke off.
Edward O’Hare was alone.
450 rounds per gun, 2700 rounds total, 60 bombers.
The Lexington was 12 minutes behind him, naked and helpless.
He would have known the math didn’t work.
He would have known that even perfect shooting couldn’t stop them all.
But Edward O’Hare had spent his entire life trying to prove that the name O’Hare meant something other than betrayal and murder.
Now he had 9 minutes to prove it.
O’Hare closed on the formation from above and behind.
Classic fighter tactics.
Use altitude for speed.
Hit them before they know you’re there.
But these weren’t fighters.
These were bombers in tight formation.
Every gunner scanning the sky.
And O’Hare was one aircraft against a wall of defensive fire.
The Mitsubishi G4M Betty was fast for a bomber.
230 mph in level flight, long range, heavy payload.
But it had a fatal weakness.
No armor, no self-sealing fuel tanks.
American pilots called it the flying Zippo because one good burst could turn it into a fireball.
O’Hare picked his target, the rearmost bomber on the right side of the formation.
He rolled into his attack run.
speed building 300 mph 320.
The Wildcat shook as it pushed through turbulent air.
He opened fire at 500 yd.
The 650 calibers hammered.
Tracers arked toward the bomber.
Hits sparkled across the fuselage and wing.
The Betty staggered.
Smoke poured from the right engine.
O’Hare held the trigger down.
The bomber’s wing tank erupted.
Flame engulfed the entire aircraft.
It rolled left and fell out of formation.
First kill.
40 seconds of combat.
29 bombers left.
O’Hare pulled up hard.
Gforces crushing him into his seat.
He rolled right and came around for another pass.
The formation was still holding course, still headed for the Lexington.
They hadn’t broken.
They hadn’t turned back.
professional, determined, deadly.
He selected another target, port side, this time, same altitude.
He dove in from the beam.
A deflection shot that required leading the target, calculating closure rate and bullet drop in a split second.
He fired.
The bomber’s port engine exploded.
The aircraft rolled inverted and spiraled toward the ocean.
Two down.
Less than 90 seconds elapsed.
But O’Hare could see the formation adjusting.
The bombers tightened up.
Gunners tracked him as he pulled away.
Tracers followed his Wildcat.
He felt impacts, rounds punching through the tail section.
The Wildcat shuddered, but kept flying.
He came around again, this time from below.
Harder shot, riskier, but it put him in a blind spot where fewer guns could track him.
He pulled the nose up, leading the target bomber.
fired.
The burst walked up the fuselage into the cockpit.
The bomber nosed down immediately.
Pilot killed.
No one left to fly it.
It fell away, trailing smoke and debris.
Three confirmed.
Maybe 4 minutes of combat.
His ammunition counters were dropping.
O’Hare pulled up hard, G forces crushing him into his seat.
He rolled right and came around for another pass.
The formation was still holding course, still headed for the Lexington.
They hadn’t broken.
They hadn’t turned back.
Professional, determined, deadly.
He selected another target, port side this time.
Same altitude.
He dove in from the beam.
A deflection shot that required leading the target, calculating closure rate and bullet drop in a split second.
He fired.
The bomber’s port engine exploded.
The aircraft rolled inverted and spiraled toward the ocean.
Two down, less than 90 seconds elapsed, but O’Hare could see the formation adjusting.
The bombers tightened up.
Gunners tracked him as he pulled away.
Tracers followed his wildcat.
He felt impacts.
Rounds punching through the tail section.
The wildat shuddered but kept flying.
He came around again, this time from below.
Harder shot, riskier, but it put him in a blind spot where fewer guns could track him.
He pulled the nose up, leading the target bomber.
Fired.
The burst walked up the fuselage into the cockpit.
The bomber nosed down immediately.
Pilot killed.
No one left to fly it.
It fell away, trailing smoke and debris.
Three confirmed.
Maybe 4 minutes of combat.
His ammunition counters were dropping fast.
Each gun held 450 rounds at 1,200 rounds per minute cyclic rate.
That meant roughly 20 seconds of continuous fire per gun.
He’d already burned through nearly half his ammunition.
The Japanese formation was 8 minutes from the Lexington now.
O’Hare could see the carrier in the distance, a gray sliver on the blue ocean, tiny, fragile, helpless.
He attacked again, headon this time.
The most dangerous approach.
Closing speed over 500 mph.
1 second of miscalculation, and he’d collide with a bomber and kill himself instantly.
But a head-on pass gave him the biggest target, the entire length of the fuselage, engines, cockpit, fuel tanks.
He lined up on the lead bomber of the second V.
Fired.
The combined closing speed meant his rounds hit like hammers.
The bomber’s nose shattered, windscreen disintegrated.
The aircraft pulled up sharply, then stalled and fell away.
O’Hare flashed through the formation at over 300 mph.
He felt more hits.
Something slammed into his wing, metal tearing, but the wildat was still flying, still fighting.
He rolled hard and came back around.
His arms achd.
His flight suit was soaked with sweat despite the freezing air at 12,000 ft.
The G forces were crushing.
Every maneuver pulled blood away from his brain.
Gray edges creeping into his vision, but he couldn’t stop.
Couldn’t slow down.
Fifth pass, he came in from the side again.
Picked a bomber trailing the formation slightly.
Fired.
Engine fire.
Wing damage.
The bomber dropped out of formation and started descending.
crew likely trying to make an emergency water landing.
He didn’t follow it down.
No time.
The formation was still coming.
Five bombers down, maybe 6 minutes of combat.
His ammunition was critically low.
The counters showed less than 30 seconds of firing time left across all six guns.
He had maybe two more passes, three if he was lucky and disciplined with his trigger control.
The Japanese formation was breaking apart now.
The tight Vshapes were gone.
Bombers were spreading out, some turning back, some still pressing forward.
O’Hare had done what seemed impossible.
He’d disrupted them, damaged their cohesion, made them afraid.
But at least 20 bombers were still heading for the Lexington, and O’Hare was almost out of ammunition.
He selected another target, a Betty that was still holding course, still determined to reach the carrier.
He came in from above, dove, fired a short burst, conserving ammo.
Hits on the fuselage.
The bomber’s defensive fire intensified.
Tracers everywhere.
Something hit his engine cowling.
Temperature gauge jumped.
Oil pressure flickering.
He held his attack, fired again, longer burst this time.
The bomber’s left engine exploded.
The wing folded.
The aircraft went into a flat spin.
Six confirmed kills.
His guns were nearly empty.
The Wildcat was damaged, cooling system compromised, oil spraying across his windscreen, and there were still bombers heading for the Lexington.
O’Hare made one more pass, maybe 30 rounds left per gun.
He picked a bomber near the front of what remained of the formation, closed to point blank range, 200 yd, suicide range, where the defensive fire could shred him.
He fired everything he had left.
All six guns hammering for 3 seconds.
The bomber disintegrated, wings ripped off, fuselage broke in half, debris tumbling through the sky.
Then his guns went silent, ammunition exhausted, the firing pins clicked on empty chambers.
Seven bombers destroyed.
9 minutes of combat, and Edward O’Hare was still alive.
The remaining Japanese bombers were scattering, some turning back towards Rabbal, others jettisoning their bombs into the ocean and running for home.
The tight, disciplined formation that had been unstoppable was now a broken gaggle of aircraft fleeing for their lives.
The Lexington was safe.
O’Hare turned back toward the carrier.
His Wildcat was trailing smoke, oil temperature in the red, hydraulics failing.
He nursed the throttle, keeping the damaged engine running.
The adrenaline was fading now.
His hands were shaking.
His body felt like it had been beaten with hammers.
He lined up for landing.
The deck crew was watching.
The entire carrier air patrol had heard the radio calls.
Everyone knew what had just happened.
One pilot, 60 bombers, impossible odds.
O’Hare’s Wildcat touched down on the deck.
tail hook caught the wire.
The aircraft jerked to a stop.
He sat in the cockpit for a moment, hands still on the stick, breathing hard.
Then he pulled off his oxygen mask and climbed out.
The deck crew surrounded him, inspecting the damage to his wildcat, counting the holes.
There were dozens.
Rounds through the tail section, wing damage, engine cowling shredded.
Any one of them could have been fatal.
None of them were.
Commander Paul Ramsay, the carrier’s air group commander, met O’Hare on the deck.
O’Hare gave his report.
Calm, factual.
Seven bombers confirmed, destroyed.
Formation broken.
Threat neutralized.
Ramsay just stared at him.
The United States Navy had been getting battered for 3 months.
Pearl Harbor, Wake Island, the Philippines falling, defeat after defeat.
And now, on a random Thursday morning in February, a 27-year-old lieutenant from St.
Louis had just accomplished something that shouldn’t have been possible.
But the story wasn’t over yet, because what O’Hare had done in 9 minutes would change not just his life, but the way America saw the war.
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The action report filed by Commander Ramsay on February 20th was precise and direct.
Lieutenant O’Hare had engaged a formation estimated at 50 to 60 enemy bombers, single-handedly disrupted the attack, destroyed five enemy aircraft, confirmed with two more probable kills, saved the USS Lexington from what would have been catastrophic damage or total loss.
The report went up the chain of command, task force commander, Pacific Fleet headquarters, the Navy Department in Washington.
In a war where every news cycle brought fresh disasters, here was something different.
Here was victory, clear, undeniable.
One American pilot against impossible odds.
Admiral Chester Nimttz, commanderin-chief of the Pacific Fleet, read the report personally.
Nimmitz was a careful man, not given to exaggeration or propaganda, but even he recognized that O’Hare’s action was extraordinary.
On April 15th, 1942, Admiral Nimttz recommended Lieutenant Edward O’Hare for the Medal of Honor.
The citation was direct for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in aerial combat at grave risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty.
It detailed the action, the overwhelming odds, the skill and courage required.
The result, five confirmed kills initially, later revised to five confirmed with two probable based on additional intelligence and recovered wreckage.
President Franklin Roosevelt approved the recommendation.
The Medal of Honor would be presented to Lieutenant O’Hare personally at the White House.
But first, the Navy had other plans for him.
America in early 1942 was desperate for heroes.
The war was going badly.
The Japanese had swept through the Pacific.
The Philippines were falling.
Singapore had fallen.
The British Eastern Fleet had been mauled in the Indian Ocean.
At home, rationing was beginning.
Casualty lists were growing.
People needed something to believe in.
The Navy pulled O’Hare from combat duty and sent him stateside.
Bond tour, public appearances, interviews, news reels.
Edward O’Hare, the fighter race who saved a carrier.
The modest young man from St.
Louis who became America’s first naval ace of World War II.
O’Hare hated it.
He was a pilot, not a performer.
He gave short, factual answers to reporters.
He deflected praise.
He talked about his squadron mates, his crew chief, anyone but himself.
But the public loved him anyway, maybe because of it.
In a war full of propaganda and manufactured heroes, O’Hare felt real.
On April 21st, 1942, O’Hare stood in the White House.
President Roosevelt personally placed the Medal of Honor around his neck.
The president’s hands shook slightly.
Polio had weakened him, but his voice was strong.
He told O’Hare that America was proud of him, that his action proved American pilots could fight and win against any odds.
O’Hare stood at attention, uncomfortable in the spotlight.
His mother, Selma, was there.
She had lost her husband to mob violence.
Now she watched her son receive the nation’s highest military honor.
The O’Hare name meant something different now.
Not betrayal, not blood money, courage, sacrifice, honor.
The Navy promoted O’Hare to Lieutenant Commander.
They assigned him to training duty.
New pilots needed to learn from the best.
O’Hare spent months teaching deflection shooting, combat tactics, how to attack bomber formations.
He was good at it, patient, clear.
He could break down complex maneuvers into simple steps, but O’Hare wanted back in the fight.
Training was important, but it wasn’t combat.
It wasn’t where he belonged.
He requested combat duty repeatedly.
Finally, in 1943, the Navy agreed.
O’Hare was assigned to Air Group 6 aboard the USS Enterprise.
The war had changed since February 1942.
American forces were advancing.
The Japanese were on the defensive, but the fighting was brutal.
Terowa, the Marshall Islands, the Gilberts.
Every island was paid for in blood.
O’Hare arrived at the Enterprise in September 1943.
He was now the air group commander, not just a pilot anymore.
He was responsible for every aircraft, every pilot in the group.
It was a different kind of pressure, different kind of weight.
The enterprise was operating near the Gilbert Islands.
The Navy was preparing for the invasion of Terowa, one of the most heavily defended at holes in the Pacific.
Japanese aircraft hitting American ships at night, radar equipped bombers coming in low and fast, hard to detect, harder to stop.
O’Hare worked with the Enterprises fighter direction officer to develop new tactics, night fighter patrols, radar equipped Wildcats, and the new Grumman F6F Hellcat working together.
The Hellcat had radar, but the operator was also trying to fly the aircraft.
O’Hara proposed a team approach, one aircraft with radar to find the target, wingmen without radar to make the kill.
It was experimental, dangerous.
Night combat over the ocean was disorienting even in perfect conditions.
Add in enemy aircraft, radio chatter, the constant fear of friendly fire, and it became chaos.
November 26th, 1943.
The Enterprise was operating near Mon Island.
After dark, radar picked up bogeies inbound, Japanese bombers.
The new night fighter team launched.
O’Hare led the patrol.
His wingman was Enen Warren scone.
A radar equipped Hellcat flown by Lieutenant Commander John Phillips joined them.
They climbed into the darkness.
Cloud cover at 5,000 ft.
Visibility poor.
Phillips called out contacts on radar.
Bogeies at Angel’s 12.
O’Hare and Scone climbed to intercept.
Radio traffic was heavy.
Multiple contacts, aircraft all around, friend and foe mixed together in the dark.
The radar operator aboard the Enterprise was calling out positions, but the information was confusing.
Overlapping contacts, fastm moving targets.
O’Hare called out a visual contact.
He saw something, an aircraft.
He thought it was a Japanese bomber.
He turned to engage.
Then the radio went silent.
Phillips called for O’Hare.
No response.
Scone called.
Nothing.
They searched for 30 minutes.
No sign of O’Hare’s Hellcat, no parachute, no wreckage, just darkness and empty ocean.
Edward Henry O’Hare was declared missing in action.
The official report stated he was lost during night combat operations near Tarowa.
The exact circumstances were unclear.
Possible scenarios included enemy fire, mechanical failure, or friendly fire in the confusion of night combat.
Later analysis suggested friendly fire was most likely.
The turret gunner on Philip’s radar equipped Hellcat had been firing at what he thought were Japanese aircraft.
In the darkness and confusion, he may have hit O’Hare’s Hellcat instead.
It was never proven, never confirmed.
Just one more tragedy in a war full of them.
O’Hare’s body was never recovered.
He was 29 years old.
He had survived 9 minutes against 60 bombers.
He had become America’s first naval ace.
He had received the Medal of Honor from the president and he died in the dark over an anonymous stretch of Pacific Ocean far from home.
But his story didn’t end there.
The news of O’Hare’s loss reached the United States in early December 1943.
The Navy released a brief statement.
Lieutenant Commander Edward O’Hare, Medal of Honor recipient, missing in action, presumed killed in combat operations.
The details were classified, the exact circumstances unknown.
The nation mourned.
O’Hare had been more than a pilot.
He had been a symbol, proof that Americans could fight and win, that courage and skill could overcome impossible odds.
Newspapers ran obituaries.
News reels showed footage from his bond tour, the modest young man who deflected praise, who talked about his crew and his squadron instead of himself.
His mother, Selma, received the notification at her home in St.
Louis.
Her mother murdered by the mob, her son killed in combat.
The O’Hare name had been redeemed, but the cost was everything she loved.
The Navy conducted an investigation into O’Hare’s disappearance.
Multiple aircraft had been operating in the same area.
Night conditions, poor visibility, radar contacts everywhere.
The most likely explanation was friendly fire, but it couldn’t be proven.
The turret gunner on Philip’s aircraft had been firing at targets.
O’Hare’s Hellcat had been in the area.
The timing matched, but there was no wreckage, no witnesses who saw the actual moment, just radio silence and empty ocean.
The investigation concluded with an official finding.
Lost in combat operations, cause undetermined.
It was the best answer they could give, the only honest answer.
But O’Hare’s legacy was already growing beyond his death.
The Navy began using his tactics in training, the aggressive single fighter attacks on bomber formations, the deflection shooting techniques, the willingness to engage despite impossible odds.
O’Hare had proven it could work.
Now every fighter pilot in the Pacific was learning from what he had done on February 20th, 1942.
His Medal of Honor citation became required reading at naval flight schools, not because the Navy wanted to glorify individual heroism, but because O’Hare’s action demonstrated principles that could be taught situational awareness, target selection, ammunition management, aggressive action in the face of overwhelming force.
These weren’t abstract concepts anymore.
They were lessons written in combat and paid for with seven destroyed enemy bombers.
The statistics from that 9-minute engagement were endlessly analyzed.
O’Hare had fired approximately 2700 rounds, seven confirmed kills.
That was roughly 386 rounds per kill.
For comparison, the average fighter pilot in 1942 expended over a thousand rounds per kill.
O’Hare’s gunnery accuracy was nearly three times better than the fleet average.
His attack patterns showed sophisticated understanding of bomber defensive fire.
He had varied his approach angles, never attacked from the same direction twice in a row, forced the gunners to constantly reacquire him, used speed and altitude to control engagement distance.
Every decision showed tactical maturity beyond his years and experience.
Naval aviators studied the action.
They built training scenarios around it.
They asked the question O’Hare must have asked himself in that moment.
What do you do when the math says you can’t win? O’Hare’s answer was simple.
You fight anyway.
You make every shot count.
You accept the risk and you trust your training.
By 1944, American fighter tactics in the Pacific had evolved significantly.
The Hellcat had replaced the Wildcat.
Radar equipped night fighters were standard.
Combat air patrols were larger and better coordinated, but the foundation remained the same.
Aggressive action, superior gunnery, willingness to engage despite the odds.
O’Hare’s story spread beyond the Navy.
The Army Air Forces studied the engagement.
The British Royal Air Force analyzed his tactics.
Even after his death, O’Hare was teaching pilots how to survive and win.
In 1945, the Navy commissioned the destroyer USS O’Hare, DD889, a gearing class destroyer named in honor of Lieutenant Commander Edward O’Hare.
She arrived too late for the war he died fighting, but she stood guard through the Cold War and Vietnam.
Sailors who served aboard her knew the story.
They knew what the name meant.
The war ended in August 1945.
Japan surrendered.
The Pacific Fleet came home.
Millions of men returned to civilian life.
The wartime urgency faded, but the memory remained.
Chicago had watched O’Hare’s story closely.
He had been born in St.
Louis, but his father had died in Chicago.
The mob connection, the betrayal of Capone, the murder in broad daylight.
Chicago remembered and Chicago wanted to make amends.
In 1949, the city of Chicago was planning a new airport, a massive facility that would become one of the busiest airports in the world.
They needed a name, something that would honor the war, something that would represent courage and sacrifice.
The city council voted unanimously.
The new airport would be named O’Hare International Airport, not for the father who had worked for Capone and died for his betrayal, for the son who had redeemed the name in fire and blood over the Pacific.
Selma O’Hare attended the dedication ceremony.
She was older now.
The war had aged her, but she stood straight as the officials unveiled the name O’Hare International Airport.
her son’s name, not connected to the mob anymore, not tainted by her husband’s past, clean, honorable, permanent.
The airport opened to commercial traffic in 1955.
By the 1960s, it was one of the busiest airports in the world.
Millions of passengers every year, every one of them passing under the name O’Hare.
Most didn’t know the story.
Didn’t know about the 9 minutes over the Pacific.
Didn’t know about the solitary wildat standing against an entire squadron and the impossible odds.
But the name was there, permanent.
O’Hare’s Medal of Honor is preserved at the National Museum of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, Florida.
It sits in a display case alongside his flight gear, his log book, photographs from the Lexington, the official action report from February 20th, 1942.
Visitors stop and read the citation.
They see the numbers.
One pilot, 60 bombers, seven confirmed kills, nine minutes.
And they ask the question everyone asks, how? The answer is in the training, the hours of gunnery practice, the tactical discipline, the willingness to engage when every instinct says to run.
But there’s something else, too.
Something harder to quantify.
O’Hare had spent his entire life trying to prove that his name meant something other than crime and betrayal.
On February 20th, he had 9 minutes to prove it.
He didn’t waste a single second.
Every day over 200,000 people pass through O’Hare International Airport.
Business travelers, families, students.
Most of them rushing to catch flights, checking bags, grabbing coffee before boarding.
Very few stop to ask why the airport is named O’Hare.
Even fewer know the full story.
There’s a small display in terminal 2, a plaque with O’Hare’s photograph, his Medal of Honor citation, a brief paragraph about February 20th, 1942.
People walk past it constantly.
Sometimes someone stops, reads it, takes a photo, then they move on.
Gates to catch, schedules to keep, but the name remains.
O’Hare.
Not Capone’s lawyer’s son anymore.
Not the mob connection, not the kid trying to escape his father’s shadow, just O’Hare, the pilot who faced 60 bombers, and one.
The USS O’Hare served until 1973, 31 years of naval service, two wars, countless missions.
When the ship was finally decommissioned, the Navy salvaged the ship’s bell.
It’s now displayed at the Admiral Nimttz Museum in Fredericksburg, Texas.
Polished brass engraved with the ship’s name and hull number.
Another piece of O’Hare’s legacy preserved.
His Wildcat, Bureau number 4000, didn’t survive the war.
It was repaired after the February 20th action, flew more missions, and eventually scrapped when newer aircraft replaced the Wildcat fleet.
No serial number, no preserved airframe, just maintenance records and combat reports filed away in naval archives.
But the story lived on in ways O’Hare never could have imagined.
In 1957, the Navy established the O’Hare award given annually to the fighter pilot who demonstrates the most exceptional achievement in aerial combat.
The criteria are strict.
Skill under fire, tactical excellence, results against overwhelming odds.
It’s not about kills.
It’s about effectiveness when it matters most.
The first recipient was a pilot who shot down three MiG 15s over Korea in a single engagement.
Outnumbered, low on fuel, he fought anyway, just like O’Hare had taught.
Fighter pilots still study February 20th, 1942.
The engagement is dissected in tactical courses, flight schools, war colleges.
Not because it was the biggest air battle, not because it had the most kills, because it demonstrated something fundamental about combat.
Training matters, discipline matters, courage matters, and sometimes one person in the right place can change the outcome of everything.
Modern air combat is different now beyond visual range missiles, radar systems that can track hundreds of targets simultaneously.
Stealth technology.
The idea of a single fighter engaging 60 bombers seems almost quaint, historical, something from a different era of warfare.
But the principles remain.
A pilot alone in the cockpit still makes the same calculations O’Hare made.
Ammunition, fuel, threat assessment, when to engage, when to break off.
The technology changes.
The math stays the same.
There’s a statue at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, the class of 1937 memorial, O’Hare’s graduating class.
His name is engraved among his classmates.
Some died in training accidents, some in combat.
Some lived long lives and died in their sleep decades later.
But they’re all there together.
Brothers, shipmates, officers.
Midshipman walk past that memorial every day.
Most don’t know who O’Hare was, but his instructors do.
And when they teach air combat tactics, when they talk about fighter doctrine, they tell the story.
The Lexington, the 60 bombers, the 9 minutes that proved one pilot could make a difference.
O’Hare’s legacy isn’t just about what he did.
It’s about what he proved was possible.
Before February 20th, 1942, naval doctrine said fighters couldn’t effectively engage large bomber formations alone.
The math didn’t support it.
The tactics didn’t account for it.
It was theoretically impossible.
O’Hare didn’t care about theory.
He cared about the 1,500 men on the Lexington who would die if those bombers got through.
So, he attacked and he won.
And in doing so, he rewrote the doctrine.
After O’Hare, every fighter pilot in the Pacific knew that overwhelming odds weren’t an excuse.
They were a challenge, something to overcome through skill and courage and disciplined aggression.
The Japanese knew it, too.
American fighters became more aggressive, more willing to engage despite numerical disadvantage.
That shift in mindset, that willingness to fight when outnumbered, started on February 20th, 1922.
Selma O’Hare lived until 1963.
She never remarried, never left St.
Louis.
She kept her son’s Medal of Honor in a wooden box in her bedroom.
Sometimes she would take it out and hold it.
Remember the boy who wanted to fly? The young man who wanted to prove his name meant something.
The pilot who saved a carrier and became a legend.
She died quietly, peacefully.
And when they buried her, they placed a photograph in her casket.
Edward in his flight suit, standing next to his wild cat, smiling, young, alive, the way she wanted to remember him.
The war produced many heroes, men who fought with extraordinary courage, who sacrificed everything, who earned medals and recognition and parades.
But O’Hare’s story stands apart.
Not because he was braver than the others, not because his action was more important, but because his 9 minutes distilled everything about combat into one pure moment.
One pilot, impossible odds, a choice to fight.
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These stories matter.
These men matter.
O’Hare’s generation is gone now.
The last World War II veterans are in their 90s.
Soon, there will be no one left who remembers the war firsthand.
No one who can tell these stories from personal experience.
That’s why channels like this exist to preserve the truth, to honor the sacrifice, to make sure that names like Edward O’Hare don’t fade into footnotes and forgotten history.
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These stories connect us across generations, across countries, across time.
On November 26th, 1943, Edward O’Hare climbed into his Hellcat for the last time.
He flew into the darkness over the Pacific, and he never came back.
No grave, no marker, just his name on a memorial wall and an airport that bears his legacy.
But on February 20th, 1942, for nine perfect minutes, Edward O’Hare showed the world what was possible when training, courage, and determination came together.
He saved 1,500 lives.
He became the Navy’s first ace.
He proved that one person in the right moment could change everything.
The name O’Hare meant something different after that day.
not crime, not betrayal, not blood money and mob connections.
It meant courage.
It meant sacrifice.
It meant standing alone against impossible odds and fighting anyway.
Every pilot who was ever strapped into a fighter and faced an enemy who outnumbered them.
Every person who has ever stood up when the math said to run.
Every time someone chooses to fight for something bigger than themselves, they’re walking in Edward O’Hare’s footsteps.
He was 27 years old on February 20th, 1942.
He had 450 rounds per gun, 9 minutes of combat, and 60 reasons to turn back.
He didn’t turn back.
That’s the story.
That’s the legacy.
That’s why millions of people every year walk through an airport named O’Hare and never realize they’re passing through a monument to one of the most extraordinary acts of courage in American military history.
Remember his name.
Remember what he did.
And remember that when everything says it’s impossible, when the odds say you can’t win, when every calculation says to give up, there’s always a choice.
Edward O’Hare made his choice in the sky over the Pacific and for 9 minutes he was unstoppable.
