At 06:45 a.m.

on November 2nd, 1943, Major Raymond Wilkins led eight B-25s toward Rabul as radar detected his formation.

He was 26 years old on his 87th mission, the last survivor from the original third bombardment group.

Waiting below were 367 anti-aircraft guns and nearly 400 Japanese fighters protecting the most heavily defended base in the Pacific.

The briefing 3 hours earlier had been quiet.

Gray-faced crews listened as intelligence officers described the target.

Simpson Harbor held Japanese cruisers and destroyers supporting enemy operations at Buganville.

Marines had landed on Boanville 2 days earlier.

Those ships needed to stay in harbor or the invasion would fail.

Fifth Air Force needed them destroyed.

The briefing officer made a simple prediction.

Not all of them would be coming home.

Wilkins knew the numbers better than most.

By day end, 45 airmen would be dead or missing.

He’d watched everyone from his original group go down over the past 20 months.

Some burned over New Guinea, others ditched in the Coral Sea.

A few simply vanished on long range missions.

February 1942, he’d arrived with dozens of crews.

Now he was the last one still flying combat.

He led eight B-25 Mitchells modified with forward-firing machine guns toward the toughest target in theater.

The plan was brutal in its simplicity.

Approach at mast head level, 50 to 100 ft above the water.

Skip bombs across the harbor surface into ship holes.

Strafe decks with eight 50 caliber machine guns while dropping ordinance.

Get out before the entire Japanese Air Force arrived.

Intelligence reported nearly 200 base fighters spread across five airfields.

Worse, 173 carrier aircraft had arrived from the combined fleet on November 1st.

Air groups from Zuikaku, Shokaku, and Zuiho now operated from Rabau.

Wilkins checked his instruments as the formation crossed the Solomon Sea.

Fuel looked good.

Engines ran smooth.

His B-25, nicknamed Fifi, carried modifications installed at Eagle Farm airfield in Brisbane.

Four&M250 caliber machine guns mounted in the nose, four more in external pods on each side of the fuselage, enough firepower to put 800 rounds per second into a target.

The technique had been developed over months of trial and error in the Southwest Pacific.

Most of the men who perfected it were dead.

The modification work had started in early 1943.

Standard B25s couldn’t survive low-level ship attacks.

They needed forward firepower to suppress deck guns during the bombing run.

Mechanics removed bombardier positions and installed fixed machine guns.

The theory was simple.

Clear the decks with gunfire, skip the bomb into the hull below the water line, exit at full throttle before enemy fighters arrived.

Theory and practice were different things.

Early attempts resulted in aircraft shot down before reaching targets.

Crews learned to time their approaches, come in low enough that ship radar couldn’t track them, fast enough that gun crews had seconds to react.

The survivors developed techniques.

The rest died testing them.

Japanese radar had given Rabbal 30 minutes warning.

Fighters would be climbing now from Lunai, Vuna, Rapopo, Tobber, and Borpop airfields.

anti-aircraft crews manning 367 gun positions around the harbor perimeter.

Wilkins maintained altitude and heading.

His wingmen held tight formation behind him.

They called Rabbal the Pearl Harbor of the South Pacific.

Volcanic peaks surrounded a natural harbor that could hold hundreds of ships.

The Japanese had fortified it into their main southwest Pacific stronghold.

Concrete bunkers housed command centers.

Radar stations provided early warning.

More anti-aircraft guns defended this single base than Darwin and Port Moresby combined.

Fifth Air Force Intelligence rated it the toughest fight they’d encountered in the entire war.

Wilkins had survived 86 missions by following procedures.

Check fuel every 10 minutes.

Watch engine temperatures.

Maintain radio discipline.

Trust your wingmen.

The same rules that kept him alive since February 1942.

But statistics worked against everyone eventually.

Survival wasn’t about skill after a certain point, just mathematics and luck running out.

How would Wilkins handle what no bomber crew had survived before? Please hit that like button.

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Back to Wilkins over Rabool.

The coastline appeared ahead.

Dark green jungle meeting impossibly blue water.

Wilkins descended to 100 ft.

Salt spray began hitting his windscreen.

The formation tightened up.

Seven B25s behind him carrying crews who trusted his judgment.

The harbor entrance opened before them.

Ships filled the anchorage.

Cruisers, destroyers, transport vessels clustered near the docks.

More targets than Wilkins had seen in months.

Then the first gun fired.

A heavy anti-aircraft battery on the northern ridge line.

The shell burst 200 yd ahead.

Black smoke marking the explosion.

More guns opened up.

Wilkins pushed the throttles forward and dropped to 70 ft.

367 guns were concentrating fire on eight aircraft flying straight toward them at mast head height.

Wilkins held course.

His thumb moved to the gun trigger.

The first ship was 600 yd ahead.

In 90 seconds, everything would change.

At 500 yd, Wilkins opened fire.

Eight 50 caliber machine guns sent tracers streaking toward a Japanese destroyer.

The guns hammered.

Brass casings ejected into the cockpit.

His co-pilot worked the bomb release controls.

400 yd.

The destroyer’s deck erupted as bullets tore through steel plating and crew positions.

300 yd.

Japanese gunners fired back.

20 mm rounds from the destroyer’s anti-aircraft mounts.

Heavier shells from shore batteries.

The air between Wilkins and his target filled with tracer fire and exploding ordinance.

His B-25 shuddered as rounds punched through the wings and fuselage.

He held the trigger down 200 yd.

The bombs released.

Two 500lb generalpurpose bombs skipped across the water surface like stones.

Wilkins pulled up hard.

The first bomb struck the destroyer below the water line near the engine room.

The second hit amid ships.

Both detonated.

The destroyer’s hull split open.

Secondary explosions followed as magazines cooked off.

Wilkins was already passed, climbing to 200 ft, banking hard left.

Something was wrong with the controls.

The B-25 responded sluggishly.

Wilkins glanced back.

His vertical stabilizer had been shot away.

Shrapnel had torn through the tail section.

Hydraulic fluid streamed from damaged lines.

The aircraft wanted to roll right.

He fought the stick to maintain level flight.

Behind him, the other seven B-25s pressed their attacks.

Two more destroyers took hits.

One transport vessel burst into flames, but Japanese fighters were arriving now.

Zeros from the carrier air groups.

Fast, maneuverable, deadly at low altitude.

Wilin saw one B25 explode as a Zero’s cannon fire found its fuel tanks.

No parachutes.

The burning wreckage hit the water at 200 mph.

Anti-aircraft fire intensified.

The Japanese had plotted the American withdrawal route.

Gun crews tracked the fleeing B-25s.

Shells burst in precise patterns.

Another Mitchell took hits and rolled inverted.

It struck the harbor surface and disintegrated.

Wilkins counted his remaining aircraft.

Six left, including his own.

His engines were still running.

That was something.

Oil pressure looked acceptable on number one.

Number two showed slight overheating, but nothing critical.

The hydraulics were gone.

Landing gear would have to come down manually if he made it back.

If the fuel tanks hadn’t been hit, another small miracle.

A second ship appeared ahead.

Heavy cruiser, bigger target, heavier guns.

The cruiser’s anti-aircraft batteries were already firing.

Wilkins had two options.

Break off and head for the exit or make another run.

His squadron was scattered now, each aircraft fighting its own battle.

The cruiser was turning to bring more guns to bear on the retreating bombers.

Standard procedure said withdraw.

He’d accomplished the mission, destroyed one ship, aircraft damaged but flyable, get out while he could.

Wilkins had survived 87 missions by following procedures.

This would be number 88 if he left now.

But the cruiser was tracking his wingman.

Its main batteries could reach them.

If someone didn’t suppress those guns, more B25s would go down.

Wilkins looked at his co-pilot.

Young kid, third mission, eyes wide, waiting for orders.

Wilkins made his choice.

He pushed the throttles forward and turned toward the cruiser.

The co-pilot understood immediately they had no bombs left.

This would be a strafing run.

Pure gunfire.

The goal wasn’t to sink the ship, just draw its fire away from the others.

The cruiser was 800 yd ahead.

Wilkins descended to 50 ft.

The damaged tail made precise maneuvering nearly impossible.

He compensated with throttle and rudder.

The aircraft shook.

Metal screamed.

600 yd.

The cruiser’s guns swung toward him.

Every anti-aircraft mount on that ship opened fire simultaneously.

40mm, 25 mm, 13 mm machine guns.

The volume of fire was unlike anything Wilkins had experienced.

Tracers formed a solid wall.

He flew into it.

500 yd.

His windcreen shattered.

Glass fragments filled the cockpit.

Something hit his left arm.

Hot pain.

He kept firing.

The cruiser’s deck disappeared under the impact of eight machine guns.

400 yd.

The aircraft was coming apart.

Holes appeared in the wings.

The number two engine coughed.

300 yd.

Would Wilkins reach the cruiser before his shot up B-25 fell apart? Or would the Japanese gunners finish what they’d started? Wilkins held the trigger down 200 yd from the cruiser.

The 850 calibers poured rounds into the ship’s superructure.

Gun crews dove for cover.

Others simply vanished as bullets tore through their positions.

The cruiser’s bridge took sustained fire.

Windows shattered.

Metal peeled away.

100 yards.

Wilkins released the trigger and pulled up hard.

The damaged stabilizer made the aircraft nearly uncontrollable.

He used engine power to force the nose up.

The B-25 cleared the cruiser’s mast by 20 ft.

Smoke poured from the number two engine now.

Oil pressure dropping.

The cylinder head temperature gauge pinned at maximum.

He drawn the cruiser’s fire.

That was the goal.

Behind him, he could see his remaining squadron clearing the harbor.

Five B-25s climbing away from Rabbal.

They’d make it out.

The cruiser had stopped tracking them.

Every gun on that ship had focused on Wilkins during his run.

The cost was immediate.

Number two engine seized.

The propeller windmilled uselessly.

Wilkins feathered it and adjusted trim.

Single engine flight in a shot up bomber.

He turned toward the harbor exit.

The Japanese fighters were waiting.

Three zeros came in from above.

Highside pass.

They had altitude and speed advantage.

Wilkins couldn’t maneuver.

His top turret gunner opened fire.

Tracers reached up toward the diving fighters.

The Zero split.

Two went left.

One came straight down the center line.

Cannon shells walked up the fuselage.

The radio operator’s position took hits.

Wilkins heard screaming over the intercom.

Then silence.

The zero flashed past.

His gunner claimed hits, but the fighter kept flying.

It pulled up for another pass.

More zeros were joining now.

Four.

6.

Eight.

The carrier air groupoups had found him.

A single crippled bomber was easy prey.

Wilkins couldn’t outrun them, couldn’t outmaneuver them.

His working engine was already at maximum power.

The damaged airframe created so much drag that air speed bled off constantly.

Another Zero made its run, this time from the port side.

Wilkins waste gunner fired.

The Zero’s wing route sparked as bullets found metal, but the Japanese pilot pressed his attack.

20 mm cannon rounds hit the B-25’s left wing.

Fuel sprayed from a ruptured tank.

The self-sealing feature was supposed to stop leaks.

It didn’t.

Raw aviation fuel streamed back over the wing surface.

One trace around would turn his aircraft into a fireball.

Wilkins pushed the nose down.

Descending gave him air speed, but brought him closer to the anti-aircraft guns below.

He had no good options.

The harbor exit was still 2 mi ahead.

Japanese fighters swarmed around him.

His gunners were firing constantly.

Ammunition wouldn’t last much longer.

The coastline passed below jungle and volcanic rock.

Still over Japanese controlled territory.

The Zeros pressed their attacks, systematic, professional.

They knew he couldn’t escape.

One fighter damaged his rudder.

Another shot away his left aileron.

The B-25 was barely flying now, more metal than aircraft, held together by speed and determination.

Wilkins checked his instruments.

Fuel pressure fluctuating on number one engine, oil temperature climbing.

The damaged wing was creating asymmetric lift.

He compensated with rudder and throttle.

Every control input was a fight.

His wounded arm throbbed.

Blood soaked his sleeve.

The co-pilot tried to help, but the controls required both hands.

They crossed the coastline.

Open water ahead.

That meant a chance.

Slim, but better than burning over land.

The Zeros made another pass.

Coordinated attack from three directions.

His top turret gunner stopped firing, either dead or out of ammunition.

The waste gunner was still shooting.

Short burst now, conserving what little remained.

More hits.

The number one engine coughed.

sputtered.

Caught again.

Wouldn’t last long.

The fuel leak was getting worse.

Wilkins could smell aviation gas in the cockpit.

The instrument panel showed multiple warning lights.

Hydraulics gone.

Electrical system failing.

Oil pressure dropping on the remaining engine.

Two choices.

Try to reach friendly territory 50 mi away or ditch now while he still had some control.

The engine made the decision for him.

It quit.

Sudden silence except for wind noise and Japanese fighters.

The B-25 began descending immediately.

Wilkins trimmed for best glide speed, 90 knots.

Maybe get three or four miles from this altitude.

The Zeros were still attacking.

Either they didn’t realize he was finished or didn’t care.

Another burst of cannon fire hit the fuselage.

He prepared for ditching, told the surviving crew over intercom, “We up, flaps up.

Hit the water parallel to the swells.

” The co-pilot acknowledged.

The waste gunner didn’t respond.

Wilkins assumed the worst.

The water was close now, dark blue turning to green near the surface.

Swells about 4 feet.

He lined up parallel.

The B-25 was gliding well for an aircraft missing half its tail and one wing shredded.

Wilkins held it steady.

500 ft, 300, 100.

Would Wilkins survive the water impact in a bomber that was already falling apart? Or would the Pacific claim the last man from the third bombardment group? The B25 hit the water at 90 knots.

The nose dug in.

Water exploded over the cockpit.

The impact threw Wilkins forward against his harness.

Metal shrieked.

The fuselage buckled.

The aircraft slew sideways and began breaking apart.

Water rushed into the cockpit through the shattered windscreen.

Cold, dark.

Wilkins released his harness, tried to move.

His left arm wouldn’t respond.

The wound was worse than he thought.

The co-pilot was struggling with his own straps.

Blood ran down his face from a gash above his eye.

The B-25 was sinking fast, nose down, water already covering the instrument panel.

Wilkins pushed himself up and back, found the overhead escape hatch, grabbed the release.

Nothing jammed.

The impact had warped the frame.

He pulled harder.

His wounded arm screamed.

The hatch wouldn’t budge.

The co-pilot was free now.

He moved toward the hatch.

Together, they pulled.

Metal groaned.

The hatch shifted slightly.

Not enough.

Water was up to their chests, rising fast.

The bomber’s tail section was already underwater.

The nose pointed almost straight down.

One more pull.

Wilkins used his good arm and both legs for leverage.

The co-pilot braced against the seat.

The hatch gave way.

Flew open.

Precious seconds lost.

Water poured through the opening as fast as they could climb.

Wilkins pushed the co-pilot up first.

Kid deserved the chance.

The co-pilot disappeared through the hatch.

Wilkins grabbed the frame and pulled himself up.

His left arm was useless.

He used his right arm and legs.

Halfway through, the bomber lurched, tilted further, nose down.

The sudden movement threw him back into the cockpit.

Water was over his head now.

He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.

Found the hatch by feel.

Pulled himself up again.

His lungs burned.

The aircraft was going down fast, taking him with it.

He kicked hard, reached, found open air.

He broke surface, gasping.

The co-pilot was 10 ft away, swimming behind them.

The B25’s tail stuck up at a steep angle.

Air trapped in the fuselage kept it afloat for a few more seconds.

Then it slipped beneath the surface.

Bubbles marked where it went down.

The last aircraft from the original third bombardment group was gone.

Wilkins tried to swim.

His left arm hung useless.

Blood clouded the water around him.

The wound was bleeding worse now.

Salt water burned.

He kicked to stay afloat.

Looked for other survivors.

Didn’t see any.

The radio operator and waste gunner had gone down with the aircraft.

The zero circled overhead.

Low.

One made a pass.

Wilkins waited for gunfire.

It didn’t come.

The Japanese pilot flew past and waggled his wings.

A salute.

Then the fighters turned back toward Rabal.

The sky emptied.

Wilkins floated.

The co-pilot swam closer, asked if he was all right.

Wilkins didn’t answer, couldn’t.

The blood loss was catching up.

His vision blurred.

The co-pilot grabbed him, tried to keep his head above water.

Two men, no life raft, no rescue in sight, 50 mi from friendly territory.

They lasted 40 minutes, maybe less.

The co-pilot held on as long as he could, but Wilkins weight pulled them both under.

The kid had to choose.

Let go or drown with him.

He let go.

Wilkins slipped beneath the surface for the final time.

26 years old, 87 combat missions, the last man from February 1942.

His body was never recovered.

The Pacific kept him.

Later, intelligence officers would piece together his final actions from radio intercepts and eyewitness accounts.

Two ships sunk, the heavy cruiser’s guns suppressed during the critical withdrawal phase.

Five B25s saved by his sacrifice.

The numbers would be documented in afteraction reports.

But Wilkins never knew the full results.

He died believing he’d done his job, protected his squadron.

That was enough.

The Medal of Honor citation would come later.

postumous.

His family in California would receive it.

The girl in Australia he’d planned to marry would learn he wasn’t coming back.

The co-pilot was picked up three days later by a US Navy patrol boat, dehydrated, sunburned, half dead.

He told the story of Wilkins final mission, how the major could have withdrawn after the first ship, how he turned back to draw fire from the cruiser, how he fought the aircraft all the way to ditching.

The testimony went into official records.

Back over Rabul, the remaining American aircraft were fighting their way out.

Five B-25s scattered, each running for home independently.

Japanese fighters swarmed.

The battle wasn’t over.

More men would die before this day ended.

The question was how many would make it back to base.

But something had changed.

The heavy cruiser Wilkins attacked had stopped firing.

Its gun crews were recovering from the strafing run.

Reorganizing those precious minutes gave the other bombers time to clear the harbor defenses.

Time measured in seconds.

Lives measured in those seconds.

One B25 made it out with three engines shot away.

Flew home on one.

Another took 72 hits, counted later.

The pilot landed with no hydraulics, no brakes, ran off the end of the runway and nosed over.

Crew walked away.

A third bomber ditched 20 m offshore.

PTBO picked them up.

Would any of Wilkins’ squadron survive to report what happened over Simpson Harbor? Or would November 2nd claim them all? Five B25s from Wilkins squadron reached Allied airspace by 10:30 a.

m.

Two were trailing smoke.

One had half its tail missing.

Another flew on a single engine.

The fifth aircraft looked intact from distance.

Up close, it was riddled with holes.

Over 300 anti-aircraft fragments and bullet strikes.

The crew counted them after landing.

The base at Doadura New Guinea received them.

Ground crews ran toward the aircraft as engines shut down.

Medics pulled wounded men from turrets and waste positions.

Three dead, seven wounded.

The survivors were silent, shell shocked.

They’d watched Wilkins go down, watched other B25s explode.

Some had seen the co-pilot in the water.

Nobody saw the major surface.

Intelligence officers began debriefing immediately.

Results mattered more than grief.

The mission had a specific purpose.

Keep Japanese ships in Simpson Harbor.

Prevent them from attacking the Marine landing at Buganville.

The officers needed confirmation.

How many ships destroyed? How much damage inflicted? Whether the raid achieved its objective.

The crews reported methodically.

First ship sunk by Wilkins.

Destroyer.

Direct hit.

Confirmed.

Second ship.

Heavy cruiser.

Damaged.

Fires visible.

Dead in the water.

Third ship.

Another destroyer.

Broken in half.

Sinking.

Fourth ship.

Transport vessel burning at the docks.

Ammunition stores detonating.

The debriefing officers took notes.

Cross reference testimonies built the picture.

Total losses were catastrophic.

Eight B25 shot down.

Nine P38 Lightning fighters that provided escort, 45 airmen dead or missing.

The single bloodiest day for Fifth Air Force since the campaign began.

The percentages were brutal.

11% of the attacking force destroyed, 23% of bomber crews killed, but the mission succeeded.

Japanese ships stayed in harbor.

None sortied to attack Bugenville.

The Marines secured their beach head without naval interference.

Strategic victory.

Tactical massacre.

The mathematics of war reduced to numbers on paper.

Ships versus men.

Territory versus lives.

One crew had a different story.

Dick Walker, Sergeant, 13th Bombardment Squadron, Third Bombardment Group.

Same group as Wilkins, but different squadron.

Walker’s experience that day reveals something darker about command under fire.

Walker squadron approached Rabul from a different angle.

Eight B25s in formation.

Same mission, same target, same defenses.

They reached the harbor entrance.

Anti-aircraft fire opened up.

Fighters scrambled.

The squadron commander was supposed to lead them in.

He didn’t.

At the last moment, the commander broke formation, turned away, flew back toward New Guinea, didn’t attack, didn’t explain, just left.

Seven B-25s following him suddenly had no leader.

Radio discipline prevented questions.

They turned to follow their commander away from the target.

Walker couldn’t accept it.

He broke formation alone.

Single B25 against Simpson Harbor, against 367 guns, against 400 fighters.

No wingman, no support, just determination and rage at watching his commander run.

He went in at mast head level, picked a target, merchant vessel, big, slow, locked onto it.

The anti-aircraft fire was worse than briefing suggested.

Shells burst in patterns.

Tracers filled every cubic foot of air.

Walker flew through it.

His aircraft took hits immediately.

Wing, fuselage, tail.

He kept going.

500 yd, 400, 300.

His guns hammering.

The merchant ship’s deck disintegrating under sustained fire.

200 yd.

He released his bombs.

Skip bombing.

Perfect execution.

Both bombs hit below the water line.

The ship buckled, started listing.

Walker pulled up hard.

Zeros came after him.

Six, eight, maybe 10.

Walker couldn’t count.

His gunners were firing, burning through ammunition.

The B-25 was shot up but flying.

The fighters made passes.

Walker threw the bomber into violent maneuvers.

Anything to spoil their aim.

His aircraft was tougher than it looked.

Took punishment and kept flying.

He made it out solo.

One B25, one destroyed ship.

One man who refused to run.

He landed at Doadura 90 minutes after Wilkins went down.

His aircraft had 43 holes.

His crew had minor wounds.

Nothing serious.

They climbed out angry, furious.