At 11:23 on the morning of August 13th, 1945, First Lieutenant Oscar Pomo banked his P47N Thunderbolt hard left over the rugged hills near Kjo, Korea. Far below, nearly 8,000 ft beneath his wings. Five Japanese fighters suddenly shattered their formation, scattering in different directions like startled birds.

 Padomo was 26 years old. He had flown nine combat missions. He had not yet claimed a single kill. The son of a Mexican immigrant who had once ridden with Poncho Villa, he was about to step into history in the next few minutes in a way no American pilot ever would again. Above the clouds, the sky was crowded with aircraft.

 More than 50 Japanese planes had risen to challenge just 38 American Thunderbolts. The Americans were outnumbered, far from home, and flying one of the longest fighter missions of the entire war. They were nearly 750 mi from their base on Oshima, a tiny island northwest of Okinawa. The flight there and back would take more than 8 hours, most of it over open ocean.

 A single engine failure meant almost certain death. And yet none of the pilots knew that the war they were risking their lives to fight was only 48 hours from ending. The atomic bombs had already fallen. Hiroshima lay in ruins. Nagasaki smoldered. Even as these fighters climbed and dove above Korea, Emperor Hirohito was meeting with his advisers, weighing surrender.

 But in the sky, nothing had changed. Japanese pilots still flew to kill. American pilots still hunted and Oscar Purdomo was rolling his Thunderbolt into a dive, lining up the last three aircraft in the enemy formation. His plane bore a name painted beneath the cockpit, Lil Maze Meat Chopper.

 The nose art showed a baby in a diaper, chomping on a cigar, wearing a derby hat, and clutching a rifle. It was a tribute to his infant son, Kenneth, waiting back home in Los Angeles. Pommo had no idea whether he would ever see that child again. The P 47N Thunderbolt was a monster of a machine. 7 tons of armored metal, 850 caliber machine guns, a roaring 2,800 horsepower radial engine designed specifically for long range missions in the Pacific.

 It carried massive internal fuel tanks and could haul even more under its wings. It was built to escort bombers all the way to Japan and back. But all that power meant nothing unless a pilot could find the enemy. 4 weeks Purdomo’s unit, the 57th Fighter Group, had flown mission after mission without seeing much action.

 The Japanese had hoarded their remaining aircraft, saving them for the invasion everyone believed was coming. Pilots joked that the enemy had simply run out of planes. That illusion shattered on August 13th. At dawn, 53 Thunderbolts had lifted off. 15 turned back due to mechanical trouble. The remaining 38 crossed the East China Sea and pushed inland over Korea.

 Then radar operators reported contacts. Lots of contacts. Japanese squadrons scrambled everything they had left. Modern fighters, older models, even obsolete trainers. It was chaos building in the sky. Now Pommo dove toward three trailing fighters. He pushed the throttle forward. The thunderbolt surged. The distance closed fast.

 2,000 yd 1,500 1,000. At 800 yd, he centered the gun site and squeezed the trigger. The first burst ripped into the nearest Japanese fighter. The rounds tore through the engine and cockpit. Smoke exploded from the fuselage. The plane shuddered, rolled, and spiraled downward, vanishing into the clouds below.

 Pedommo didn’t watch it fall. He was already lining up the second target. Six weeks of frustration vanished in seconds. Something clicked. He felt calm, focused, deadly precise. The second fighter tried to break away, but the Thunderbolts diving speed gave Purdomo the advantage. He fired again. Bullets shredded the wings, tore through fuel tanks, and the aircraft erupted into flame. Two kills in under a minute.

 The third Japanese pilot rolled inverted and fled toward the ground. Perdomo let him go. Chasing one fleeing aircraft meant losing track of the larger battle. He climbed, scanning the sky. Smoke trails crisscrossed the air. Parachutes drifted downward. Somewhere in the chaos, dozens of pilots were fighting for their lives.

Then he saw something strange. Two slow-moving biplanes flying in close formation. Training aircraft. Yokosa K5Y Willows. obsolete fabriccovered relics that had no place in a modern air battle. Yet there they were wearing Japanese markings, legitimate targets. Peromo rolled inverted and dove. The biplanes scattered.

 He chose the nearer one and fired. The engagement lasted 3 seconds. The willow burst into flames and slammed into the earth. Three kills. Climbing again, Purdomo checked his ammunition counters. Nearly half his rounds were gone. And then through the glare of the sun for Japanese fighters appeared, diving straight at him. They had the altitude advantage.

 They had surprise. It was a textbook ambush. Pedomo had two seconds to react. Instead of running, he turned into them. The move stunned the attackers for a split second. They hesitated. That was all Pommo needed. He rolled his thunderbolt and reversed direction as they overshot. Suddenly, the hunters were in front of his guns. He fired.

 One fighter exploded in a ball of flame. Four kills. Oscar Pradomo had become an ace in less than 5 minutes. The remaining Japanese fighters scattered. Pedomo’s ammunition was nearly gone. He began searching for his squadron when he spotted two friendly Thunderbolts in trouble. A single Japanese fighter had latched onto one of them, firing relentlessly.

 Perommo dove in from above, lining up the shot. He pressed the trigger. The guns fell silent. 3,000 rounds gone. The Japanese fighter was damaged but still flying. It turned toward Pedomo. Now the tables had turned. An unarmed American facing an armed enemy. Logic demanded retreat, but Purdommo did the unthinkable. He charged.

 He flew straight at the enemy, bluffing with empty guns. At nearly 800 mph combined speed, the Japanese pilot flinched. He broke away. Perommo stayed glued to his tail, turning, diving, climbing, keeping him defensive, buying time. Finally, another thunderbolt arrived. Its guns roared. The Japanese fighter disintegrated in midair. Five kills.

 The last ace in a day in American history. But the mission wasn’t over. Pedomo still had to fly 750 mi back across open ocean. His fuel was dangerously low. Every calculation said he would barely make it. The thunderbolts regrouped and turned southeast. 4 hours they droned over endless water. Engines hummed. Fuel gauges crept toward empty.

 The horizon finally revealed Ishima. One by one, the fighters touched down, nearly dry. 8 hours and 18 minutes after takeoff, Purdomo climbed from his cockpit. His crew chief stared at the blackened gunports and knew something extraordinary had happened. That evening, gun camera footage confirmed it.

 Five destroyed aircraft, four fighters, one trainer, ace in a day. Two days later, Japan surrendered. Pommo received the Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest award for valor. But his life did not become a fairy tale. He returned to service during the Korean War. He flew jets. He trained new pilots. He survived again and again. Then Vietnam claimed his son.

The same baby whose face had once been painted on his aircraft grew into a young man who flew helicopters into combat. On May 5th, 1970, his helicopter crashed and burned in South Vietnam. He did not survive. The loss shattered Oscar Pomo. The hero who had charged enemy fighters with empty guns could not overcome the grief.

 He died in 1976, just 56 years old. His ashes were scattered over the Pacific, the same waters he had crossed so many times in war. Today, a restored P 47 Thunderbolt still flies, painted as Lil May’s meat chopper. The baby with a cigar and derby hat still grins from its nose. And the story of August 13th, 1945 still echoes across history.

 Five kills, zero ammunition, 750 mi from home. Oscar Purdomo earned his place among legends.