“He’s Still Attacking!” — Japanese Radios Panicked as the Engagement Unfolded

“He’s Still Attacking”: How One American Pilot Defied the Odds Above Luzon

Luzon, Philippines — January 11, 1945

At 11,000 feet above the mountains of northern Luzon, a single American fighter dove straight into a formation that should have killed him.

Major William A. Shomo, flying a lone P-51D Mustang on a routine reconnaissance mission, found himself staring down 13 Japanese aircraft: a twin-engine transport surrounded by a dozen fighters. By the mathematics of air combat, the outcome was already decided. One fighter, one wingman trailing behind, against overwhelming numbers.

Yet minutes later, Japanese radio operators would be heard shouting in disbelief:

“He’s still attacking!”

A Routine Mission Turns Extraordinary

The morning began like dozens before it. Shomo, a quiet, methodical pilot from Pennsylvania, lifted off from Lingayen airfield shortly after dawn, leading a two-ship patrol over enemy-held territory. His task was simple: observe, photograph, report, and return. Reconnaissance pilots were trained to avoid combat whenever possible. Intelligence mattered more than kills.

At approximately 8:40 a.m., Shomo spotted movement emerging from a fog-filled valley. As the shapes resolved, his training told him immediately what he was seeing: a high-value Japanese transport aircraft, possibly carrying senior officers or critical supplies, protected by a heavy fighter escort of Ki-43 “Oscar” fighters.

The correct response was clear. Mark the contact. Radio it in. Withdraw.

Shomo did not withdraw.

Surprise as a Weapon

What the Japanese formation did not know was that it was being watched. They flew below Shomo’s altitude, unaware of the American fighters above them. In air combat, surprise is a force multiplier without limits. A pilot who strikes unseen can deliver devastating damage before the enemy can react.

Shomo advanced the throttle to full military power. The Packard-built Merlin engine roared as the Mustang accelerated into a steep dive. His wingman, Lieutenant Paul Lipkcom, followed without radio calls. They had briefed for moments like this.

At 400 yards, Shomo opened fire.

Six .50-caliber machine guns erupted at once, sending streams of tracer fire into the transport. The effect was immediate and catastrophic. The aircraft began trailing smoke, then flames, as fuel lines ruptured and structural damage spread across the wing.

Within seconds, the transport rolled out of control and plunged into the mountains below.

The mission the Japanese formation existed to protect was gone.

“He Kept Attacking”

Destroying the transport should have been the end of it. Standard doctrine demanded disengagement. Eleven enemy fighters remained, now fully alert and maneuvering.

Instead, Shomo turned back.

What followed defied every rule of aerial survival.

As the Japanese fighters scattered in confusion, Shomo exploited the chaos. He attacked isolated aircraft one by one, using speed, altitude, and aggressive maneuvering to deny the enemy time to coordinate.

In rapid succession, he shot down one Oscar, then another. Tracer fire walked across engines and cockpits. Fighters rolled inverted, trailing smoke, disappearing into cloud and terrain. Lipkcom, fighting independently, added to the destruction, keeping additional enemy aircraft off Shomo’s tail.

Japanese radio traffic later revealed astonishment and panic. The Americans were not disengaging. They were pressing the attack.

“He’s still attacking!” one transmission reportedly exclaimed.

Two Minutes That Changed History

In approximately two minutes of continuous combat, Shomo destroyed seven enemy aircraft—six fighters and the transport. Lipkcom was credited with three more. Of the original 13 Japanese aircraft, only a few escaped.

Against every expectation, both American pilots survived without damage.

By the time Shomo broke off the engagement and turned toward friendly territory, his fuel and ammunition were dangerously low. The Mustang that carried him home bore no special markings to indicate what had just occurred. Only later would after-action reports confirm the scale of the destruction.

The Fifth Air Force initially struggled to believe it.

An Unlikely Hero

William Arthur Shomo was not a flamboyant ace. Born in 1918 in Jeannette, Pennsylvania, he grew up in a working-class family and entered the Army Air Corps before the United States entered the war. In training, instructors described him as precise, disciplined, and unremarkable.

He was not reckless. He was not flashy.

He was reliable.

Assigned to the 82nd Tactical Reconnaissance Squadron, Shomo spent much of the war flying alone or in small formations over hostile territory, gathering intelligence rather than chasing kills. By January 1945, he was an experienced combat pilot—but hardly famous.

That would change forever over Luzon.

Recognition at the Highest Level

For his actions that morning, Major William A. Shomo was awarded the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest military decoration. The citation, written in restrained military language, noted his decision to attack a vastly superior enemy force and credited him with seven confirmed aerial victories in a single engagement.

What the citation could not capture was the reality inside the cockpit: the vibration of the aircraft under sustained fire, the narrowing of attention to speed and angles, the constant calculation of survival measured in seconds.

Shomo himself rarely spoke about it.

After the war, he returned home, married, raised a family, and continued working in aviation. He did not seek publicity. Like many Medal of Honor recipients, he carried the memory quietly.

Why the Story Endures

More than 80 years later, the engagement above Luzon remains one of the most extraordinary feats of aerial combat in American history. It is studied not only for its outcome, but for what it reveals about decision-making under extreme pressure.

Shomo did not attack because he sought glory. He attacked because, in that moment, destroying the transport mattered more than his own survival. When the situation changed, he adapted faster than his enemy could respond.

The mathematics said retreat. Training said caution.

Instinct, preparation, and opportunity said attack.

Above the mountains of Luzon, for two impossible minutes, the rules of air combat bent—and one quiet pilot from Pennsylvania rewrote them.

The sky remains unchanged. The wreckage below has long vanished into jungle and stone. But the phrase still echoes through history, capturing the disbelief of those who watched it unfold:

He kept attacking.