When Japanese Guns Opened Fire — This Pilot Saved 15 Doomed Airmen No One Could Reach

When Japanese Guns Opened Fire, One Pilot Refused to Leave — and Saved 15 Men No One Else Could Reach

Bismarck Sea, February 15, 1944 — At 7:40 a.m., Lieutenant (junior grade) Nathan Gordon sat in the cockpit of his PBY-5A Catalina, watching thick columns of black smoke rise from Cavieng Harbor, 15 miles to the north. Japanese anti-aircraft guns were firing again. American bombers were falling from the sky.

Gordon, 27 years old, was no stranger to danger. He had spent 18 months flying rescue missions across the Southwest Pacific and had already earned the Distinguished Flying Cross. But nothing in his experience prepared him for what would unfold that morning — a sequence of decisions that would defy regulations, physics, and common sense, and would ultimately save 15 doomed airmen from certain death.

Gordon commanded a nine-man crew aboard a lumbering flying boat named Arkansas Traveler, part of Patrol Squadron 34 — the “Black Cats” — operating from Samarai Island in Milne Bay, Papua New Guinea. Their mission was simple in theory: wait offshore near the Vitu Islands, monitor the radio, and rescue any aircrews forced down during the Fifth Air Force’s massive raid on Japanese-held Cavieng.

The raid was enormous. A-20 Havocs struck shipping in the harbor. Seven squadrons of B-25 Mitchells bombed installations along the waterfront. Strafing runs were flown at altitudes as low as 50 feet — almost suicidal. The Japanese were ready.

Cavieng sat on the northern tip of New Ireland, one of the most heavily fortified positions in the Bismarck Archipelago. Anti-aircraft guns ringed the harbor. Interlocking fields of fire covered every approach from sea and air. The defenses had been reinforced for more than two years.

That morning, eight American aircraft were shot down.

For airmen who crashed in the open ocean, rescue was possible. But those who went down near enemy-held shores faced grim odds. The Japanese did not take prisoners in forward combat zones. Survivors would either drown waiting for rescue — or wash ashore and disappear forever.

Only one aircraft could attempt rescues under such conditions: the PBY Catalina. Slow, massive, and almost defenseless, it was a flying boat with a top speed of 179 mph — helpless against fighters and an easy target for shore guns. Dumbo missions, the Navy called them. The crews knew the math. Land too close to shore, and you would be destroyed. Land too far away, and the survivors would never make it.

At 8:15 a.m., Gordon’s radioman received the first distress call. An A-20 Havoc had been hit and was going down near the harbor. Gordon turned Arkansas Traveler toward the smoke. Four P-47 Thunderbolts were assigned as his escort — thin protection against an entire Japanese defense network.

Sea conditions were appalling. Waves rose 16 to 18 feet. There was almost no wind, meaning little lift for takeoff. Regulations forbade Catalina landings in such seas. Any normal pilot would have aborted.

Gordon did not.

He brought the aircraft down anyway.

The first landing nearly tore the Catalina apart. The hull slammed into a wave crest at nearly 80 mph. Metal screamed as rivets strained. Warning lights flashed. Water poured through burst seams. The aircraft was badly damaged — and the A-20 crew could not be found.

Standard procedure demanded immediate withdrawal.

Then another call came in.

A B-25 Mitchell had been shot down. Five crewmen were alive in the water — less than a mile from Japanese shore batteries.

Gordon turned back.

The takeoff from the first landing was almost fatal. The damaged Catalina refused to lift, clawing through heavy swells before finally breaking free. As Japanese guns opened fire, Gordon descended again — this time directly into the kill zone.

Under strafing cover from the P-47s, Gordon landed a second time. He shut down the engines and let the Catalina drift — motionless, defenseless — while shells splashed closer and closer. His crew hauled five wounded men aboard.

They escaped by seconds.

Then came a third call. Another B-25 was down. Four survivors were drifting toward shore.

Two of Gordon’s fighter escorts were forced to leave due to low fuel. The Japanese gunners now understood exactly what the Catalina was doing.

Still Gordon turned back.

The third landing was violent. Flooding worsened. The aircraft was dangerously overloaded. Under direct fire, the crew pulled four more men aboard. The takeoff was agonizingly slow. Shells bracketed the aircraft as it finally staggered into the air.

Nine survivors rescued.

The Catalina should have gone home.

Then the final call came.

A third B-25 had gone down. Six airmen were alive — just 600 yards from the Japanese shore. Close enough for rifle fire. No fighter escort remained. Gordon’s aircraft was riddled with holes, overloaded, leaking, and barely flyable.

No American aircraft had ever attempted a water landing that close to an occupied enemy shoreline.

Gordon turned back anyway.

This time, help came unexpectedly. B-25s from the earlier raid, out of bombs but still armed, returned to strafe the shoreline. As they drew fire, Gordon descended alone into the heaviest defenses at Cavieng.

Bullets punched through the Catalina as it touched down. Gordon kept moving, taxiing at full power. His crew dragged six men aboard while machine-gun fire tore through the fuselage.

Twenty-four men were now crammed into an aircraft designed for nine.

The final takeoff was nearly impossible. The Catalina wallowed, trapped on the water. Japanese artillery closed in. At 82 knots — barely enough — Arkansas Traveler clawed into the air.

They had done the impossible.

Two hours later, Gordon reached Samarai Island. As the aircraft settled onto the water, the damage finally overwhelmed it. Arkansas Traveler began to sink. Rescue boats pulled all 24 men to safety.

The Catalina never flew again.

Within hours, reports of Gordon’s mission spread across the Pacific. Commanders initially assumed exaggeration. Witness statements proved otherwise. Four landings under direct fire. Fifteen men rescued.

Seven months later, in Brisbane, Vice Admiral Thomas Kinkaid presented Nathan Gordon with the Medal of Honor — the only one ever awarded to a PBY Catalina pilot.

Gordon returned home after the war, became Arkansas lieutenant governor, and served for 20 years. He rarely spoke of Cavieng Harbor. When he did, he spoke of his crew.

Fifteen men lived because one pilot refused to calculate the odds.