January 30th, 1944. The skies over Bugenville in the Solomon Islands were alive with war. 18 American TBF Avenger torpedo bombers droned toward Rabal, the heavily fortified Japanese stronghold on New Britain. Escorting them were fighters from Marine Fighting Squadron 215, the Fighting Corsaires, their VA F4U1s gleaming in the tropical sun.
But high above, radar had already picked up trouble. 21 Japanese fighters, 17 agile Mitsubishi A6M0, and four rugged Nakajimaki. Four for Totojos scrambled from Rebal to meet them. Every Marine pilot knew the odds. Training manuals drilled it in. Never break formation. Never turn with a zero at low speed. Never engage outnumbered. Suicide.
Yet one man ignored every rule. First Lieutenant Robert M. Hansen rolled his Corsair inverted, pointed the nose straight down, and dove alone into the heart of the enemy formation. What happened next shocked the Pacific, and cemented a legend. Robert Hansen was 23, from a small town in Massachusetts, a quiet kid who’d grown up flying model planes and dreaming of the sky.
He joined the Marines in 1942, trained hard, and by late 1943 found himself in VMF 215 on Bugenville’s PA North airfield. The squadron flew the new F4U Corsair, whistling death to the Japanese for the eerie sound its gull wings made in a dive. The Corsair was a beast, powered by a massive 2000 horsepower Pratt and Whitney R.
28000 engine armed with 650 caliber machine guns, faster and tougher than the Zero. But it was heavy, unforgiving at low speeds, and no match for a Zero in a slow turn. Hansen knew this. Everyone did. Yet on that January morning, as the bombers drone toward Rabau, Hansen spotted the Japanese interceptors climbing to meet them.
Instead of staying high with his squadron, he broke away alone. Historical records from Marine Corps afteraction reports and pilot debriefs described the moment vividly. Hansen inverted his Corsair, rolled into a near vertical dive, and plunged straight into the Japanese formation like a blue gray arrow. The Zeros scattered in confusion, some pulling up, others turning to meet him.
Hansen opened fire at extreme range, his six guns blazing. According to squadron accounts and Medal of Honor citations, he claimed four kills in that first pass. Two zeros shredded by concentrated fire, exploding in midair. Another damaged and spinning down, a Tojo trailing smoke as it fled. The Japanese pilots, expecting an easy intercept of the bombers, suddenly faced a single Corsair, tearing through them with ruthless precision.
What made Hansen’s attack so shocking wasn’t just the audacity. It was the Corsair’s raw advantages in that high-speed dive. The F4U could hit 400 mph easily, outpacing the Zero’s climb and turn at altitude. Hansen used boom and zoom tactics perfectly. Dive in fast fire, zoom, climb out, repeat. He didn’t dogfight, he hunted.
Declassified USMC combat reports note that in the ensuing chaos, Hansen’s lone assault disrupted the Japanese intercept. buying precious time for the bombers to press their attack. The Zeros, scattered and disorganized, couldn’t reform quickly enough, Hansen circled back for more passes, claiming additional victories as the fight devolved into a swirling melee.
But the odds were brutal. Zero swarmed him from every angle. Tracers stitched the sky around his cockpit. Hansen’s Corsair took hits, oil lines severed, canopy cracked, controls sluggish. Yet, he kept fighting. According to eyewitness accounts from his squadron mate circling above, Hansen downed at least five, possibly more before his plane began trailing smoke.
One zero got on his tail. Hansen rolled inverted again, shaking it off with a high gsplit s maneuver that pushed the Corsair to its limits. Another pass, another kill. The Japanese formation broke entirely. Some fleeing back toward Rabauul, others chasing the bombers futilely. By the time the fight ended, VMF215 and the bombers had completed their mission with heavy damage inflicted on Rebal’s facilities.
Hansen limped home to Pea North, his Corsair riddled with holes, but still flying. He stepped out of the cockpit exhausted, bloodied from minor wounds, but alive. Official credits gave him multiple victories that day. Part of a remarkable streak. In just a few weeks of combat, Hansen would rack up 25 aerial victories, making him one of the top marine aces of the war.
For his actions on January 30th and other missions, he received the Medal of Honor postumously. Tragically, he was killed in a training accident shortly after on February 3rd, 1944 when his Corsair crashed during a gunnery run. Robert Hansen’s solo charge against 21 enemies wasn’t reckless bravado. It was calculated fury born of confidence in his machine and his skill.
The Corsair’s speed, firepower, and ruggedness turned what should have been suicide into a devastating ambush. Japanese pilots, once masters of the sky with their nimble zeros, now faced a foe that could dictate the terms. Strike hard, strike fast, and vanish. Hansen’s response shocked the Pacific because it proved the tide had turned.
One man, one Corsair could scatter an entire formation and live to tell the tale. But this was only one chapter in the Corsair’s legend. Across the Solomons, Rabbal, and beyond, marine pilots in F4US would rack up thousands of victories, earning the plane its fearsome reputation. What came next would see entire squadrons diving into impossible odds and winning.
By the spring of 1945, the war in the Pacific had entered its final brutal phase. The Japanese home islands, once thought untouchable, now lay within reach of America’s Boeing B-29 Superfortresses based in the Marianas. But those giant bombers flew long, lonely missions over open ocean, vulnerable to interceptors and flack.
What they needed was protection. A fighter that could fly 1,500 m round trip, tangle with enemy planes over Tokyo, and make it home. The North American P-51 Mustang, already legendary in Europe for shattering the Luftvafer, was the answer. Late to the Pacific Party, held back by Europe’s demands and the proven reliability of the twin engine P38 Lightning over water, the Mustang finally arrived.
From the tiny blood soaked rock of Eoima, these fighters would fly the longest escort missions of the entire war. This is the story of the P-51 in the Pacific, of very long range operations, of pilots pushing machines and men to their limits, and of how a single engine fighter helped bring the fight directly to Japan’s doorstep.
The capture of Ewima in March 1945 came at a horrific cost. Nearly 7,000 Marines killed, thousands more wounded, but it gave the Army Air Forces something priceless. an emergency landing strip for crippled B-29s and a forward base for fighters. Seven Fighter Command, nicknamed the Sunsetters for their Japanese Sun insignia, moved in.
Three groups, the 15th, 21st, and later the 506th, flew P51Ds, the definitive bubble canopy version with drop tanks for extended range. These weren’t the short-legged fighters of the early war, loaded with 110 gallon wing tanks and 85gallon fuselage tank. A Mustang could cruise for hours at economical speeds, stretching its legs across vast emptiness.
But the Pacific wasn’t Europe. No friendly airfields dotted the route. No radar chain guided you home. Weather fronts rolled in daily. Towering cumulo nimbus clouds. Violent turbulence blinding rain. A single engine failure over the ocean meant a cold ditching, sharks or capture by an enemy that rarely took prisoners alive.
Pilots carried extra life rafts, die markers, and a grim awareness that survival odds were slim. According to declassified seven fighter command reports and pilot accounts, many rotated home after just 15 missions. The stress was that intense. Engines needed full spark plug changes after every long cruise due to fouling from low RPM flying.
The first very long range ratio mission launched on April 7th, 1945. 96 Mustangs from the 15th and 21st fighter groups rendevued with 103 B29s of the 73rd Bombwing headed for the Nakajima aircraft factories near Tokyo. Pilots like Major Jim Vanhee of the 78th Squadron recalled the ore. We saw the coast of Honshu and Mount Fuji standing out just like in the pictures.
As they crossed the coast, auxiliary tanks dropped and Japanese interceptors swarmed. Over 300, in some counts, a mix of aging zeros, K43s, and newer K14 Hayatees. The Mustangs dove in using their speed and firepower advantage. In the swirling dog fights over Tokyo Bay, flack bursting like black flowers. Seven fighter command claimed 26 Japanese planes destroyed, one probable, five damaged for the loss of just two P-51s and one pilot. It was a stunning debut.
The Mustang 650 caliber guns shredded lighter Japanese fighters, while its Merlin engine, built under license by Packard, gave it superior speed and climb over most opponents. Unlike the nimble but fragile Zero, the P-51 could boom and zoom, hit hard, and climb away. Japanese air defenses, already weakened by years of attrition, fuel shortages, and poor pilot training, crumbled further.
Many remaining planes were held back for kamicazi attacks, leaving conventional intercepts sparse. Missions followed in rapid succession. Fighter sweeps to lure out defenders, strafing runs on airfields, train busting on Honchu’s rail lines. The Mustangs ranged from the Choshi Peninsula north of Tokyo to Kyushu in the south.
They loitered over targets for over two hours, far longer than P47s from closer islands like Alishima, but the cost mounted. Weather claimed more than combat. On June 1st, 1945, Black Friday, a ferocious front swallowed a formation. Turbulence tore wings. Collisions happened in blind cloud.
The 56th group, operational just two weeks, lost 15 aircraft and 12 pilots. Only 27 Mustangs broke through to escort B-29s over a soccer. Operational losses, ditchings, mechanical failures added to the toll. In total, Pacific P-51s claimed around 221 aerial victories, but suffered 114 combat losses, 43 operational, and 107 pilots killed.
Yet their impact was profound. With fighter cover, B-29 losses dropped. Daylight precision raids gave way to night incendurary attacks, but the Mustangs presence forced Japan to divert resources, hastened the erosion of their air force. By July and August, sweeps destroyed planes on the ground. One lone 21st group pilot once found himself sole escort for 400 B29s after weather scattered his formation.
He stayed, a tiny silver guardian in the vast sky. Atomic bombs fell. Japan surrendered. The Mustangs of EWO had flown the longest, most demanding fighter missions of World War II. Routinely seven plus hours over hostile ocean to strike the enemy’s heart. They proved the P-51 wasn’t just Europe’s savior.
In the Pacific’s endless blue, it was the bridge that carried American air power to victory’s doorstep. But the Mustang’s Pacific story wasn’t without its ironies. Arriving late, facing fewer foes than in Europe, its kill ratio was modest compared to the thousands downed over Germany. Yet in those final months, it embodied the relentless reach of American industry and resolve.
One fighter, one ocean, one mission at a time.
