P-32 over Guam Photo courtesy of Wm F. Brown Collection

Underneath the victorious Air Force was the battleship, Missouri, chosen by Harry Truman because he was from Missouri. And today, the day of formal surrender, this ordinary man and extraordinary President was "showing" the world, with General Douglas MacArthur as his emissary. Even though Dal Donovan was only twenty-two, he understood the momentousness of the hour. It was lump-in-the-throat-time for every American.

The meteorology boys finally hit one on the money. Seven to eight-tenths cloud cover at five to seven thousand feet, scattered layers to two thousand. Which shortened the formation flying but gave the crew of the Piledriver something to remember forever.

Sterling invited their crew chief to ride along and Sapuder wasn't about to refuse an offer to become a part of history, if only a little speck. And when John excitedly broke the intercom silence with, "I'd sure like to see Tokyo up close, it was like goosing a newly-neutered cat. Yoke forward, right rudder and the Piledriver was on its way to scud-run the emaciated capital of Japan. As they went down, the pilots were getting occasional glimpses of what was left of the metropolis and needed only the opportune hole to get below the lowest clouds. They found it and the airplane popped through, revealing one of the world's great cities in total ruin. The firestorms caused by a multitude of incendiary raids had left only a shell. Everything that would burn was leveled and the concrete and steel skeletons were warped beyond repair.

Some had brought their cameras in the hope of sighting the Missouri. But photographing their own carnage fascinated them even more. They used every roll of film for that, figuring the battleship was out of bounds. What they didn't figure was their tour guides becoming disoriented after fifteen minutes of playing tag with Tokyo and its suburbs. So the biggest surprise was yet to come.

If you were an Admiral standing on the bridge of the Missouri, your ears would pick up the not-too-distant sound of four Wright R3350 - 23 turbo - super charged engines humming in synchronization. But decibels above the diminishing drone of a thousand engines overhead. You would turn toward the oncoming craft, wondering about its direction. Then you stare in disbelief as it roars directly toward you, gradually becoming bigger and bigger, like a kamikaze. An American kamikaze, but without the evasiveness or the intentions of the Japanese suicide planes. You watch, transfixed, until you clearly see the startled faces of three airmen, their expressions grim in disbelief. The mist and the abruptness of the airplane's turn would suggest the wandering to your ship was not by design and no hotshot piloted the only B-29 flying two-hundred feet above the water. As it suddenly ascends and banks to your right, you pivot 90 degrees and for a fleeting moment see the cherubic face of Bill Harter, the tail gunner from Salisbury, North Carolina, looking more amazed than the entire United States Navy; and the identification, P-32. Which could be seen plain as the nose on your face. This was an unintentional buzz job of unprecedented proportions. Below decks, several brass wanted to know, "What was that?"

For a moment, the edgy Japanese thought it might be one more bomb. And the crew of the Piledriver thought they would be in irons moments after the engines shut down on Guam. But it wasn't to be. None of the Navy men could remember the number. Or so they said. And no airman knew which comrade broke formation.

After a late meal, exhaustion supplanted the excitement of an incredible day, including the realization that no one else in this universe would ever experience the up close scenes of devastation followed by the near-kiss of the Missouri.