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The waters around Chichi Jima were a death trap for downed American pilots in World War II. Japanese forces stationed on the island had a brutal reputation—airmen who crashed near its shores rarely made it out alive. Captured pilots faced a grim fate, often tortured and executed. The Americans knew this, and so did the Japanese. That’s why, when the US Navy launched an audacious rescue mission in September 1944, it not only stunned the enemy but enraged them beyond measure.
Lieutenant George H.W. Bush, a young aviator who would one day become the President of the United States, had just bombed a radio station on the island when his aircraft was hit by Japanese anti-aircraft fire. With his plane engulfed in smoke, Bush bailed out, parachuting into the Pacific. His crewmen never made it, but Bush survived—adrift and vulnerable in enemy waters.
The Japanese saw him go down. They had captured several American pilots before, and they were determined to add another to their list. Patrol boats set out from Chichi Jima, scouring the waters for the young airman. But what they didn’t expect was the sheer speed and efficiency of the American rescue operation. Before they could reach Bush, a massive flying machine appeared on the horizon—the US Navy’s Grumman TBF Avenger had already radioed his coordinates. Within minutes, a lifeboat was dropped, and from the distance, a submarine emerged like a sea monster from the depths.
The USS Finback, an American submarine lurking beneath the waves, surfaced just in time. As Bush paddled toward safety, the Japanese were left seething with frustration. The Americans had pulled off the rescue as if it were a routine drill, snatching their pilot right from under their noses. To them, it was a humiliation of the highest order.
This wasn’t the first time the US Navy had executed such a daring rescue, nor would it be the last. Throughout the Pacific, downed airmen were swiftly extracted by submarines, PBY Catalina flying boats, and fast-moving warships, denying the enemy the satisfaction of capturing them. The Japanese, accustomed to controlling their own waters, watched helplessly as the Americans defied their reach time and time again.
The frustration among Japanese forces grew with each failed attempt to capture enemy pilots. They had expected any downed aviator to be at their mercy, yet here was the US Navy, plucking its men from the ocean like a well-rehearsed magic act. It was not just an insult—it was a testament to American superiority in air-sea coordination.
For George H.W. Bush, the rescue was the difference between life and death. Had he fallen into enemy hands, history might have taken a very different course. But for the Japanese, it was another agonizing moment in a war that was slowly slipping from their grasp. Their outrage was not just about losing a prisoner—it was about losing control of the Pacific itself.