A B-26 charged the Japanese flagship at deck-level, and the crew was so close, the enemy couldn’t aim. nu
A B-26 charged the Japanese flagship at deck-level, and the crew was so close, the enemy couldn’t aim
At 7:10 a.m. on June 4th, 1942, First Lieutenant James Muri dropped his B-26 Marauder to just 200 feet above the Pacific. Behind him, thirty Japanese Zeros were screaming down from 12,000 feet, their cannons primed to shred his “Widowmaker.”
Muri was 23 years old. This was his first combat mission. He had zero training in torpedo tactics, and yet, he was currently skimming the waves at 280 mph with a 2,000-pound torpedo slung under his belly. His target: the Akagi, the crown jewel of Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo’s First Air Fleet.

The Martin B-26 Marauder was never meant for this. Known as the “Flying Coffin” due to its high landing speeds and short wings, it was an unforgiving beast. But as Muri watched the massive steel cliff of the Akagi rise out of the horizon, he realized that the only way to survive the “impossible” was to do something even more insane.
PART I: THE KILLING ZONE
The sky was a tapestry of black flak and white-hot tracers. Muri’s formation consisted of only four B-26s. Against them stood the entire Japanese defensive screen: destroyers, cruisers, and battleships.
“3,000 yards… 2,000… 1,500!” co-pilot Prentiss Moore shouted over the roar of the twin Pratt & Whitney engines.
Japanese 25mm shells bracketed the Susie-Q. Cannon fire punched through the fuselage, and smoke began to fill the radio compartment. At 800 yards from the Akagi’s bow, Moore pulled the release. The bomber jumped upward as the torpedo dropped away.
Muri had two choices: bank away into the concentrated fire of the surrounding destroyers, or do the unthinkable. He yanked the yoke hard left. He steered the Susie-Q directly toward the carrier’s flight deck.
PART II: THE THREE-SECOND DASH
Muri dropped the bomber to just 10 feet above the water. At this height, he was below the depression limit of the Akagi’s heavy anti-aircraft guns. The Japanese gunners literally could not point their barrels low enough to hit him without shooting their own ship.
The Susie-Q thundered over the Akagi’s bow, clearing the flight deck by less than 6 feet.
For three seconds, Muri flew the length of the carrier at mast-head height. Japanese sailors threw themselves flat against the wooden planks. Admiral Nagumo, standing on the bridge, watched in stunned silence as a twin-engine American bomber flashed past his window at eye level.
Bombardier Russell Johnson grabbed the nose gun and raked the deck with .50-caliber fire. Shell casings rained across Muri’s windscreen like metallic hail. By the time the Susie-Q cleared the stern, the Japanese fleet was in a state of paralysis. They couldn’t fire a single shot at the retreating bomber because Muri had positioned himself so that any Japanese shell would hit another Japanese ship.
PART III: THE 506 HOLES
The escape was a miracle, but the Susie-Q was a flying wreck.
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The Damage: The right engine was dying, oil pressure at zero. The hydraulic system was gone. The left tire had been shot to pieces over the carrier deck.
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The Crew: Three gunners were bleeding from shrapnel wounds.
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The Mathematics: 150 miles of empty ocean lay between them and Midway.
Muri nursed the aircraft home on one engine and a prayer. As they approached the coral strip of Eastern Island, co-pilot Moore had to manually crank the landing gear while sweat and blood soaked his flight suit. The nose wheel jammed, only locking into place seconds before touchdown.
Muri hit the runway at 135 mph. The bare metal rim of the left wheel struck the coral, sending a rooster tail of sparks into the air. The aircraft swerved violently, but Muri stood on the brakes, stopping with just 800 feet of runway to spare.
When the ground crew chief inspected the Susie-Q, he stopped counting at 200. The final tally was 506 bullet holes. The aircraft would never fly again; it was pushed into the Pacific two days later to serve as an artificial reef.
PART IV: THE STRATEGIC DOMINO EFFECT
Tactically, the B-26 mission was a failure—none of the torpedoes hit their targets. But strategically, it was the “Moment of Truth.”
Watching Muri fly down his deck at eye level convinced Admiral Nagumo that Midway’s land-based air defenses were still a lethal threat. This psychological shock led Nagumo to make the most catastrophic decision of the war: he ordered his strike planes to be rearmed with bombs for a second attack on the island.
While his crews were frantically swapping torpedoes for bombs—leaving hangar decks cluttered with explosive ordinance and loose fuel lines—the American Navy dive bombers arrived from 20,000 feet. Because the Zeros were at low altitude chasing Muri and the torpedo bombers, there was no high cover.
In six minutes, three Japanese carriers—Akagi, Kaga, and Soryu—were turned into infernos. The Susie-Q hadn’t dropped the bomb that sank the fleet, but it had created the chaos that allowed the victory to happen.
EPILOGUE: THE SURVIVORS
James Muri lived to be 94 years old. He received the Distinguished Service Cross for his “extraordinary heroism.” He always maintained that he was just trying to get home to his wife, Susie.
Before the bomber was scrapped, Muri used tin snips to cut the “Susie-Q” nose art from the fuselage. He kept that piece of metal for 71 years. Today, it hangs in the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force, a faded piece of aluminum that witnessed the three seconds that changed the Pacific.
Note: Some content was generated using AI tools (ChatGPT) and edited by the author for creativity and suitability for historical illustration purposes.




