Though the United States was not yet formally in the war, a number of Americans were eager to enter the fray. Their reasons varied; some had a zeal for adventure, while others sympathized with the plight of Britons and others backed into corners. With air power emerging as the preeminent weapon of modern warfare, demand was highest for experienced pilots, and in 1940, dozens of Americans stepped forward to join Britain’s Royal Air Force (RAF). Formed into what came to be known as “Eagle Squadrons,” the American volunteers began tangling with the German Luftwaffe in the skies above England, piloting British-built Hurricanes and Spitfires, and ably contributing to Britain’s air defense.

Another spirited group of American aviators soon followed suit. They ventured to the rugged interior of China, where a confident and veteran Japanese air fleet controlled the skies. In a short period of time, the underdog American pilots amassed an extraordinary combat record, and as their fame and reputation spread rapidly across the globe, they embraced what became a legendary moniker – the Flying Tigers.

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It had been a full decade since the Japanese gained their first significant foothold on the Asian continent. In 1931, an explosion along a Japanese-operated rail line in Manchuria, a large province in northern China, spurred Imperial Japanese Army troops into seizing control of the region. The incident was a ruse, orchestrated by the Japanese as a pretext for occupying lands teeming with natural resources their fast-growing empire was desperately short of. A regional puppet regime was established, controlled by the Imperial Army, and there was little the Chinese could do about it. Much of their country was in upheaval, consumed by years of civil war between Chiang Kai-Shek’s ruling Nationalists and millions of insurgent Communists led by Mao Zedong.

The off-and-on sparring between Japanese and Chinese troops continued until July 1937, when a minor skirmish in Peking (present-day Beijing) led to a sharp escalation in the scale of fighting. A three-month battle ensued for control of Shanghai, with the coastal city and commercial center falling to the Japanese in November. The following month, Imperial Army troops rampaged into Nanking, the Nationalist capital, where Japanese soldiers butchered an estimated 200,000 Chinese civilians and raped tens of thousands of women of all ages. It stands as one of the worst atrocities in modern history.

The Chinese continued to retreat, unwilling to risk a large-scale clash that would likely decimate their forces. After pulling his Nationalist Army back into China’s vast interior, Chiang declared Chungking the new capital. Japanese bombers hammered the city, but their inability to deliver a knockout blow to Chiang’s forces left the two sides largely at a standstill, and substantial Japanese armies tied down on Chinese soil, unable to support other planned campaigns across the Far East and Pacific. That was a boon to the Western powers, whose lightly defended territories were known to be next in Tokyo’s crosshairs. How long the Chinese could continue to resist was a question mark, though, as their forces remained cut off from coastal harbors and major entry points for imports of weapons and ammunition.

The few supplies the Chinese had came from the west, through Burma and India, each part of the British Commonwealth. After shipments arrived at the bustling Burmese port of Rangoon, they were transported by rail to Lashio, then moved by fleets of trucks along the meandering Burma Road, a treacherous, 350-mile corridor to China. Carved out of the mountains and jungles by 200,000 Chinese laborers, it was the only lifeline for Chiang’s army and a frequent target of Japanese air strikes. The Japanese encountered little opposition in the skies, where the modest Chinese air force—an assortment of early-model, Soviet-built fighter planes—was vastly outnumbered and outclassed by their foes.

China Looks to the West

Chiang believed China’s saviors were half a globe away, in the United States, and sought to recruit a force of volunteer American pilots and planes, bankrolled by China and flying under its flag. With America not yet in the war, Chiang assumed trained pilots could be spared, as could new airplanes churned out daily by domestic factories invigorated by Lend-Lease spending. To navigate the Washington bureaucracy, Chiang needed an interlocutor, one familiar with the US military hierarchy but also an expert in aviation and a faithful advocate for the Chinese cause. To Chiang’s great fortune, such a man was already in his own inner circle.

Claire Lee Chennault was one of the most colorful figures of World War II. He was an Army infantry officer during the First World War, and though he aspired to join the fledgling Air Service, his requests for flight training were repeatedly denied. Chennault remained in the Army after the war and was finally commissioned a pilot in 1920. As he perfected his flying skills throughout the 1920s and 1930s, he became a vociferous advocate for innovating the Army’s combat tactics, and his pioneering methods and outspokenness often rankled his more conventional-minded superiors. By 1937, they were rid of him, as Chennault was beset with medical problems and grounded from flying. When he retired from the Army, he was in need of gainful employment, and his fighting acumen and passion for flight became known to Chiang’s American-educated wife, a key figure in China’s aviation sector. She hired Chennault to assess China’s air capabilities, leading to a later appointment as a senior aviation advisor to Chiang.

When his review was complete, Chennault painted an unvarnished picture, citing abysmal pilot training, inferior and antiquated aircraft, and inadequate infrastructure and logistical support. Chiang, surrounded by generals who feared repercussions for dissent or candor, coveted the blunt, unfiltered assessments from the protocol-eschewing Chennault. In time, he became one of the Chinese leader’s most trusted confidants.

Chiang saw Chennault as the perfect candidate to drum up support and volunteers in the United States. The retired soldier agreed, returning to America in November 1940, where he found a less than welcoming environment. The military services turned him away, refusing to allow the poaching of their best pilots with war winds brewing overseas. Nor were they willing to part with their limited stocks of prized pursuit (fighter) aircraft. Blocked at every turn, Chiang’s political allies in Washington appealed to civilian leaders, convincing Roosevelt’s top advisors, and eventually the president himself, that China’s continued survival was vital to America’s strategic interests. With the United States not officially involved with the war in Asia, the White House used less formal means to convey the president’s wishes to the military air chiefs. They grudgingly complied, agreeing to discharge those pilots wishing to serve in Asia.

A newly empowered Chennault canvassed airbases across the country, aiming to hire some 100 experienced pilots and 150 skilled mechanics and technicians to service the planes. From Chiang’s treasury, he had the financial means to draw plenty of interest. Pilots were offered lucrative salaries—far more than their military pay—plus $500 bounties ($11,000 in present-day dollars) for each Japanese plane destroyed. Ground crewmen were also offered significant increases. Tantalized by the prospect of aerial combat and generous pay, Chennault signed fifty-nine pilots from the Navy, thirty-three from the Army Air Corps, and seven from the Marine Corps. Another 184 men were hired on as ground support, as were a handful of medical personnel, including two female nurses. Civilians once again, the pilots and maintenance crews were formed into what became known as the American Volunteer Group (AVG). They boarded Dutch ocean liners for their global journey, concealing their true identities, and began arriving in Asia in August 1941.

A Prized Aircraft

Acquiring planes for the AVG was an entirely different challenge. The surpluses Chiang imagined were actually shortages, as fighter planes were in high demand throughout an expanding US Army Air Corps. The British were also clamoring for American-made aircraft, desperate to replenish their own stocks after substantial losses to Hitler’s vaunted Luftwaffe.

Under pressure from the White House, officials in Washington brokered a deal with their counterparts in London, holding back a promised delivery of 100 P-40 TOMAHAWK fighter planes—to be funneled to Chennault instead—in exchange for a later delivery of a more advanced model. It was welcome news to Chennault, as the P-40 was the workhorse and most modern fighter plane in the Army inventory. Engine constraints prevented the plane from flying above 20,000 feet, but at lower altitudes it was fast, capable, and formidable. It was also highly durable, as the P-40 was built to withstand significant punishment. Armored plating in the pilot’s seatback would save numerous lives among future fliers.

Having procured his planes and personnel, Chennault still had obstacles to sort through in Asia. He intended to base the air group near the western Chinese city of Kunming, at the far eastern endpoint of the Burma Road, but a monsoon had muddied its dirt airfield beyond usability. Construction of a paved runway was ordered, and in the interim Chennault moved the AVG to an auxiliary RAF field just 175 miles from Rangoon. Though the airfield had an asphalt runway, living conditions were primitive, and endless swarms of mosquitos and other disease-carrying insects plagued the Americans. As for the planes, the P-40s had arrived in crates, disassembled for the long ocean crossing. They had to be reassembled by hand, a painstaking process, and had also been shipped without any spare parts, complicating future repairs and even routine maintenance.

In September 1941, the AVG began intensive training under the watchful eye of Chennault. The men were qualified pilots, but many were unfamiliar with the P-40, the tactics of their adversaries, and the attributes of Japanese Oscars and Zeros. They trained for weeks, pushed by the unrelenting Chennault who schooled the pilots on the strengths and vulnerabilities of the Japanese planes and the “hit and run” tactics he wished to employ. His mechanics labored to keep the planes operable, but by December, barely sixty of the P-40s were combat-ready, as several had been lost or damaged in training accidents. Others still awaited shipments of replacement parts, radios, and machine guns. Among the pilots, eighty had met Chennault’s demanding standards, but others struggled to master the P-40 and the prescribed tactics of their leader. More time was needed for the AVG to reach optimal strength, but time ran out with the arrival of news from Hawaii, thousands of miles away.

First Mission

The surprise Japanese strike at Pearl Harbor, killing 2,403 American sailors, soldiers, and Marines, stunned and enraged the AVG pilots. Each was eager to take to the skies and avenge their countrymen, and the opportunity came soon enough, as Japanese air groups were already raiding British-held Burma as a prelude to an expected invasion. With the loss of Rangoon’s port and the Burma Road likely to cut off the Chinese from the outside world, the AVG was rushed into action.

Chennault had divided his air group into three squadrons—the Adam and Eves, the Panda Bears, and the Hell’s Angels. The latter remained based outside Rangoon, where it would team with the RAF to safeguard the capital, while the other two squadrons moved to Kunming to protect the Burma Road. The AVG’s first combat mission came on December 20, 1941, and though the Adam and Eves and Panda Bears downed a handful of Japanese bombers raiding Kunming, their initial outing fell short of Chennault’s expectations. He moved quickly to correct the mistakes, and the improvement was almost immediate. On Christmas Day alone, the Hell’s Angels shot down fifteen bombers and nine fighter planes over Rangoon, while losing just two P-40s.

The AVG became a menace to Japanese fliers above Burma. Their Tomahawks were easily identifiable, as red-and-white, saw-toothed shark mouths had been painted onto the forward fuselages. The idea came from pilots who had seen similar artwork on an Australian P-40, and the distinctive look was soon matched by an equally compelling nickname. After American sponsors of the AVG enlisted the Walt Disney Company to design a logo for the new squadron, hoping to generate publicity for their venture, Disney artists struck gold, creating an image of a Bengal tiger leaping through the well-known “V for Victory” emblem. A few weeks into the war, Time Magazine published a feature article on the AVG’s exploits, introducing the “Flying Tigers” to millions of readers. The men became instant celebrities among a public thirsting for positive news after so many early setbacks in the war.

Changes in the AVG

Throughout January and February 1942, British and American squadrons continued to chalk up victories around Rangoon. They outflew their Japanese counterparts day after day, and though there were losses among the Allied pilots, the AVG downed many more of its adversaries. The port fell to Japanese ground forces in early March, but the men of the AVG had proven their mettle, delaying the Japanese timetable for winning control of Burma.

America’s formal entry into the war brought organizational changes to the AVG, beginning with the arrival of US Army Lieutenant General Joseph Stilwell. Appointed to lead American forces in the China-Burma-India Theater, Stilwell was a deeply experienced soldier with considerable expertise in Chinese culture and history. But the abrasive, no-nonsense general was also skeptical about the value of air power, and had even less regard for Chennault, frowning on the civilian’s independent streak and penchant for using White House connections to circumvent his superiors.

By April, Stilwell was maneuvering to fold the AVG into his military command. Chennault willingly returned to active duty as a colonel, with a swift promotion to brigadier general, but the pair had rocky relations, with Stilwell mostly dismissive of Chennault’s views and methods. That caused friction with the civilian pilots, who were intensely loyal to Chennault and unwilling to break the one-year commitment they had made prior to their journey to Asia. Stilwell’s move to commandeer the AVG was fiercely resisted, particularly among the former Navy and Marine Corps fliers who planned on re-enlisting with their previous service when their commitments expired. When Stillwell’s staff threatened to release the names of each man to draft boards at home, and have them all conscripted into the Army, tensions reached a boiling point. Chennault appealed to the White House, and a compromise was finally negotiated. The AVG would become part of the US Army Air Forces (USAAF) but remain under the direct command of Chennault – a bargain all hoped might appease the pilots.

It did not, and the persistent strong-arming cost the squadron many of its best pilots. Once the AVG was melded into the USAAF’s 23^rd Fighter Group, many chose to return to their former services. Others left Asia to join the burgeoning aviation manufacturing sector at home, where their skills and expertise were equally in demand. Only a small number of the original AVG men remained, with new and far less experienced Army pilots replacing the departed volunteers.

In July 1942, Chennault was appointed command of the Chinese Air Task Force (CATF), a mix of the modest American and Chinese air forces in the theater, including the 23^rd Fighter Group. Though ground crews continued to struggle to keep the aircraft operable amid shortages of spare parts, Chennault molded the CATF into a highly proficient fighting force, disrupting Japanese military operations in China for months to come.

Aftermath

By that time, the original Flying Tigers had largely disbanded, with just seven months passing from the time the AVG flew its first combat mission to its last, but their record of achievement was extraordinary. The pilots had stepped onto Asian soil without a day of combat experience, led by a sharp-elbowed eccentric with few friends in the American military hierarchy. The planes were consistently outnumbered in the air, but the contributions of the AVG and their shark-nosed P-40s to the defense of Burma and China were indispensable. In those seven months, the Flying Tigers shot down an estimated 286 enemy planes, while just nine American pilots were killed in action.

In March 1943, the CATF was rebranded the Fourteenth Air Force with Chennault in command. Despite all he had accomplished in the theater, Chennault still had a bevy of detractors in the Army hierarchy, and when Roosevelt died in April 1945, he lost all political cover from his critics. He retired in July 1945, just weeks before the final Japanese surrender.