Daring Diana

Despite the wartime restrictions, the pair set a wedding date: 17 July 1943. When George learned the night before that all leave had been cancelled, Jessie’s father made a hasty call to Harwell. An exception was finally made, and George arrived in Liverpool at 2am, only nine hours before the wedding. After the ceremony and reception, the newlyweds stayed overnight in Liverpool, but George had to return to Harwell early the next morning.Before departing abroad for India just over six weeks later – he was not permitted to tell Jessie his destination – George promised her that he would come home from the war. However, on the night of 29 February 1944, with his bomber held fast in searchlights over Rangoon, George found that this was the one promise he could not keep.

With no remains located, after the war George’s name was engraved on the memorial to the missing at Kranji War Cemetery in Singapore. In 1949, more than five years after George’s disappearance, Jessie remarried and settled in the USA with her new husband – my father, an American.

The search

As a boy raised in the USA, I was aware of the scant details provided to my mother by the authorities: George’s aircraft, a B-24 Liberator from 159 Squadron, went down over the target with no parachutes spotted. He was missing, with particulars unknown. Compelled to learn more, and with my parents’ blessing, in 1990 I began to investigate this mysterious man from my mother’s past, and the wartime tragedy which, twelve years before my birth, changed the course of her life. I began with an enquiry to the Air Historical Branch (AHB). Little did I know that their response would propel me into years of dogged investigation.

George’s Liberator, named ‘Daring Diana’, and a second 159 Squadron bomber named ‘Pegasus’ had been lost while attacking Mahlwagon Rail Yards in Rangoon, Burma on 29 February 1944. In addition to all nine men aboard Daring Diana, three airmen from Pegasus were also reported missing, while the six other Pegasus crewmen were captured by the Japanese. The AHB had also supplied me with the names of all eighteen airmen involved.

While this correspondence greatly added to the bare facts I’d been working from, I longed to know what else I might be able to uncover about what happened to George on that tragic night and afterwards. I pursued a variety of leads via letters and telephone calls (all pre-internet, for me, until 1997) and ran into my share of brick walls, but I approached each correspondence as if it could be a potential gold mine.

One helpful contact the AHB had provided was the 159 Squadron Association. Its members were invaluable in linking me to men who were on the squadron when George was, and even some who flew on George’s last mission – such as ex-PoW Don Lomas, then the last surviving Pegasus airman. I visited Don in the UK on three occasions, and from him I gained an invaluable eyewitness account of what happened that night:

“The searchlight caught us on the run into the target, and continued to hold us after the bombs were released… There was… a jerk soon after bombing. Looking out of the window I remember something flashing past, and thought, ‘What the devil’s that? Christ, that’s tracer, from the fighter!’… it must have caught [the pilot] Stanley… Straightaway we started going down, on fire. Just so quick. Seconds.”

Don remembered that after managing to bale out, he looked back at his aircraft as he descended beneath the parachute’s canopy: “It was really on fire then,” he said, “this ball of fire disappearing way down there somewhere, and it was our plane. P for Pegasus going down.” Don’s account had also provided the first definitive proof that enemy fighters had been on the scene that fateful night. If Pegasus had been shot down by a fighter, had the same fate befallen Daring Diana?

Another veteran I managed to contact through the 159 Squadron Association, Bill Kirkness DFM, also suggested that fighters had been present. Although he’d flown on the same mission, he was too busy to see either Pegasus or Daring Diana. However, in a letter to me Bill said: “We had just begun our homeward leg when Fred, in the tail, announced quietly, ‘Rear gunner to crew. Someone’s bought it. I can see an aircraft going down in flames, to starboard.’ Few words were spoken in reply, but all hoped it was one of the enemy fighters.

Breakthrough

One thing I learned during my research was that breakthroughs often come out of the blue. While visiting a friend who collected World War Two memorabilia, I was asked if I’d be interested in purchasing any old books prior to his move to Florida. “Do you have anything on the air war over Burma – from the Japanese perspective?” I asked. “Yes, I think I have,” came his unexpected reply. He then located a partial English translation of Nihon Rikugun Sentokitai – a study of Japanese Army Air Force fighter aces from World War Two, printed only in Japan.

That night, awake with insomnia, I perused the typewritten pages. While reading the biography of Warrant Officer Bunichi Yamaguchi, a key date struck me:

“Fought over Burma with the 204th Sentai… Shared two B-24s destroyed… on Feb 29/30 /1944 with Lt. H. Takiguchi…”

I quickly turned the pages to find the entry for Lieutenant. H. Takiguchi:

“Fought over Burma… shared with Warrant Officer Yamaguchi two B-24s destroyed on Feb 29/30 /1944.”

This discovery was no remedy for insomnia. My prior research had shown that Daring Diana and Pegasus were the only RAF B-24s lost over Burma between 25 February and 2 March. Now I’d stumbled across evidence that both bombers had been downed by fighters. What’s more, I had the names of the Japanese pilots themselves. The book said that Takiguchi had died in the war, but was Yamaguchi still alive? If so, could I somehow find him?

Using my growing list of contacts, I was eventually pointed in the direction of General Yuzuru Kochiyama, a wartime pilot turned Japanese aviation historian. I quickly composed a letter to General Kochiyama, hoping that he could help find Bunichi Yamaguchi, or at least news of his death.

In October 1991, I received his reply. Not only did he provide Mr Yamaguchi’s address, but he also wrote, in imperfect but understandable English, that he would soon meet with Mr Yamaguchi to discuss my research.

With an address in my hands, I penned a detailed letter to Mr Yamaguchi, the man who had sealed George’s fate and widowed my mother. In all my correspondences I shared information freely, feeling this increased my chances of receiving meaningful material in return. Now came a key test of that philosophy. I crossed my fingers and waited patiently through the long holiday season when the international mail would be slow. Finally, on 24 January 1992, I received a reply.

Contact

Not unexpectedly, it was in Japanese. Fortunately, a noted Japanese language expert whom I’d seen on TV lived nearby. When I phoned and explained my situation, he wholeheartedly wanted in, asking for nothing except a coffee while he translated the letter. The correspondence was a richly detailed response in which Mr Yamaguchi recounted the aerial combat of 29 February 1944. More poignantly, however, it also included a heartfelt apology to my mother:

“I realize your mother’s husband lost his life by virtue of our bullets. From the bottom of my heart I offer my humble apologies and condolences for his death in action… Your mother has been suffering for a long time. Be sure to show her this letter, which may not be worth anything, but perhaps it will be of some consolation. Please tell her that I would like to feel that she will be able to spend the rest of her days on earth in a happier manner.”

These few words meant the world to my mother. Unlike some of her generation, she harboured no bitterness against the Japanese, or against Mr Yamaguchi; “He was only performing his duty,” she said. Yet unknown to me, she had been suffering nightmares and grieving George’s death, really for the first time in her life, due to my tenacious snooping. After reading Mr Yamaguchi’s eloquent words, however, the nightmares ended. From that moment, and for the rest of her life, she beamed with pride for George, despite his sacrifice. My mother Jessie passed away, at peace with her past, in June 2015.

Though I uncovered more than I’d ever thought possible, more questions remained around the events – and aftermath – of that fateful night. I also wanted to visit places in Rangoon associated with the ordeals of the downed airmen. These are the next steps in my journey of discovery.

New information

Bunichi Yamaguchi died suddenly in June 1992, only five months after I’d received his letter. Later, I received an extraordinary gift: his original 1 March 1944 citation, celebrating the previous night’s aerial victories and presented to him by the Japanese general commanding all air operations in Burma.In a touching act of conciliation, Mr Yamaguchi’s son decided that I should be this valuable document’s custodian. Inspired by this gift, and with new leads to explore, I redoubled my efforts. Japan’s Kagawa Prefecture put me in touch with the nephew of Hiroshi Takiguchi, who, with Yamaguchi, had shot down the two bombers. The nephew sent me a wealth of documents about his uncle’s exploits, including a photograph of Takiguchi’s wedding. Similar to the wedding photo of George and my mother, it showed a bride, soon to be widowed and left without answers, proudly posing with her uniformed groom.

By now, my research was gaining some publicity in Japan. While leafing through his copy of Tsubasa, the officers’ magazine of the modern Japan Air Self-Defense Force, Bunichi Yamaguchi’s aircraft mechanic, Hanichi Ohba, came across coverage of my research. Having witnessed the air battle above him, he offered me his sequential sketches illustrating how the two fighter pilots picked off the bombers.

These two sketches corroborated the first-hand recollections of Bunichi Yamaguchi and Pegasus survivor Don Lomas. In this four-panel illustration, two Japanese aircraft trailed Daring Diana, illuminated by searchlights. Takiguchi then attacked from above and Yamaguchi from below. Daring Diana went noseup, stalled, fell from the sky and exploded.

However, the sketch and accompanying text were unclear on one key point: whether the aircraft had exploded in mid-air or only upon impact with the ground. The difference may seem insignificant, but to loved ones of those aboard, the uncertainty over whether the crew had died instantly in an aerial explosion or had suffered the terror of falling from the sky caused enduring anguish.

To Burma

Although there were no Daring Diana graves to visit, in 1993 I joined a pilgrimage to Rangoon to pay my respects at the only graves of 29 February victims I could visit – the two Pegasus crewmen who had died as POWs. Through my research I felt I knew them like brothers. I also wanted to soak up the Rangoon atmosphere and let my imagination wander back to a time when the town was under Japanese occupation.

We landed at Rangoon’s airport, bombed by George only three nights before he died. We then visited the ruins of Rangoon jail, where Don Lomas and five of his Pegasus crewmates had been incarcerated, and where two died. Next, we visited Rangoon War Cemetery itself.

Walking among the rows of grave markers, I pondered over the many details my investigations had brought to light. I wondered also, while searching for the two graves of the Pegasus airmen, what fates had befallen the remains of the Daring Diana crew, commemorated on the Kranji memorial to the missing in Singapore, over 1,000 miles away.

Scanning the various inscriptions, I saw numerous grave markers which included the sad words: ‘An airman of the 1939-1945 war, Royal Air Force, Known Unto God.’ Lost in my thoughts, the voice of another group member soon broke my reverie:

“Didn’t you say the date was the 29th of February 1944?”

“Yes,’ I replied.

“Follow me!” he said excitedly.

He led me to a group of graves which, like many others, contained those melancholy words, ‘Known Unto God’. Here, however, the inscription had one additional detail: ‘29th February 1944’. Looking around, I could see that the graves on either side carried the same inscription. Altogether, seven graves lay side by side, all with the exact same wording.

That was the single most astonishing moment of my life. Had I found the Daring Diana crew? Did George rest only feet from where I stood? Were any of the three missing Pegasus crewmen here? My hunch was that the seven came from Daring Diana. Regardless, these burials were likely unknown to the loved ones of all twelve missing airmen.

I soon returned to America, but at Kew’s Public Records Office (now The National Archives) a friend scoured documents of every RAF squadron flying over Burma around 29 February 1944. When he finished, he’d verified my initial findings that Daring Diana and Pegasus were the only non-fighter aircraft the RAF lost in Burma and the bordering war zones in India between 25 February and 2 March 1944. More than ever, I had confidence that the seven men buried in Rangoon were 159 Squadron casualties – likely from Daring Diana Validation.

After an unsuccessful attempt to get the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) to investigate, in 1998 I lobbied again. This time the truth was unearthed from within their archives.

A ‘Graves Concentration Report’ showed that the seven ‘unknown’ airmen were indeed Daring Diana crewmen interred in Rangoon War Cemetery in 1953. However, the CWGC would not disclose the report’s full contents. I therefore called upon Air Chief Marshal Sir Anthony Bagnall, who had previously written me a letter of commendation for my research.

With him on board the red tape disappeared, and by July 2001 I had the full document. It provided additional details, such as precisely where the bodies were found, where the final two Daring Diana men had allegedly been buried (but not rediscovered), and where the aircraft had crashed – roughly 13 miles north of Rangoon War Cemetery.

Clearly the graves were of Daring Diana crewmen, though their individual identities had not been – or were unable to be – established when recovered, and no exhumations would now be performed.

Denied this news for decades, far too few loved ones of the Daring Diana crew had survived long enough to be apprised of the comforting revelation. Despite there only being a seven in-nine chance of one of these graves being George’s, my mother decided that he was buried there; she said she just knew it was true – and she was most relieved.

In 2002, I commissioned a Burmese guide to visit the site mentioned in the Graves Concentration Report to explore where the seven recovered Daring Diana victims had originally been buried.

The videotape he managed to smuggle out – on second attempt due to the unstable political situation – not only showed the surrounding area, but it also contained an unexpected interview with ‘U Aung,‘ a softly-spoken 80-year-old eyewitness who in 1944 had watched events unfold overhead.

Taking refuge in a primitive earth and log air raid bunker on that February night, yet unable to contain his curiosity, he had peered upward to follow the fighter attacks. During the interview, U Aung remarked:

“After exploding, it [Daring Diana] was torn completely apart.

Pieces fell down, some here and some there, in different places around the area.’”

“So it exploded in the air?” asked the guide.

“Yes,’ said U Aung, ‘it did.”

Reading these words, a question which had tormented friends and families of the Daring Diana crew was answered: had they suffered?

In his memoir, George’s 159 Squadron comrade Bill Kirkness had dwelt on the same subject. Referring to the crews of both downed Liberators, he wrote: “[Did they die] in the air combat itself, in the plummeting of doomed bombers in flames, upon impact, [or] with mortal wounds on the ground?” Here, twelve years after my search began, I had my answer. Daring Diana had exploded in mid-air, very likely killing all aboard.The details I have related about George Plank and Daring Diana offer only a glimpse into a much larger story tied to 29 February 1944. I spoke with widows, siblings, cousins, girlfriends, the 101-year old mother of one Daring Diana airman plus two fiancées — one with a heartrending tale of undying devotion to her sweetheart who never came home. Their individual stories may be typical of wartime tragedies, but taken together they comprise a deeply compelling account of love, emotional devastation, latter-day comprehension, reawakened pride in wartime deeds, and, for some, a long-awaited measure of peace. How fortunate I am to have uncovered and shared so much.

For the ever-shrinking number of folks who endured the war against Japan, and celebrated VJ Day, those unique times no doubt still feel – as my mother used to say – ‘like yesterday’.

As someone born twelve years after George’s loss over Burma, I guarantee that not all those who came after have allowed the echoes from this overlooked conflict to fade. I, for one, remember with awe and humility those brave airmen who fought the ‘forgotten war’.