They Ordered Him to Just Take Photos — He Destroyed 40 Enemy Planes Instead
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On September 12, 1944, Major Robert “Cowboy” Stout piloted his F6F Hellcat over the island of Paleolu, flying at 8,000 feet. His mission was straightforward: capture photographs of the northern airfield and return to the USS Hornet. Intelligence reports had assured him that the airfield was abandoned, likely damaged from prior bombing raids. However, what he saw below him sent a chill through his veins.
Instead of an empty airstrip, Stout found the field teeming with Japanese aircraft—Mitsubishi Zeros and Nakajima bombers lined up, fuel drums stacked neatly, and ground crews bustling around the planes. The airfield was not deserted; it was a hive of activity, preparing for a massive strike. Stout quickly counted at least 40 fully armed and fueled aircraft, poised to attack the upcoming invasion fleet of 28,000 Marines set to land in just three days.
Stout’s training was clear: observe, report, and return. Engaging the enemy alone, especially against a fortified airfield bristling with anti-aircraft guns, was not his role. Yet, he understood the reality of military bureaucracy. By the time he landed, filed his report, and command organized a response, precious hours would slip away. The Japanese would scatter their aircraft, hide them, or launch them against the fleet, resulting in catastrophic losses for the Marines.
As he circled higher, Stout realized the Japanese had made a critical error. The aircraft were packed too closely together, surrounded by exposed fuel drums—one hit could trigger a devastating chain reaction. He examined his ammunition: 2,400 rounds of .50 caliber Browning machine gun fire, enough to light a massive fuse but not enough to destroy each aircraft individually. But Stout knew that if he didn’t act, those 40 planes would rain destruction on the Marines landing on the beaches.
The decision weighed heavily on him. If he attacked, every anti-aircraft gun would target him, and he would be alone without wingmen for support. His Hellcat could withstand damage, but a single lucky shot could end his life. Yet, if he didn’t attack, the consequences would be dire. Stout had witnessed the horrors of air attacks on Marines during previous battles, where they were slaughtered as they attempted to land.
In less than 30 seconds, Stout made his choice. He pushed the throttle forward and dove toward the airfield, his heart racing. His plan was simple: strike fast and low, hit the fuel drums, and escape before the anti-aircraft gunners could react. As he leveled off at 2,000 feet, he accelerated to nearly 400 mph, the engine roaring as he skimmed just above the jungle canopy.
Suddenly, the airfield came into view. Confused Japanese ground crews looked up as the Hellcat roared overhead. Stout lined up his sights and squeezed the trigger. All six machine guns erupted in a cacophony of sound, sending tracers across the tarmac. He aimed at a cluster of fuel drums and fired, igniting a massive fireball that engulfed two aircraft.
The explosion was far greater than he had anticipated. Flames shot 50 feet into the air, and the blast wave rocked his Hellcat as he pulled up hard. Behind him, chaos erupted. The fire spread rapidly, igniting nearby aircraft and sending Japanese ground crews fleeing in all directions. Anti-aircraft gunners finally reached their positions, opening fire, but Stout was already climbing away, weaving to evade their shots.
Tracers arced past him, and he felt impacts shudder through the airframe as rounds tore through his tail section. Warning lights flickered, but the engine continued to roar. Below him, nearly 20 aircraft were engulfed in flames, thick black smoke rising into the sky, visible for miles. But he knew the job wasn’t finished; at least 20 more aircraft remained untouched on the southern end of the field.
With half his ammunition spent, Stout circled back for a second pass, fully aware of the risks. The anti-aircraft fire intensified, and tracers filled the air around him like angry hornets. He jinked left and right, evading their aim as he targeted the bombers on the southern end. His remaining rounds shredded their control surfaces and punctured fuel tanks, causing secondary explosions that further devastated the airfield.
Stout’s guns fell silent. He had fired every round, and the Hellcat felt sluggish as he struggled to maintain control. Smoke trailed behind him, but he didn’t look back. The airfield was now an inferno, every aircraft and structure consumed by flames. He pointed his damaged Hellcat toward the ocean, nursing it back to the USS Hornet.
As he approached the carrier, he radioed for priority landing, uncertain if his landing gear would extend. The flight back felt interminable, adrenaline fading as he grappled with the reality of his actions. He had disobeyed orders, attacking an enemy airfield instead of simply reporting back. The prospect of court-martial loomed large, but he felt it was a small price to pay compared to the lives he might have saved.
The Hornet appeared on the horizon, and Stout prepared for landing. He caught the second wire, slamming onto the deck hard enough to buckle metal. Deck crews rushed to his aircraft, shocked at the damage. Stout climbed out to face a crowd of officers, each demanding answers for his reckless actions. He reported simply: the airfield was not abandoned; it was packed with aircraft preparing to launch an attack. He had destroyed them—all 40.
The officers stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend the scale of his actions. Reconnaissance photos confirmed his report the next day, showing the charred remains of every aircraft on the northern airfield. The Japanese air threat had been eliminated, and the Marines would land with complete air superiority.
For his extraordinary heroism, Stout was awarded the Navy Cross, the second-highest decoration for valor. His actions had saved countless lives, but the Battle of Paleolu that followed was brutal. The Marines faced fierce resistance, and the battle lasted over two months, costing nearly 2,000 American lives. Yet, without Stout’s attack, the casualties would have been far worse.
After the war, Stout returned to California, living a quiet life. He rarely spoke of his heroic act, downplaying it as something any pilot would do. But his story remained largely unknown until historians rediscovered the mission reports decades later, recognizing the significance of his actions. One man, one aircraft, eight minutes—40 enemy planes destroyed, potentially saving a thousand lives.
Major Robert “Cowboy” Stout passed away in 2005, leaving behind a legacy of courage and initiative. His story serves as a powerful reminder that sometimes, the most heroic action is to defy orders when the situation demands it. Stout’s decision to trust his instincts over bureaucratic procedure changed the course of history and saved lives, embodying the principle of commander’s intent that military strategists study to this day.
