At 9:27 a.m. on December 13th, 1943, Second Lieutenant Philip Adair pulled his Curtiss P-40N Warhawk into a climbing turn over Assam, India, as 64 Japanese aircraft materialized through the morning haze three miles east, heading directly for his base at Dinjan Airfield. The 23-year-old Adair had flown 43 combat missions with the 89th Fighter Squadron protecting the Hump airlift, but this morning he was the only pilot airborne when the formation appeared.

In the previous eight weeks, Japanese raids on Allied airfields throughout northeast India had destroyed 47 transport aircraft on the ground and killed 112 personnel. His P-40, nicknamed Lulu Bell and marked with the number 44, carried six .50-caliber Browning machine guns and enough ammunition for approximately 12 seconds of sustained fire.

The enemy formation consisted of 24 Mitsubishi Ki-21 “Sally” bombers, escorted by approximately 40 Nakajima Ki-43 “Oscar” fighters arranged in layers above and below the bomber stream. Intelligence reports indicated that similar-sized raids in Burma had achieved 90% hit rates on undefended airfields.

Below him, Dinjan Airfield housed 14 C-47 transport aircraft loaded with critical supplies for Chiang Kai-shek’s forces in China, a field hospital treating 63 wounded soldiers, and fuel stocks sufficient to support Hump operations for 11 days. If the bombers reached the field unopposed, the damage would cripple Allied supply operations over the Himalayas for weeks.

The nearest friendly fighters were 38 minutes away at their base in Jorhat. Adair checked his fuel gauge: full internal tanks, 180 gallons—approximately 90 minutes of flight time at combat power. The Japanese formation was 3,000 feet below him, moving at 240 mph toward the airfield.

Standard doctrine called for fighter pilots to wait for reinforcements when outnumbered more than 5:1. Adair had 64-to-1 odds. He could radio for help and shadow the formation until support arrived; by then, the bombs would already be falling. Or he could attack alone and try to disrupt their bombing run.

Adair pushed the throttle forward. His Allison V-1710 engine responded immediately, manifold pressure climbing to 54 inches. The P-40 accelerated to 320 mph.

He positioned himself 4,000 feet above the bomber formation, coming at them from the south with the sun behind him. The Oscars hadn’t spotted him yet. Their attention was focused forward on the target, and he had one advantage—surprise.

The Japanese pilots expected fighters to meet them near the target, not 20 miles out.

Adair planned his attack vector: hit the lead bomber formation first, ignore the fighters initially, break their bombing accuracy, make them scatter, force them to abort the run. Could one P-40 disrupt 64 Japanese aircraft?

The lead Sally bomber group flew in tight formation—six aircraft arranged in two V’s of three. Adair rolled inverted, pulled the nose down, and dove at the bombers from their 7:00 high position.

His airspeed built rapidly: 360 mph… 370. The P-40’s Allison engine screamed at full power. Range closed fast. The bomber crews still hadn’t seen him.

At 800 yards, he opened fire. His .50s hammered, tracers arcing toward the lead bomber. Rounds walked up the Sally’s left wing. Fabric tore. Metal sparked.

The bomber’s port engine erupted in orange flame. Black smoke poured from the cowling. The formation broke—bombers scattered left and right, their tight V dissolving into chaos.

Adair pulled up hard, seven G’s crushing him into the seat, and rolled right.

Forty Oscar fighters were diving toward him.

The Nakajima Ki-43 Oscar was one of the most maneuverable fighters in the Pacific Theater. Powered by a Nakajima Ha-115 engine producing 1,150 horsepower, it could reach 329 mph at 13,000 feet and execute turning circles tighter than any American fighter. The Oscar’s butterfly combat flaps allowed it to bleed speed rapidly in turns without stalling.

Japanese pilots exploited this advantage ruthlessly. In the previous six months, Oscars had shot down 63 Allied fighters over Burma and Northeast India.

Adair’s P-40N was faster in a straight line but couldn’t match the Oscar’s turn rate. The Warhawk’s Allison V-1710-81 engine generated 1,240 horsepower at 3,000 RPM, giving the aircraft a maximum speed of 378 mph below 12,000 feet.

But in a sustained turning fight, the heavier American fighter would lose energy faster than the lightweight Japanese aircraft. Standard P-40 tactics against Oscars were simple: never turn with them. Use speed. Hit and run. Extend away. Reset.

Adair couldn’t extend away. If he fled, the bombers would reform and complete their attack run on Dinjan. He had to keep pressure on the formation—keep them scattered, keep them nervous—even if it meant fighting 40 Oscars alone.

The first four Oscars came at him in a loose finger-four formation from his 10:00 high. Adair rolled left, pulled the nose up, and fired a two-second burst at the lead fighter. The .50-caliber rounds missed high.

The Oscar broke right. Its wingman followed.

Adair reversed, diving away to maintain speed.

Two more Oscars dove from above. He saw them at 400 yards, pulled into a climbing left turn, fired again—no hits. His ammunition counter showed 800 rounds remaining across all six guns, approximately six more attacks at his current rate of fire.

Behind the fighter screen, the Sally bombers were attempting to reform. Three groups of six aircraft each were closing back into formation. If they achieved their bombing V again, they would press the attack.

Adair had perhaps 90 seconds before they reached their release point over Dinjan.

He rolled out, shoved the throttle to the stop, and dove toward the bombers again. Eight Oscars followed him down.

The P-40 accelerated to 405 mph in the dive. The Oscars couldn’t match that speed.

Adair opened the gap, pulled out at bomber altitude, and lined up on the right-hand Sally formation.

Range: 300 yards.

He fired. Tracers converged on the lead bomber’s right engine. The Mitsubishi Ha-101 radial engine exploded in a fireball.

The bomber rolled right, streaming fire and debris. Its wingman broke formation to avoid collision.

Adair kicked rudder, skidded left, fired at another Sally. His rounds punched through the bomber’s thin fuselage skin. The Ki-21 had no armor protection for the crew, no self-sealing fuel tanks.

Designed in 1936, it was obsolete by 1943 standards, but it could still carry 2,250 pounds of bombs—enough to destroy everything at Dinjan Airfield.

The Oscar fighters were closing again—12 of them this time. Adair’s fuel gauge showed 162 gallons remaining. His ammunition counter read 650 rounds.

The bombers were 19 miles from Dinjan.

He had perhaps four minutes before they reached drop range.

Then his engine started overheating.

The Allison V-1710-81 was a liquid-cooled engine. Coolant circulated through passages in the cylinder heads and block, absorbing heat from combustion, then flowed through a radiator mounted beneath the fuselage.

At combat power settings above 50 inches of manifold pressure, the engine generated extreme temperatures. The coolant system was designed to handle sustained operation at those settings for approximately 20 minutes.

Adair had been running at full power for 11 minutes. His coolant temperature gauge showed 230°F. Normal operating temperature was 210. At 250, the engine would begin to fail.

He had three options: reduce power to let the engine cool, abandon the attack and return to base, or continue fighting and risk engine failure over hostile territory.

The Sally bombers were 17 miles from Dinjan, still within bombing range, still a threat.

Adair kept the throttle forward.

Two Oscars came at him head-on. Closing speed exceeded 600 mph. Both fighters opened fire at 500 yards. Adair saw their muzzle flashes—7.7 mm tracers walking toward his nose.

He fired back.

His heavier .50-caliber rounds carried more energy and reached farther. At 350 yards, his rounds hit the left Oscar’s engine cowling. The lightweight fighter shuddered, broke left, trailing white coolant vapor.

Its wingman followed.

Adair rolled right and dove. His coolant temperature hit 240°.

The Sally bombers were 15 miles from target. Two formations of six aircraft each had reformed into bombing V’s. The third formation was scattered, three bombers struggling to rejoin.

Adair went for the lead formation again.

Six Oscars tried to intercept him. He dove past them at 390 mph, too fast for them to follow. At bomber altitude, he leveled out and opened fire on the lead Sally.

His first burst hit the bomber’s right-wing root. The wing structure failed. The outer panel folded upward and tore away.

The Sally rolled inverted and entered a spin.

No parachutes.

The crew rode it down.

The formation broke again. Bombers scattered in three directions. Their bombing accuracy was destroyed. Even if they dropped now, their bombs would be spread across miles of jungle instead of concentrated on the airfield.

Adair pulled up hard.

His coolant temperature gauge showed 248°.

The engine was running rough. He could feel vibration through the control stick. Detonation was starting in the cylinders—pre-ignition from excessive heat.

If he didn’t reduce power soon, the engine would seize.

Eight Oscars dove on him from above.

He saw them late.

Rolled left.

Too slow.

7.7 mm rounds punched through his right wing. Fabric tore. Metal buckled. One round hit his right aileron control rod. The aileron response went mushy.

He needed more right stick pressure to maintain level flight.

Another burst walked up his fuselage. Rounds sparked off his engine cowling. One penetrated the coolant reservoir behind the firewall.

Green coolant sprayed across his windscreen.

The engine temperature gauge climbed past 260°.

Steam erupted from the cowling seams. His oil pressure dropped. The Allison was dying.

Adair chopped the throttle. The engine RPM fell from 3,000 to 2,400.

Not enough power to maintain altitude.

The P-40 started descending—1,000 feet per minute, then 1,500.

The Oscars were circling above him, waiting.

Then his engine caught fire.

Fire in a liquid-cooled aircraft engine follows a predictable sequence. First, burning coolant vaporizes and ignites. The flames spread forward along the engine cowling, drawn by airflow. If the fire reaches the fuel lines running along the engine’s left side, the aircraft explodes.

Adair had perhaps 30 seconds before that happened.

Standard procedure for engine fires was immediate shutdown and bailout, but his altitude was only 8,000 feet, descending rapidly, and he was 12 miles from friendly territory over jungle where Japanese patrols operated.

He kept the engine running.

The Allison’s fuel mixture could be leaned manually. Adair pulled the mixture control back to idle cutoff for three seconds, starving the engine of fuel. The fire intensity decreased. He pushed the mixture forward again.

The engine coughed, caught, continued running—rough.

Power output had dropped to approximately 60%. Not enough to climb, barely enough to maintain level flight.

He was committed to flying home on a burning, damaged engine or abandoning the aircraft over hostile territory.

The Sally bombers were 13 miles from Dinjan, still close enough to turn back and attack, but their formations had disintegrated. Individual bombers were heading southeast toward Burma.

The raid was broken.

The airfield was safe.

Adair turned southwest toward his base at Naguli, 43 miles away—approximately 15 minutes of flight time if the engine kept running.

Six Oscars followed him.

At 7,000 feet, his engine oil pressure dropped to zero. The Allison ran on oil pressure to lubricate its connecting rods, crankshaft, and camshaft. Without oil pressure, metal ground against metal. Friction generated heat. Heat caused expansion. Components seized.

Adair felt the engine vibration increase.

The propeller began windmilling unevenly.

Power output fell further.

His airspeed dropped to 180 mph.

The P-40’s stall speed was 120.

He was losing the margin between controlled flight and falling.

Behind him, the Oscars closed to 400 yards.

They didn’t fire.

They were watching, waiting for the engine to fail completely, waiting for him to bail out or crash.

One Oscar pulled alongside, close enough for Adair to see the pilot’s face. The Japanese pilot gestured downward.

“Land the aircraft. Surrender. Become a prisoner.”

Adair ignored him.

At 6,000 feet, smoke began filling his cockpit. Not from the engine fire—from electrical wiring behind the instrument panel. The rounds that had hit his fuselage had severed control cables and damaged the electrical system.

Smoke burned his eyes and throat. He slid the canopy open. Wind blast cleared some of the smoke, but the slipstream made breathing difficult.

His airspeed fell to 160 mph.

The Oscars backed off. They weren’t going to waste ammunition. The American pilot was already dead.

His aircraft was crippled.

The engine was dying.

He would crash in the jungle.

They circled higher, watching him descend.

At 4,000 feet, Adair’s right aileron control cable snapped. The aileron flopped to full deflection.

The P-40 rolled right and the nose dropped into a dive.

He hauled back on the control stick with both hands.

Nothing.

The elevator cables were damaged.

He had no pitch control.

The nose stayed down.

His airspeed increased: 200 mph… 220… 250.

The jungle rushed up at him.

Altitude: 3,000 feet… 2,500… 2,000.

He was going to crash.

Then he had an idea.

The P-40’s damaged aileron was forcing the right wing down. The broken elevator cables left the horizontal stabilizer in a nose-down position. Gravity and aerodynamic forces were pulling the aircraft into an uncontrolled dive.

But aerodynamics work in both directions.

If Adair rolled the aircraft inverted, the damaged aileron would force the right wing up instead of down. The elevator stuck in nose-down trim would push the tail down, lifting the nose up.

Flying upside down would reverse the control inputs.

The damage that was killing him right side up might save him inverted.

At 1,800 feet above the jungle, Adair rolled the P-40 completely inverted. Negative one G pressed him against his shoulder straps. Blood rushed to his head. His vision turned red around the edges.

The fuel system, designed for positive G loads, struggled to feed fuel to the engine inverted. The Allison coughed, sputtered, nearly quit, then caught again, running rough but producing power.

The nose came up.

The descent slowed.

At 1,200 feet, the P-40 leveled out, flying upside down at 140 mph.

Adair held the inverted attitude for 40 seconds. His airspeed increased to 160.

He was climbing slowly—50 feet per minute—but climbing.

Then the fuel starvation problem returned.

The engine began cutting out.

He rolled right side up. The damaged controls immediately pushed the nose down.

The P-40 descended again—600 feet per minute.

Adair waited until he lost 300 feet, then rolled inverted again.

The nose came up.

He climbed 200 feet before fuel starvation forced him to roll upright.

The pattern repeated: upside down to climb, right side up to let fuel feed properly.

Flip, climb.

Flip, descend.

Flip, climb.

The six Oscars circling above watched this impossible display—an American P-40 with a burning engine and damaged controls, flying alternately inverted and upright, refusing to crash, clawing for altitude with the determination of a wounded animal refusing to die.

One Oscar dove to investigate.

Adair saw him coming, rolled inverted to gain altitude, then rolled upright directly at the Japanese fighter.

The Oscar broke away.

The American pilot was either insane or desperate.

Either way, the Oscars decided not to engage.

They turned east toward Burma.

Adair continued his rolling climb toward Naguli.

His fuel gauge showed 83 gallons.

His oil pressure gauge showed zero.

The needle had been pegged at zero for nine minutes.

The engine should have seized by now. Connecting rods should have welded to the crankshaft. The fact that it still ran defied mechanical logic.

The Allison was running on momentum, friction, and whatever microscopic oil film remained on its internal components.

His altitude reached 3,000 feet, then 4,000.

The base at Naguli was 21 miles southwest—approximately 11 minutes away if he maintained current speed.

His coolant temperature gauge no longer registered. The needle had melted off at some point.

Smoke still poured from the cowling, but the flames had died down. Either the fire had consumed all available fuel, or the lack of coolant had somehow starved it.

At 5,000 feet, Adair spotted Naguli airfield ahead: the runway, the tower, the revetments—safety.

But he faced a new problem.

His landing gear was hydraulic.

The hydraulic system ran on engine power.

His engine was producing minimal power and might quit completely any second.

If he lowered the gear and the engine died, he would crash short of the runway with the gear down. If he kept the gear up and tried a belly landing, the impact might rupture his remaining fuel tanks and the aircraft would burn.

He needed the gear down and locked before the engine failed.

He reached for the gear lever.

His right hand was shaking—not from fear, from carbon monoxide poisoning.

The cockpit smoke had been accumulating for 14 minutes.

He pulled the gear lever down.

Nothing happened.

The P-40’s hydraulic system operated at 1,000 pounds per square inch. Hydraulic fluid, pressurized by an engine-driven pump, flowed through steel lines to actuators that extended and retracted the landing gear.

With the engine producing minimal power, the hydraulic pump wasn’t generating sufficient pressure.

The gear remained locked in the up position.

The P-40 had a backup system: a manual hand pump mounted on the left side of the cockpit.

Twenty-eight strokes of the pump handle would manually pressurize the hydraulic system enough to lower the gear.

Adair grabbed the pump handle with his left hand, keeping his right hand on the control stick.

He pumped.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing.

The gear stayed up.

The hand pump required both hands for effective operation, but releasing the stick meant losing aircraft control. His damaged ailerons and elevator would immediately push the nose down.

He reached behind his seat and pulled his lap belt loose, wrapped it around the control stick, looped it through the seat frame, pulled it tight.

The makeshift rig held the stick in approximate neutral position—not perfect control, but enough to keep the aircraft flying straight.

He grabbed the hand pump with both hands and pumped hard.

Five strokes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

At stroke 23, he felt resistance—hydraulic pressure building.

At stroke 28, he heard a thunk from beneath the cockpit.

The left main gear extended and locked.

The right main gear followed three seconds later.

The P-40 was now draggy. Gear down increased drag significantly. His airspeed fell from 160 mph to 135.

Still above stall speed, but not by much.

The engine was producing perhaps 40% power now, barely enough to maintain altitude with the gear extended.

Naguli runway was seven miles ahead.

Three minutes.

His vision tunneled. Gray edges closed in from the periphery.

Carbon monoxide poisoning was affecting his brain function.

He shook his head, focused on the runway.

Six miles.

His engine temperature gauge—the one that still worked—showed 310°, far beyond redline. Metal components inside the engine were expanding from heat. Tolerances were closing.

Any second now, a piston would seize or a valve would stick or a connecting rod would snap.

Five miles.

The tower operators at Naguli saw him coming: a P-40 with smoke trailing from the cowling, flying erratically, gear down.

They assumed he would make a normal approach—lower the flaps, reduce speed, touch down on the main wheels first.

Standard landing procedure.

But Adair’s flaps were hydraulic too.

With minimal engine power, he couldn’t pump enough hydraulic pressure for both gear and flaps.

The gear was down.

The flaps stayed up.

Landing without flaps meant higher landing speed: 120 mph instead of 90.

That meant longer landing roll.

Naguli’s runway was 4,000 feet long. A flapless landing in a damaged aircraft required at least 3,000 feet.

Doable—if he maintained airspeed.

If the engine kept running.

If he touched down smoothly.

At two miles from the runway, his engine quit.

The propeller windmilled to a stop.

No power.

No thrust.

The P-40 became a glider.

A very poor glider.

The Warhawk’s glide ratio was approximately 8:1. From 2,000 feet altitude, he could glide approximately three miles.

The runway was two miles away.

Theoretically possible.

But his damaged aircraft had extra drag from the battle damage. Bullet holes in wings and fuselage disrupted airflow.

His actual glide ratio was worse than normal—perhaps 6:1.

He wasn’t going to make the runway.

He was going to crash short in the jungle.

After surviving 64 Japanese aircraft, after flying inverted for 11 minutes, after nursing a dying engine for 15 minutes, he would crash 200 yards from safety because his engine quit at the worst possible moment.

Then he remembered something from training, something his instructor had said about P-40 glide performance—something about flying inverted.

In a normal glide, an aircraft descends nose first, gravity pulling it downward while wings generate lift. But inverted, the aerodynamics reverse. The wing camber designed to generate lift upward when right side up generates downward force when inverted.

However, at specific angles of attack, this reversal creates less drag than right side up flight. An inverted glide could theoretically extend range by reducing drag.

The principle had been mentioned briefly during training.

No instructor expected pilots to actually use it.

Adair had nothing to lose.

He rolled inverted at 1,800 feet, one mile from the runway.

Blood rushed to his head.

His vision reddened.

He held the inverted attitude, watching the jungle pass beneath him—or above him.

Perspective became disorienting.

Airspeed held steady at 125 mph.

Descent rate was 500 feet per minute—better than the 700 feet per minute he’d been experiencing right side up.

The tower operators at Naguli saw an inverted P-40 approaching with landing gear extended.

Gear down while inverted was aerodynamically wrong, structurally stressful. The gear doors designed to handle air loads from below were now subjected to loads from above.

But the gear held.

The P-40 continued its inverted approach.

On the ground, a crew chief named Technical Sergeant Robert Martinez watched through binoculars.

He saw the inverted aircraft, saw the gear extended, saw smoke trailing from the engine.

His first thought was that a Japanese pilot had stolen a P-40 and was attempting to strafe the field.

Martinez ran toward the nearest .50-caliber machine gun position.

Three other ground crew followed him.

They reached the gun emplacement and began traversing the weapon toward the approaching aircraft.

Adair was at 400 feet altitude, half a mile from the runway threshold—still inverted.

His vision was fading.

Gray tunnels closed in.

Carbon monoxide and negative G forces were shutting down his brain.

He had perhaps 20 seconds of consciousness remaining.

He needed to roll upright, line up with the runway, and land.

But if he rolled upright too soon, the damaged controls would push the nose down and he’d crash short. If he rolled too late, he’d overshoot the runway.

At 200 feet altitude, 300 yards from the threshold, Adair rolled right side up.

The damaged aileron immediately pushed the right wing down.

He countered with left stick, fighting the aircraft, forcing the wings level.

The nose wanted to drop.

He pulled back on the stick.

The broken elevator cables gave him partial control—not much, just enough.

The P-40 descended toward the runway at a steep angle, nose high, wings wobbling.

Martinez’s gun crew tracked the aircraft.

The P-40 was definitely damaged.

Smoke poured from it.

It might be friendly.

It might be enemy.

In three seconds, the aircraft would cross the runway threshold.

Martinez had to decide:

Shoot.

Or hold fire.

He held fire.

Adair crossed the threshold at 90 feet, descending rapidly.

Too fast.

Too steep.

The P-40 dropped the last 90 feet in four seconds.

The main wheels hit the concrete runway hard.

Seven-G impact.

The gear struts compressed fully.

The tailwheel slammed down.

Metal shrieked.

The right main gear collapsed.

The right wing dropped.

The wingtip hit the runway and dug in.

The aircraft ground-looped right, spinning 180 degrees, throwing up sparks and concrete fragments.

It skidded backward for 200 feet and stopped.

Smoke billowed from the engine compartment.

Fire crews raced toward the aircraft.

Adair sat motionless in the cockpit for 12 seconds.

Then he released his shoulder straps, stood up, and climbed out onto the wing.

His legs buckled.

He caught himself on the wing root.

Ground crew reached him and helped him down.

Martinez arrived with the fire crew.

They opened the cowling.

The Allison engine was destroyed—pistons seized, crankshaft warped, oil pan ruptured, coolant everywhere.

Adair walked around the aircraft with Martinez.

They counted the damage.

Sixteen bullet holes in the fuselage.

Seven in the right wing.

Four in the left.

One round had severed the right aileron control cable completely.

Another had punctured the hydraulic reservoir.

A third had cut through two electrical bundles behind the instrument panel.

The engine had sustained catastrophic damage from overheating and oil starvation. Every cylinder showed scoring. Three connecting rods were welded to the crankshaft.

The coolant system was destroyed.

Lulu Bell would never fly again.

But Philip Adair had saved Dinjan Airfield.

Intelligence reports confirmed that all 24 Sally bombers had turned back without dropping their ordnance. The Japanese formation had scattered 15 miles short of target. Forty Oscar fighters had escorted empty bombers back to Burma.

Zero bombs hit Allied facilities.

Zero casualties on the ground.

Fourteen C-47 transports remained operational.

The Hump airlift continued without interruption.

On December 16th, 1943—three days after the mission—10th Air Force headquarters interviewed Adair about the engagement. He described the attack sequence, the inverted flying technique, the landing approach.

Flight surgeons examined him.

Carbon monoxide levels in his blood were still elevated 72 hours after the mission.

They determined he had been flying with severe poisoning for the final 11 minutes of the flight.

That level of impairment should have rendered him unconscious.

He had somehow remained functional through will alone.

On January 8th, 1944, Lieutenant General Joseph Stilwell, Commander of U.S. Forces in the China-Burma-India Theater, presented Second Lieutenant Philip Adair with the Silver Star.

The citation read:

“For gallantry in action against enemy forces on December 13th, 1943, when Lieutenant Adair, flying alone, engaged and disrupted a formation of 64 enemy aircraft attacking Allied installations, continuing his attack despite severe aircraft damage and personal injury, thereby preventing destruction of critical supply facilities.”

Adair flew 95 more combat missions with the 80th Fighter Group.

He achieved ace status with five confirmed kills.

On his final mission in July 1944, he shot down two Ki-43 Oscars over northern Burma.

He returned to the United States in September 1944, survived the war, and remained in the Air Force for 30 years.

He retired as a full colonel in 1971.

The 80th Fighter Group—the Burma Banshees—continued operations until August 1945. The unit destroyed 413 Japanese aircraft in aerial combat and 147 on the ground.

They lost 63 pilots killed or missing.

Their death’s-head skull insignia became one of the most recognized markings in the China-Burma-India Theater.

The P-40 Warhawk never achieved the fame of the P-51 Mustang or P-47 Thunderbolt. It was slower than both. It couldn’t fight effectively above 15,000 feet. By 1943, it was considered obsolete.

But in the hands of determined pilots like Philip Adair, the rugged Curtiss fighter proved what mattered most in combat wasn’t the aircraft’s specifications.

It was the courage and skill of the pilot flying it.

One pilot.

One obsolete fighter.

Sixty-four enemy aircraft.

December 13th, 1943.

Philip Adair proved that impossible odds mean nothing when someone refuses to quit.

His solution to damaged controls—flying alternately inverted and upright for 11 minutes—defied every standard flying procedure.

His inverted landing approach with gear extended had never been attempted before and was never repeated.

That’s the story of the Burma Banshees and the day one P-40 pilot disrupted an entire Japanese raid.

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