This Is Bat Country

I woke up this morning in Paint Lick, Kentucky, the same place I've called home for as long as I can remember. But today, something felt different. Today, I am poised to alter the trajectory of World War II with an idea so audacious, so wildly unconventional, it could only spring from a crazy mind like mine, fueled by the bold spirit of Kentucky bourbon.

My inspiration came to me at Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, where the bats captivated me. After the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor, I envisioned these creatures as our secret weapon. My plan was to equip thousands of bats with tiny firebombs, release them from American planes over Japan, and let them infiltrate the wooden and paper structures, hiding until—boom! Japan would be engulfed in flames, all without risking a single American life. It was a sinister, silent, and stealthy strategy, a blend of Dracula's cunning and American military prowess.

I wrote a letter to President Roosevelt, outlining my bat bomber concept. He was so excited he stood up! The White House forwarded it to the War Department, who embraced the idea. The Army's Chemical Warfare Service spearheaded the project, and we were off and running.

We selected the small brown free-tailed bat, ubiquitous across North America and capable of carrying a one-ounce bomb. Dr. L. F. Fisser designed the kerosene incendiaries, and we were set to proceed.

Attaching the bombs to the bats using surgical clips and strings, our plan was to drop them from about 1,000 feet. The bats would find hiding spots, bite through their strings, and leave the bombs behind. If a bat failed to detach, it was a necessary sacrifice in the quest to win the war—a safer alternative to manned kamikaze missions. We placed the bats in refrigerators to induce hibernation, awaiting their awakening and deployment. However, the bats proved stubborn; they refused to rouse, and when dropped from a B-25, they plummeted to the ground like tiny, furry meteors.

Our initial major experiment occurred at Muroc Dry Lake, California. We captured 3,500 bats, refrigerated them to induce hibernation, and released them from a B-25 Mitchell. Exhausted from the journey, the bats wouldn't wake up, crashing into the ground and turning the project into a debacle.

Undeterred, we persisted, but the bats continued to fail us, either refusing to fly or escaping. It was a 'batastrophe’. The journey was a roller coaster through hell, with bats as our only companions. We crisscrossed the country, chasing these creatures as if they held the key to our salvation. Discovering a cave in Texas with over 20 million bats felt like striking gold.

The bats swarmed around us, seemingly ready for their kamikaze mission for Uncle Sam. We spent countless hours perfecting the bomb design—something small enough for a bat to carry yet potent enough to ignite a city. We pursued a kerosene incendiary that could fit in the palm of your hand.

Despite our efforts, the project remained a disaster. We adjusted altitudes, timings, and even tried different bat species, but to no avail. The bats kept escaping, mocking us as they vanished into the night. When we finally used real incendiaries, the ensuing chaos was surreal—bats igniting hangars and cars, like a scene from a horror movie. The Army, having had enough, was ready to abandon this 'batshit-crazy' idea. However, a determined Marine saw potential in the bat bombs and pushed for the project to be transferred to the Navy and Marine Corps.

The Marines dubbed it Project X-Ray and relocated it to Texas. Progress was finally being made. These were real men, fueled by black coffee and raw meat—the kind of crazy the bat bombs needed. They successfully launched bats from altitude, igniting 30 fires. Yet, it wasn't enough. When they informed Admiral King that another year would be needed to ready the bats, he canceled the project, pulling the plug on two million dollars and countless hours of effort. All we had to show for it were dead bats and a few scorched buildings. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I felt a sense of pride. We had ventured into uncharted territory, pushing the boundaries of possibility, even if we ended in failure.

Ultimately, the war was won using conventional weapons, with B-29s dropping napalm on Tokyo. The first attack killed 100,000 people and blazed 16 square miles. No bats, just napalm. But at least we tried something different, something daring.

As I sit here in Paint Lick, I can't help but ponder what might have been. What if the bats had succeeded? What if we had set Japan ablaze with a swarm of flying firebombs? It's a crazy notion, but it's one that fuels me. Because in the end, it's not about success or failure. It's about the journey—the wild ride through hell with those flying-fanged bastards as our only companions. And who knows? Maybe one day, someone will look back and say, "Dr. Lytle S. Adams, the man who tried to win the war with bats. Now that was a real Kentucky original."