The ballast- and bomb-laden “chandelier” of a WW II-era Japanese balloon bomb.[National Museum of the Pacific War]

Captain Charles A. East, a bomb disposal officer of the Royal Canadian Engineers, stared at the enemy ordnance through binoculars.

All seemed still in the Cedarvale, B.C., wilderness, save for the frosted breath of Corporal W.V.L. (Smitty) Smith, an outdoorsman-turned-explosives expert.

East studied the strange object draped between three trees, its paper canvas creating a vast canopy akin to a “monstrous form of mushroom.” From the fungus-like form, a maze of ropes trailed down to a chandelier-like structure—itself an elaborate array of equipment attached to a platform—on which hung 12 sandbags. Between those, most importantly, dangled two bombs.

That the contraption appeared largely intact suggested an electrical fault. Not only was the payload designed to start forest fires, which had clearly not happened in the early 1945 snow, but an additional flash bomb should have destroyed the once-airborne device, thus incinerating any evidence.

Japanese scientists test their innovation.[National Museum of the Pacific War]

A malfunction there might be, yet that made the situation all the more volatile.

East pocketed his binoculars, as unassured of the duo’s safety as when their Indigenous guide had first discovered the weapon more than an hour earlier. He would have to assess the crash site even closer.

Traipsing forward cautiously, East examined the debris strewn across the ground. Among the wreckage was an empty, broken battery box.

Just as the officer began theorizing, the heel of one of his snowshoes snagged underfoot. East bent down and, with gloved hands, dug the protruding object out from the drift. It was then that a “cold chill ran up my back.”

The potential for Japan’s balloon bomb menace, an ingenious if futile attempt to foster chaos beyond North American shores, predated the war itself.

Starting around 1926, Japanese meteorologist Wasaburo Oishi began researching wind. The rudimentary data, at that time widely ignored by most other countries’ scientists, suggested the existence of the since well-known jet stream. 

Japanese schoolgirls work on assembling parts for the balloon bombs, which typically carried four incendiary bombs.[National Museum of the Pacific War]

This high-altitude, west-east-flowing air current opened a genuine corridor of possibilities. During the 1930s, Japan’s military tried capitalizing on it.

Several imperial projects, including with balloons, showed promise, although they focused on experimentation rather than practical implementation. That changed in April 1942 following the U.S. Doolittle Raid on Tokyo.

With Japan proven vulnerable to American air attacks, the country’s prime minister, Hideki Tojo, sought retaliation. In response, Japanese scientists renewed efforts to create a lethally efficient balloon capable of crossing the Pacific Ocean.

Drafting schoolgirls for much of the hard labour, the result was the Fu-Go program managed by the Special Balloon Regiment. The students, operating out of converted schoolrooms or transferred to factories, helped craft the weapons with paper made from the kozo tree. A relative of mulberry, the lightweight material enabled crude and inexpensive construction.

Ultimately, the balloons measured about 10 metres in diameter, within which were some 538 cubic metres of hydrogen. The equipment-laden chandelier, attached via shroud lines, hung beneath the inflated vessel—the same sort that Captain East would soon confront in a B.C. forest.

Officials recover remnants of a downed device in Saskatchewan.[National Museum of the Pacific War]

In its undamaged state, however, the platform carried 32 ballast sandbags and a barometric control device. The latter instrument—positioned alongside other apparatuses—ensured that if the balloon descended too low, sandbags would be released to regain the necessary altitude, thereby increasing its chances of reaching North America. The process would be repeated until arrival.

After crossing some 7,000 kilometres of open ocean in three to four days, a balloon would drop its ordnance at calculated intervals above the intended target area. The payload typically comprised four 4.5-kilogram incendiaries, a 15-kilogram high-explosive bomb, and flash bombs to destroy the entire Fu-Go once it had completed its mission.

The design was inspired, but far from foolproof. Among its flaws, the ballast-dropping mechanism often seized when subjected to fluctuating temperatures en route. Despite the battery being encased in a protective plastic box filled with antifreeze, the solution was found to be too weak for the job.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, combined with additional blueprint shortcomings and environmental factors, Japanese scientists would record mixed results.

Overall, the Fu-Go program manufactured 9,000-10,000 balloons. Of those, a mere 10 per cent—approximately 900—reached their destination before the Japanese ceased the operation in April 1945. Many of the balloons developed faults, such as freezing, and plunged harmlessly into the sea.

Nevertheless, 900 deadly balloons remained a considerable number—and an appreciable threat. They may even have caused noticeable damage, too, had there not been one final, and most fatal, flaw in the plan.

The Special Balloon Regiment released its first weapons in late 1944, taking advantage of the seasonal jet stream. Unfortunately—at least for imperial scientists—that same period coincided with seasonal wet weather in North America. The chances of starting forest fires, therefore, were minor.

Yet, try they did. On Nov. 4, 1944, a U.S. naval vessel recovered a Fu-Go off San Pedro, Calif. Another eight were identified by the year’s end.

Canadians endured their own experience of the supposed Fu-Go terror starting on Jan. 1, 1945. Rather than a spectre looming over the coastal wilderness—though that would come—the first retrieval took place outside Stony Rapids, Sask., a hamlet in the province’s far north.

It would be one of at least 80 of the balloons found in Canada, including distant sightings, partial recoveries, and, in what could be deemed a best-case scenario, incidents where a mostly intact balloon could be salvaged and analyzed.

Jan. 12 was an especially fruitful day for intelligence staff when an almost-complete Fu-Go was seized in Minton, Sask., some 150 kilometres due south of Regina near the U.S. border. Snagged on a barbed wire fence, the balloon still carried some of its undetonated bombs and ballast bags.

The discovery not only advanced understanding of Japan’s tactical objectives, but also helped pinpoint the precise origin of the enemy weapon. Canadian and American scientists studied the sand in the weights, finding microscopic marine fossils endemic to the eastern shore of the Japanese island of Honshu.

Of course, it was one thing to hone in on likely launch sites—and, in doing so, rule out the theorized use of Japanese submarines in their release.

It was quite another thing to actually combat the balloons.

Royal Canadian Air Force Flying Officer Edward E. (Maxie) Maxwell would meet the challenge.

Soaring through the skies near Chilliwack, B.C., in a Curtiss P-40 Kittyhawk scrambled from RCAF Station Patricia Bay, the 133 (Fighter) Squadron pilot spied his target.

Japanese scientists renewed efforts to create a lethally efficient balloon capable of crossing the Pacific Ocean.

Officials recover remnants of a downed device in Saskatchewan.[DND/LAC/PA-203222]

It was Feb. 21, 1945, and Maxwell’s task—as part of the Western Air Command (WAC) response—was to eliminate the Fu-Go threat in a timely, safe and efficient manner. Rarely had it been that simple, however, as balloons straddling 9,000 metres (30,000 feet) were difficult to reach. Then there was the fact that the aircraft at WAC’s disposal possessed no night interception ability, and that shooting down a balloon in an inopportune location could cause more harm than good.

Aside from pushing his Kittyhawk close to its altitude limits, conditions appeared favourable to Maxwell and his wingman Bert Webber.

The Fu-Go—codenamed Blue Paper when in flight and White Paper in the event it reached the ground—would still need to be brought down without damaging its explosive cargo, no easy feat at the best of times.

Webber, writing 40 years later, recalled: “Maxie and I split up and took turns [attacking] (about three or four passes each, firing about 3-4 second bursts). After about 10 minutes it was evident that we had punctured it to the degree that it was descending quite rapidly (probably about 500 to 1,000 feet per minute).”

Together with Webber’s critical assistance, Flying Officer Maxwell would be credited with Canada’s first “paper kill.” It would not be the last.

On March 10, 1945—roughly when Japan’s balloon campaign was beginning to peak—another 133 Squadron pilot achieved a second paper kill. Flying Officer James G. Patten intercepted the balloon at 4,100 metres (13,500 feet) near Ganges Harbour on B.C.’s Salt Spring Island, shooting it down with his wingman. The Fu-Go exploded in a reddish flash before its appendages landed in the water.

Flight Lieutenant Russel L. Moodie, piloting a PBY Canso of 6 (Bomber Reconnaissance) Squadron alongside his crew, received credit for a third and final confirmed Blue Paper takedown on March 12. Returning from an anti-submarine patrol near Coal Harbour, B.C., he spotted a partially deflated Fu-Go at a low altitude. Moodie used his slipstream to bring it down further, at which point it became entangled in trees outside Rupert Arm.

Once a device had been recoded from Blue Paper to White Paper—be it through WAC interception or Japanese miscalculation—responsibility was transferred to the army, whose duties were to find, disable and recover any remnants. The Pacific Coast Militia Rangers, largely consisting of First World War and even Boer War veterans, played an outsized role in spotting and tracking balloons, while the RCMP co-ordinated local law enforcement efforts in securing crash sites. Finally, the Royal Canadian Navy assumed jurisdiction over weapons found at sea.

The Fu-Go would still need to be brought down without damaging its explosive cargo, no easy feat at the best of times.

Canada’s defensive procedures were thus broadly effective, although they, like the balloons themselves, were prone to the occasional mistake.

Namely, after the Japanese campaign ended in April 1945—ironically on the cusp of the drier season—false sightings prompted needless scrambles.

Some reports, meanwhile, turned out to be domestic devices, as well as one noteworthy incident where, on June 11, 1945, a Kittyhawk from 135 Squadron shot down an American balloon. Others were arguably more farcical in nature.

As early as February 1945 and rolling into the summer months, RCAF sorties attempted an impossible feat in their defence against the Fu-Go threat: battling the planet Venus, the daylight brightness of which confused air personnel.

In one diary entry, a 133 Squadron member perfectly expressed the immense frustration felt by many, writing on July 2: “Three scrambles again today, two of them chasing planets again. Surely someone at control should know sufficient astro navigation to plot the visible planets in the day time and not scramble 40,000′ ceiling Mosquitos thousands of light-years up.”

Military officials in California re-inflate a Japanese balloon bomb recovered in early 1945 to learn more about the new weapon. [National Museum of the Pacific War]

More seriously, between January and May 1945 some of the greatest challenges stemmed from censorship of the North American press. On the one hand, the media blackout had largely prevented Japanese authorities from gathering intelligence, leaving them to question the program’s success. On the other, limited information had impeded civilians’ ability to accurately identify and report balloon sightings. Worse, on May 5, a downed Fu-Go claimed its first six victims near Bly, Ore., resulting in an eventual policy U-turn for safety reasons.

The tragic deaths of 26-year-old Elsie Mitchell—who was pregnant—and five children under her care, showed that the balloons, though widely considered ineffective, could still leave significant destruction in their wake.

Back in the snow-covered forest near Cedarvale, B.C., in early 1945, these same considerations ran through the mind of Captain Charles A. East.

The bomb beneath East’s foot was an anti-personnel type, designed to kill those within a compact blast range. On that cold day, isolated and almost entirely alone, the Canadian engineer wondered if it would be him.

East’s face turned pale once it dawned on him that he, and by extension his comrades, had endured the closest of close calls.

He had been lucky, but was not out of the woods yet.

After a night spent at their base camp, he and colleague Smith began securing the crash site. Smith climbed a tree to dislodge the chandelier. As bomb disposal officer, East stayed on the ground and examined the explosives, including the one that had almost cost him his life.

It would nearly cost him again—on more than one occasion.

During the defusing process, East inadvertently triggered the arming vanes, which then spun four times. A fifth could have caused the bomb to detonate. Equally hair-raising was when Smith, aloft in a different tree, knocked a small branch out onto the ordnance, prompting East to temporarily run for cover. 

At the most critical juncture, acutely aware he had had one too many close shaves, East gripped the bomb with his left arm against his ribs. “If I’m going to go,” he said to a sheltering Smith, “I don’t want to leave any pieces lying around.”

Thankfully, he had had his last near-death experience.

East carried out his duties—often plagued by false reports—until mid-October 1945, later writing in his 1993 memoir, White Paper: Japanese Balloons of World War Two, that “not one of us sustained so much as a cut finger.” The six American dead were the only confirmed fatalities caused by a Fu-Go.

Yet there remains a degree of risk even today with 80-year-old balloons still being unearthed in remote pockets of Canada and the U.S. One such instance occurred close to Lumby, B.C., in 2014 when two forestry workers discovered a device half-buried in the Monashee Mountains. Bomb disposal experts, deeming it unsafe to move, subsequently detonated it in situ. 

Nor have rival foreign powers ceased using balloons for nefarious motives. Indeed, as recently as February 2023, China launched a somewhat similar—albeit unarmed—apparatus into North American airspace for surveillance purposes, sparking condemnation from Canadian and U.S. authorities.

The controversy served as a figurative blast from the past for some. Had the now-late Charles A. East bore witness, it might have evoked more.