Operation Airthief

By the beginning of 1942 it was clear that the capture of an airworthy Fw 190 would be of inestimable value to RAF Fighter Command. Yet in wrtime the aquisition of an example of the latest enemy fighter in an undamaged condition was a requirement far easier to state than to achieve. Nevertheless Captain Philip Pinckney, a Commando officer who was undeterred by the many obvious difficulties, put forward a proposal for 2 men to attempt to achieve by stealth what a battalion would not achieve by force: to steal one of the new German fighters and fly it back to England. For sheer effrontery the plan, which is reproduced in full below, can have few equals in military history. And it might just have succeeded.


MOST SECRET AND URGENT
To: Officer Commanding No 12 Commando
From: Captain Pinckney, E Troop, No 12 Commando

Sir,
I understand that as a matter of great urgency and importance a specimen Focke Wulf 190 is required in this country. I attach a proposal for procuring one of these aircraft.
....I have the honour to request that this, my application to be allowed to undertake the operation described, may be forwarded as rapidly as possible through the correct channels to the Chief of Combined Operations I further propose that the pilot to accompany me should be Mr. Jeffery Quill who is a close friend of mine, and as a well known test pilot of fighter aircraft is well qualified to bring back the plane. He is also young, active, a yachtsman, and a man in every way suitable to carry out the preliminary approach by land and sea.
....If Mr. Quill cannot be allowed to undertake this operation, perhaps a substitute could be made available from the Free French Forces. I am most anxious to be allowed to volunteer for this operation.

I have the honour to be
Sir
Your obedient servant
(signed) P. H. Pinckney

23.6.42

1) Object: to bring back to this country undamaged a Focke Wulf 190
2) Forces Required:
One MGB (motor gunboat) equipped with DF (direction-finding radio) apparatus, to carry a folbot (collaspable canoe) to within 2 miles of the coast of France.
One folbot equipped with wireless transmitter.
One officer of a Commando.
One specially selected pilot.

Method
3) Day 1
a) On the night of D1, the MGB, carrying the officers and folbot, will leave England after dark and proceed at best speed to within 2 miles of the French coast off a selected beach.
b) On reaching the beach the folbot will be carried inland and hidden in a wood or buried in the dunes. The officers will lie up during the following day.

4) Day 2
After laying up all day the officers will move inland until they are within observation range of a fighter aerodrome.

5) Day 3
a) On D3, the officers will keep the aerodrome under observation and plan the attack for the start of nautical twilight (ie, just before sunrise) on D4.
b) During the night of D3, the officers will penetrate the aerodrome defenses by stealth and will conceal themselves as near as possible to a selected Focke Wulf aircraft.

6) Day 4
a) At the start of nautical twilight on D4, when the aircraft are warmed up by the ground mechanics, the two officers will take the first opportunity to shoot the ground mechanics of the selected plane as soon as it has been started up. The pilot officer will take off in the machine and return to England. The commando officer will first ensure the safe departure of the aircraft and will then withdraw to a previously reconnoitred hideup. Should no opportunity to seize the aircraft have presented itself, the officers will withdraw to a hideup and make another attempt the next morning.
b) During the night of D4, the commando officer will return to the concealed folbot.

7) Day 5
a) After nautical twilight of D5 ot during the succeeding night, this officer will launch the folbot and be picked up by an MGB.
b) The MGB should be off the coast for two hours before nautical twilight on D5, D6 or D7 providing the weather is calm. If the weather is unsuitable, the Mgb should come on the first suitable morning. The ooficer after launching the folbot will paddle to a pre-arranged bearing. the MGB, making due allowance for the day and consquent set of the tide, will proceed on a course to intercept the folbot. In addition the officer will make wireless signals, which will be picked up by the MGB using DF gear.

Notes
Selected Aerodrome:
a) The selection of an aerodrome will be dependant on intelligence not at present available to me. The requirements are:
1)Within 20 miles of a landing beach which is not too strongly defended, and which has a hinterland of dunes or woods offering a hiding place for the folbot.
2) Within observation range or a few miles of a covered approach or a wood or place of concealment.

b) It is thought that possibly Abbeville aerodrome might be suitable with a landing made on the Somme Estuary. The Cherbourg peninsula, entailing a cliff-climbing onlanding, might give a good chance of making an undiscovered landing, providing a suitable aerodrome is nearby.

9) Return of the Plane:
Arrangments must be made with Fighter Command to ensure that the pilot officer is not shot down by our fighters on returning with the aptured aircraft. It is suggested that these arrangments should not be dependant upon wireless or on the officers taking distinctive markings or signalling aparatus with them. Possibly Fighter Command could be instructed not to shoot down any enemy Focke Wulf 190 appearing over the coast during specified times on selected days. In addition the undercarriage could be lowered for identification. If a Focke Wulf 190 after all is unprocurable on the aerodrome, a Messerschmitt 109F could be brought back instead. I understand that its aquisition would also be valuable.

10) Date:
The landing should be made on a rising tide to cover footprints and also on a dark night to achieve surprise.

11) Alternative Return of Commando Officer:
If it is considered an unacceptable naval risk to bring back an MGB to pick up the Commando officer, this officer could either paddle on a course pre-arranged by Fighter Command and eventually be picked up by an RAF rescue launch or, as a third alternative method of withdrawl, he could be instructed to make his way back through occupied France.

12) Other Considerations:
a) Food. the officers will be equipped with 10 day's compressed rations.
b) Preparation. The officers should have ample time to train together for a period which need not exceed 10 days. Training should also be carried out on the MGB.
c) Security. The officers suggested in the covering letter accompanying this proposal are both at present stationed at Bursledon, where they frequently go sailing together; the Commando officer owns a double folbot which is used daily; there are MGBs stationed at Bursledon; training could therefore be started without delay without arrousing any suspicions that an operation was under rehearsal.

Pinckney's proposal was allocated the operational code-name "Airthief" and detailed planning began; the airfield at Cherbourg-Maupertus was considered suitable for such an enterprise. Yet while still in the embryo stage, "Airthief" was overtaken by a coincidence more bizarre than any fiction writer would devise. On the very evening after Pinckney submitted his paper, on 23 June 1942, a German pilot became disoriented during a fight with Spitfires over southern England and inadvertantly landed his Fw 190 at Pembrey in South Wales. So the RAF got its Focke Wulf, without having to resort to "Airthief".

Philip Pinckney did not survive the war; he was killed in action in Italy in 1944. Of the chances of success of "Airthief", Jeffery Quill recently commented, "Provided we could get to the aircraft with its engine running, get the German airman out of the cockpit dead or alive and get me into it, I thought I had a 50-50 chance of getting back to England. As to the early part of the operation I was not qualified to have a view and I was guided entirely by Philip who seemed very confident and I would just have done what he said. He ws obviously relying on stealth - and perhaps we might have got away with it. Philip was always evasive about his own plans for getting back. I had a splendid way of getting back by air, but it was a very different kettle of fish for him. But he was very resourceful and might well have made it, one way or another, provided I had got the aircraft off the airfield without too much of a hue and cry.
Anyway it was a non-event, as it turned out. Philip Pinckney was the inspiration behind the whole thing. Had it succeeded it would have been 90% due to him and the balance of danger would have been heavily against him. I think he was bitterly disappointed when it was called off and he was quite cross about the German pilot landing in Wales. I am afraid I have to confess to a certain easing of tension within my guts!"

Tuck's Luck!

Robert Stanford Tuck shot down a total of 30 officially credited enemy fighters before his luck finally run out in January 1942. From the early days of 1939 to 1942 he had become one of the living legends of the Royal Air Force, leading 92 Squadron and 257 Squadron during the Battle of Britain with often fantastic results and supernatural luck.

In 1935 Tuck was a young student trying to learn to fly and he was failing by the minute. Tuck, a strikingly handsome young man, born in 1916, saw an add in the newspaper about the RAF one day and decided to try it out. So there he was, sitting in an Avro Tutor biplane trying to learn to be fighter pilot.

He was about to be dumped off the programme, simply because he seemed not to learn even the basic ideas of flying. October 1935 was quite frankly his last chance to prove himself as a pilot in the RAF. And Tuck knew it himself.

But suddenly on that day in October it all came to him. Flying an aeroplane was not about calculating and predicting every move the plane made. It was not about trying to work out the pure mathematics of a turn or a roll in his head before doing them, it was about instinct and handling the plane as apart of himself. When he realized this, right there on his last chance to be apart of the RAF, it was all very easy. Robert Stanford Tuck was without doubt a natural pilot. With just a bit of bad luck and a not so understanding flight instructor, Tuck would have been on his way home a long time ago. The same day he went solo for the first time and did all exceptionally well.

By August of 36, Tuck had earned his wings and got his posting to 62 Squadron, flying Gloster Gladiators. Two years later it might have been all over when 3 Gladiators flown by Tuck, Gaskell and Hope-Boyd ran into turbulence. Gaskell’s plane struck the turbulence and then caught Hope-Boyd’s slipstream. Gaskell then crashed into Tuck’s plane, who was flying as number three. Gaskell died in the crash while Tuck managed by shear luck to get out of the plane and into his chute. He badly injured his cheek and from this day he would be known for his long scar on his right cheek. Tuck knew that skill did not save him that day, but pure luck and he discovered that he had become quite the cheeky pilot and had to be careful in the future. His nerve remained steady, his judgment good and his enthusiasm high, but he no longer took needless risks in flying.

Flying was Tuck’s life. His life was up in the air, in the cockpit of whatever plane he was flying and he did not care for much else. He was quite the beer drinker and could drink an awful lot of pints during a night out with his flying buddies, but flying was above all his main interest. In these early years women did not really appeal to him. He was not a monk by all means, he simply did not have the time or the energy of the company of women.

By May 1940 Tuck was transferred to 92 Squadron, flying Spitfires out of Hornchurch. Tuck scored his first victory in those dark days of spring 1940 when the British army seemed beaten and lost at the beaches of Dunkirk. A Me-110 fell to Tuck’s 8 Browning machine guns and he saw it spiral down and slam into a field near St. Omer, France. Just minutes earlier, Tuck had seen Pat Learmond’s Spitfire go down in a ball of fire. 92 squadron went up 2 more times that particular day and by the last sortie, Tuck had scored 3 victories, but not without a dose of “Tuck’s luck”.

Tuck circled the wrecked Me-110 as the German pilot climbed out of the cockpit. He slid open his canopy and waved at the downed German pilot. The German seemed to be waving back, but suddenly a large crack was heard and his canopy suddenly had a hole in it, just inches from Tuck’s face! The German wasn’t waving, he was holding a Mausser machine gun and firing at him!

Angered, Tuck pushed the stick of his Spitfire downwards, swung it around, came in low and pressed the firing button. The German became engulfed in smoke, and lethal Spitfire machine gun fire and that was the end of him.

Within the next couple of days, 92 Squadron lost their CO, Roger Bushell and Tuck was handed the squadron shortly thereafter.

The first thing he did was to order his pilots to make more space between them. That way they could pay more attention to enemy fighters and not the stupidity of perfect formation flying in a combat zone. Tuck shot down 2 Dornier bombers that day. Ignoring several hits on his Spitfire, Tuck didn’t stop attacking one of the bombers before it hopelessly fell down from the sky. When taking over the squadron, Tuck had his friend Brian Kingcome posted to 92 squadron, later one of the best pilots during the Battle of Britain.

During the last days of May 1940 Tuck got the chance to fly a Me109 which they had rebuilt from its crashed landing in Britain. Tuck found out that the Me109 was a wonderful little plane, it was slightly faster than the Spit, but lacked the Spits amazing manoeuvrability. By taking part in this testing, Tuck could put himself inside the Me109 when fighting them, knowing its weak and strong points, which obviously must have helped him a great deal later on.

At a ceremony at Hornchurch on June 28, 1940, Tuck was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) by King George VI for his "initiative" and "personal example" over Dunkirk.
While 92 Squadron being drawn back from the front line and to Wales during July and August 1940 something remarkable happened. Tuck was chasing a lone German bomber and shot it down. Later he found out that the German plane had crashed close to a military camp, killing one soldier there. This soldier was, as amazing as it sounds, his sisters husband John Spark. This was by all means, Tuck's Luck in reverse.

While visiting friends at Northolt in August, he came right in the middle a major bombing raid. He refused to take cover and took off in a Spitfire, catching up with 2 Ju88 bombers.

Far below him the two 88's passed him, Tuck put his Spit in a shallow dive going head on with the bombers. Tuck fired his guns on the port side enemy bomber. He struck the fuselage of the plane so hard to seemed to bend backwards, like the body of a leaping fish. Then one of the wings tipped and the bomber went into the ocean in a gigantic explosion. He pulled sharply up getting pressed violently down in his side. He half rolled his Spitfire on top and dived down after the second bomber. He passed it overhead, turned his Spitfire round and went in for another head-on attack. Tuck got an instant feeling that this was different than the others and very dangerous. Ignoring his feelings, he continued straight towards the bomber, trying to avoid the bullets coming in from the German front gunner. He pulled off just fractions before impact to the German bomber. He had been hit several times and Tuck's engine gave up. He knew it wouldn’t make it and got out, pulling the ripcord as fast as possible. The doomed German bomber continued towards France probably crashing down in the channel.

During September of 1940, Tuck was transferred to 257 squadron flying Hurricanes. 257 squadron was quite possibly the only squadron in the RAF at that time that had lost more fighters than they had shot down. It was a dismal situation when Tuck took over the squadron. However with only a couple of days rest and practice, Tuck managed to turn this squadron around. When meeting the 257 pilots for the first time, always the beer loving young man, Tuck strolled right to the bar, downed half a pint of beer in one gigantic gulp and started talking to his new pilots.

On September 15, Tuck lead 257 squadron and two other Hurricane squadrons towards the armada of German planes coming in over England. Not having time to gain altitude or a tactical advantage, Tuck took his squadrons in for an attack, coming from below the Germans. Ignoring the attacking Me109's coming in from the sun they attacked the bombers. While attacking a He111 slightly out of formation, Tuck was jumped by a Me109. He sent his wingman after the attacking Me109 and continued shooting at the He111.

This day would later in history be known as "Battle of Britain day".

Tuck was awarded a bar to his DFC for his bravery during those daring attacks on the German formations. Surprised by this honour, he replied only "I've just been bloody lucky, that’s all".

He was later awarded the Distinguished Service Order (DSO), a decoration second only to the Victoria Cross. The award was for leading 257 Squadron with "great success. Tuck had transformed 257 squadron from zeroes to heroes in just a couple of weeks and just in time for the very crucial September battles during the Battle of Britain.

I mid March of 1941 275 squadron started to operate also at night attacking the German bomber raids. A second bar to his DFC was awarded later the same month, for "conspicuous gallantry and initiative in searching for and attacking enemy raiders, often in adverse weather conditions."

Tuck was flying alone over the east coast of England when he was jumped by 3 Me109's. The first Me109 fired at Tuck and and passed him so he suddenly had the 109 straight in front of him. Ignoring the other two 109's he fired at the 109 in front him. Deadly accurate, the first 109 hopelessly fell into the sea below. He then banked sharply and found another 109. Letting it pass beneath him first he dived after him. After a quick burst, the second 109 went down. He had gotten very low by now and pulled straight up trying to gain height before the last 109 would attack. Too late. The 109 hit his Hurricane several times shooting the throttle out of his hand, his canopy got shot to bits and pieces along with the gunsight of the doomed Hurricane. Tuck did not jump out, but turned his Hurricane around, firing with everything he had against the last 109. He managed to damage it severely before he had to jump out himself. He was later picked up from the sea and treated for minor injuries.

In mid July 1941 Tuck was relieved as a wing commander for 257, certainly earning all the praise he got from both his pilots and the ground crew. They had all just wonderful things to say about this extraordinary man at only 25 years of age.

Tuck was then given orders to take command of the Duxford wing, flying Airacobras, Spitfires and Typhoons. Besides his beloved Spitfire, Tuck took a liking to the Typhoon.

Another incident of Tuck's Luck happened when he and some pilots were partying in a pub not far from Norwich. Being with his girlfriend, Joyce, Tuck suddenly got a feeling he had to get out of the pub in a hurry. He told his pilot friends he wanted to go into Norwich to hit the pubs there. They declined to his offer because they would never be able to make it there before closing time. Tuck knew this but still wanted to go. Driving back from the pub Joyce confronted him with his and Tuck told her that he felt he had to leave in a hurry and didn’t really want to go to Norwich after all. The next day he was given the news that a lone German bomber had dropped its cargo straight on the pub killing most of the people inside. Another close shave. Tuck's Luck once more.

The Germans finally nailed Tuck in January of 1942. Doing a low “Rhubarb” sweep over France, he and his wingman got into massive flak from both sides of a shallow valley when trying to hit a distillery and some trains. Tuck managed to crash land his Spitfire right in front of a squad of German soldiers standing beside a cannon. Tuck's Luck was with him once more when one of his last shots from the Spitfire had entered the German cannon, peeling it like a banana. Seeing this, the Germans couldn’t stop laughing, which probably saved Tuck's life. Even when picking up the dead German soldiers Tuck had just shoot up with his Spitfire, they didn’t stop laughing.

Tuck was transferred to Stallag Luft 3 where he met many of his old friends, including the legendary Douglas Bader and his old CO, Roger Bushell. Bushell was later shot by the Germans after over 70 pilots escaped thru a tunnel. Tuck was supposed to be apart of this escape plan but was transferred from the camp just days before it was put into action. Lucky once more. Only three pilots managed to escape to safety, two of these were Norwegians.

Tuck managed to escape in 1945 when the whole camp was moved due to the Russians coming a bit too close for the Germans liking. Tuck and a Polish captain managed to get to the Russian lines. While in a Polish city, Tuck's Luck came into action yet another time when Tuck was recognized by a friend of his brother. A one in a million chance of meeting someone like that in a Polish city in 1945! With the help of this man, they soon managed to get themselves back to safety and the green fields of England.

Robert Stanford Tuck settled in Kent with his wife Joyce after the war. He died in 1987.

Rolf Arne Berg - One of the Few

Rolf Arne Berg was probably the best Norwegian fighter pilot during world war two. He might still be the best fighter pilot Norway has ever had. Spitfirepilots.com presents the story of this magnificent fighter pilot, and perhaps even previously unknown information to many about this fascinating man from Norway.

The Norwegian pilots during the war spoke seldom about individuals in their group of people. They were all of the same team. Even though, if one individual should be pointed out, it has to be Rolf Arne Berg.

Rolf Arne Berg was born in Trøndelag in Norway and joined the air force shortly before the war, and continued his war efforts from England and Europe alongside his fellow pilots in 331 and 332 squadron. Rolf Arne was the kind of person that is very seldom noticed in peace-time. Shy, quiet but extremely intelligent. An expert in handling a Spitfire, maybe the best Norway had.

He was an officer but not a snobby one. Rolf Arne was an individual everyone liked, Englishmen and Norwegians all the same. He was an expert at handling dangerous situations. Calm and steady on the stick in most situations normal people would wet themselves in horror.

To fly was his life. Once a mission was completed, he was ready for the next. There’s more than a slight possibility that Rolf Arne had more missions than anyone else in the whole 2nd Tactical Air Force.

He often talked about what he wanted to do after the war. Sometimes he wanted to continue flying, sometimes he wanted to buy a fishing boat or maybe just travel the world.

Fighter pilots were considered as something very glamorous during the war. Glamorous and popular. Almost celebrity like. Some of them were widely known in the media. Rolf Arne however was no big tease among girls as many others were. According to Svein Heglund, Rolf Arne had someone special. Somewhere.

One story about Rolf Arne that may not be widely known is the story told in Duncan Smith’s book “Spitfire into battle”. After a mission Smith and Berg landed at an American bomber base in England after running low on fuel. Most of the Americans had never seen a Spitfire up close before and giggled at the site of the small Spitfire compared to their Flying Fortresses. To escort B-17 bombers to Germany had probably never crossed Mitchell’s thought when he designed the wonder that is a Spitfire.

The Americans more than willingly filled up their Spitfires with fuel and even wanted to give Rolf Arne and Smith a few dollars as thanks for escorting their bombers into France and back. Rolf Arne, quite embarrassed said: “I’m a Norwegian Officer; I cannot take your money”. The Americans thanked for all the help and waved goodbye to the departing Spitfires on their way back home to North Weald.

Rolf Arne stayed with 331 squadron all the way to the end. Promoted to Wing Commander Flying he was the only one in the squadrons with a specially painted Spitfire. His own initials instead of the regular squadron codes. Parts of the tail and the wings were painted in Norwegian flag colours. He had the respect and admiration of both squadrons.


Rolf Arne Berg died in February 1945 in a tragic crash. Not only was it so tragic that he died in a crash but he was also tour-expired. He went along for an extra mission out of pure stubbornness and willingness to go up again one more time to fight the enemy. He convinced his friend Zulu Morris to add him to the mission. There had been reports about a Dutch airfield full of German airplanes parked around it. After getting “no” from Helge Mehre, he went further up the command and got his “yes” after all.

Even his bags were packed. He was supposed to go to Chamonix to ski. He wasn’t supposed to go over Holland in a Spitfire another time. But, the German airplanes were a too good of a chance to miss. A great opportunity to get in a few easy ground kills. It was supposed to be the encore for Norway’s best overall fighter pilot.

Flak was a fighter pilots worst enemy. No experience or 10 German airplanes shot down can help you deal with flak. Flak is about luck. Lots of experienced allied pilots lost their lives to flak when the war in reality had already been won. A German pilot could probably never have gotten close to shooting Rolf Arne down. He was that good and that experienced. Flak was something else. It was game of dice where the looser died.

When the Norwegian Spitfires attacked the airfield in Holland the flak opened up on them. Rolf Arne’s Spitfire was hit massively in one of the wings. Probably hit while gaining height after the attack. The Spitfire lost one of its wings and dived without control straight into a barn without exploding. He was found inside the cockpit by locals and buried nearby.

It may sound weird that Rolf Arne pulled up after such an attack. Famous fighter pilot Pierre Clostermann writes in his book “The big show” that pulling up from such an attack is asking to be shot down. The flak batteries are able to aim better if you’re higher up and not 10 meters from the ground. Rolf Arne pulled up but he probably had his reasons.

There were no real German airplanes on this airfield. They were dummy planes. It makes the entire event even sadder.

Rolf Arne Berg, with his capability and experience as leader and as a fighter pilot would have been as good as gold for Norway after the war. The loss of him can still be felt in Norway and the air force. What Rolf Arne would have done for the air force and for his country after the war nobody knows for sure, but it would have been a huge presence from a great man.

Norwegian fighter pilots and friends of Rolf Arne visited the church yard were Rolf Arne was buried after the war. On his grave someone had put flowers. Someone cared.

Rolf Arne's body was later transferred back to Norway and he's buried in Trøndelag.

Hans-Guido Mutke on the morning of 25 April 1945

"I made contact with 20 to 25 Marauders north of the Bodensee, then I noticed that I was running very low on fuel while flying over French-occupied territory. I had two choices - to land in Zurich or bale out and use my parachute at 2000 metres. I chose to land in Switzerland as I wanted to avoid being captured by the French, and came down at Zurich's Dubendorf military airfield with only enough fuel left for a further two minutes flying. The Swiss surrounded the plane with roughly 60 soldiers, all with guns aimed at me - something which struck me as being rather belligerent in neutral Switzerland, particularily since I was 'over the moon' at having escaped being taken prisoner by the French and had no intention whatsoever of somehow opening fire on the Swiss with my aircraft's weapons."

Obituaries
Hans Guido Mutke
Aviator who believed he broke the sound barrier in 1945


Flying a Messerschmitt 262 jet fighter, on 9 April 1945 Hans Guido Mutke may have become the first person to travel faster than the speed of sound as he flew over Austria.


Hans Guido Mutke, pilot and gynaecologist: born Neisse, Germany 25 March 1921; married (two children); died Munich 8 April 2004.

Flying a Messerschmitt 262 jet fighter, on 9 April 1945 Hans Guido Mutke may have become the first person to travel faster than the speed of sound as he flew over Austria.

In an attempt to assist a fellow pilot under Allied fire he went into a sharp dive and lost control of his Me-262 as it started to vibrate violently and the controls ceased to function. When he regained control, the speedometer was stuck at 1,100km an hour. On his return to base, considerable damage was revealed. Although he saved his comrade, this could have cost him his place in the squadron, as pilots had been ordered not to exceed 950km/h. If Mutke's account is true, and there are doubters, the story means that the German Luftwaffe pilot broke the sound barrier two years before the US pilot Colonel Chuck Yeager, who achieved this during a 1947 flight over California.

Mutke, called up when he was a medical student, spent three years as a night fighter reconnaissance pilot searching for, and tracking, Allied bombers over Germany. The war was already lost, and the Americans and British effectively controlled the skies over Hitler's Reich when, because of his flying skills, Mutke was posted to train as a jet pilot flying the Messerschmitt 262, the first jet plane produced in quantity for combat. On his last combat mission, running out of fuel, Mutke crossed into neutral Switzerland, to avoid falling into enemy hands. He was interned with American flyers who had also landed in Switzerland.

After the Second World War, released from Swiss internment, Mutke completed his medical training, in Berne and Zurich, but then spent some years flying DC-3 Dakotas for airlines in Argentina and Bolivia. On his return to Germany, he worked as a gynaecologist until his retirement. He did, however, keep his ties with military aviation by serving as a reserve medical officer in the German air force. His Me-262 was handed over by the Swiss, in 1957, to the Deutsches Museum in Munich, where it is still on display.

It was only in 1989 that Mutke became convinced that he had broken the sound barrier. This was after discussing his flight with experts at a conference in Munich celebrating the 50th anniversary of jet-powered flight. He died during a heart operation in Munich, and donated his body to Gunther von Hagens, the controversial artist who uses human bodies in his "Body Worlds" exhibitions.

Retired aviator cited for WWII bravery

He was a waist gunner in a B-17 aircraft that made the first daylight raid on Berlin.

Edward L. Cardenas / The Detroit News

SHELBY TOWNSHIP -- Retired U.S. Air Force Technical Sgt. James Marbry was among the first members of the Army Air Force to see Berlin as his B-17 swooped in for a bombing raid of the German capital in March 1944.

Nearly 64 years later, he's finally received recognition for that harrowing mission to push deep into German territory during daylight.

The 84-year-old Shelby Township veteran received his Distinguished Flying Cross Sunday Selfridge Air National Guard Base for his efforts as a ball turret gunner aboard the B-17 bomber named "Dreambaby."

The honor came about when a grandson of a crewmate began asking his grandfather about his service medals in 2004. Soon, an effort was started to get the entire crew the Distinguished Flying Cross, a medal given to those who "exhibit heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in an aerial flight," according to the Air Force.

Marbry received his medal before a contingent that included his grandson, Air Force Master Sgt. Michael Marbry, who flew home from Ramstein Air Base in Germany.

"It's important that we recognize this passing generation and their sacrifices before they are gone. Their sacrifices enable us to enjoy the freedoms we have today," said Col. David Miller, Selfridge vice-commander.

Shortly after the Berlin mission for which he was honored, he was transferred to another bomber that was sent on a Memorial Day raid in 1944 just days before the D-Day invasion.

His job on that raid was to bomb a fighter plane factory deep in Germany. But a Luftwaffe fighter hit his B-17 with a 20 mm machine gun fire between the third and fourth engine. The bullet tore into the wing and started a fire on the bomber, which was flying at an altitude of 26,500 feet.

Marbry, who was a radio operator on that flight, knew he had 90 seconds to get out.

He deployed his parachute and landed just before pieces of the plane came raining down around him. He learned that four members of the crew died in the crash, and a few hours later he was taken prisoner by the Germans. After 11 months, was finally liberated by a unit attached to Gen. George Patton's Third Army.

"It was a quite an experience," he said. "I wish I could give you all the feelings I have about the men that didn't come back."

“Icky and Me”
By Jack Payne

This story is true - the names of the people have been changed but not enough so that any of them reading this would not know themselves. The dates, times, places and action were taken directly from notes made by the pilot who flew the mission and from the briefing slip and maps for this mission. As for the other details which were recorded only in the pilots memory, they, too, are real, I know. I was the pilot.

It was August, the 9th, 1945. I had just been awakened by the O.D. and was trying to pull myself out of the musty, but warm, sleeping bag which had been dragged all over the South Pacific. It was dark on Ie Shima, not yet 04:30. Briefing was at 06:00. I sat on the edge of my cot now, looking for my socks. "Oh yeah," I thought, "I washed them last night, they're out on the tent rope." Slipping the wooden shower clogs on my feet I stepped out of the tent. The morning was clear, each star as bright and shiny as a speck of blue white diamond. Off to the north I could see the "Witches Tit" silhouetted against the starlit sky. Up there on the rise of ground behind our tent area were the runways, Birch and Plum, and the revetments, where now I could hear the deep-throated rumble of the big Pratt and Whitney R-2800C Wasp engines being started and warmed up by the ground crews. Now the crews would be climbing all over each "Jug", poking their heads in inspection openings and preflighting each plane for its day's work. The ordnance men would be carefully laying about 3,300 rounds of .50 caliber ammo in the eight feed bins and hooking ten five-inch rockets under the wings of two Jugs in each squadron. My old “Bucket of Bolts,” 02, more affectionately called "Icky & Me", which was painted on the cowl, would be getting ten rockets hung under her wings plus external tanks or bombs, depending on the mission we would be partners on today. I found my socks and groped my way back to my cot. As I was pulling on my socks, boots and flying suit my thoughts wandered back to the many other mornings in the past year, I had followed this same routine - always, it seemed, it was dark; always, even in the Pacific, it was cool. Then there were always the same noises - the rumble of the engines being warmed up, or sometimes, a while back, it would be a different sounding engine, maybe a Packard or Allison in a P-40 or P-38, but it always meant the same thing, the fighters were being made ready for their day's business.

I zipped up my flying suit, put a pen and pencil in the breast pocket, and slipped the belt through my hunting knife sheath and buckled it. I picked up the .45 in its shoulder holster from the tent floor, where it laid every night within easy reach from my cot, slipped it on and snapped it fast. As I picked up my helmet and goggles, I looked around at my stuff. It was all there, handy in case one of my buddies had to pack my bags this time.

"Hell, nobody's gonna pack my stuff. I'll carry it home with me when I go!" I thought, as I went outside and turned toward the mess tent. I went into the mess tent and picked up my tray, got two eggs over light and a pile of bacon, some toast and butter, went over to a table and put the tray down. Lt. Brummer put his down next to mine, and we went over to get coffee, took it back to the table and ate.

"I wonder where in hell we're going today," Brummer said, not looking at anyone in particular.

"I don't know," someone replied, "But I bet we get our ass shot off again."

"Yeah, they aren't putting up many fighters these days but they're sure throwing the flak around."

"Well, with none of their own pea shooters in the air they can shoot like hell without aimin'."

"Yeah, well, if we don't get more Jugs in the air today than we did yesterday, they'll have to aim damn good, cause there won't be but only a couple of targets to shoot at!"

"Crap!" exclaimed Brummer, "I ain't goin' up there alone! All them guns will be shootin' at me then, an' my luck's gettin' pretty thin!" So went the conversations around the table at breakfast. When I finished I went over and filled my canteen with water, then put salt in it and shook it up. That salt water tastes like sugar water after a few hours in the air. The temperature in the cockpit gets up to around 120°, and you sweat out a lot of salt.

We all walked over to the briefing tent and sat down. The C.O. with his trailing assortment of aides and intelligence people walked in and, we all popped to, at the first sound of ten-hut!

"As you were," the Colonel said, "We've got a bitch today boys. we're running a little late, so let's get at it. Captain, you give 'em the 'poop'!"

"Your target is Matsuyama West," said the Captain, "it's a large airfield off the northwest side of Shikoku, reported as being a medium bomber base."

Someone handed me a mimeographed mission sheet with a map of Japan on it and places for all the specific information required for this mission. As the Captain read the information, his voice became a monotone in this now silent tent. Every pilot was getting this information on his sheet. A slip here could mean your neck! As the words came, I wrote - Target - Matsuyama West; Man Planes - 07:50; Start Engines - 07:55; Takeoff - 08:13; call signs are: Group Leader - Tycoon; Squadron Leader - Vampire One; Communications are; Primary - A; Secondary - B; Air-Sea rescue - D; IFF - 6; Recognition Lights – Red and amber. The squadron will assemble over Oboe at 08:35; the group over Yoke, at 08:45; route out 25°; weather CAVU.

"Your air-sea rescue units will be at these points," the Captain said. "Playmate 16 and Sub 593 off the southern tip of Kyushu at Cape Sata — their code name today is ‘Blowhole.’ Playmate 15, Jukebox 33 and Sub 539 will be here off the Tozaki Point. This is where you'll need them if you get clobbered. Their code name for today is 'Giltedge'."

"One or two last items you may like to Know before you guys strap on your airplanes," the Captain went on. "Our intelligence reports this field is protected by 83 automatic weapons and six heavies. We expect you'll run into a lot or fighters, your going in pretty deep, and there's a railroad down the west shore and a small refinery just southwest of the airfield, that's it men - good luck and good hunting!"

We checked our watches and piled outside. The jeeps and weapons carriers were waiting to take us up to the parachute room and then to the flight line. The stars had faded now and the sky was getting light. Dawn came fast here in the Ryukyus, so by the time I had put on my "Mae West" and slipped into my chute harness, it was quite light. I tucked my chute pack up over my butt and went over to the jeep that had three other pilots from the 333rd in it, and we bounced off to the line. Lt. Brummer was flight leader with Lt. Holly on his wing. I was number 3 with Lt. Dombray on my wing. Capt. Cary, our squadron commanding officer, was leading the squadron today. If everytning went right tne 333rd would put twelve planes in the air, the 73rd and the 19th squadron the same. This meant tne 318tn group would have 36 P47Ns over the target today.

The jeep dropped Brummer off by "Miss Vivian", Holly by "760" and I jumped off by "02" - "Icky and Me". "02" was a veteran of forty-one missions and an uncounted number of sorties, she was a good airplane, not always flown by me, as I shared her with other pilots on the days I wasn’t assigned to missions. "02" flew every day she wasn't "Red A'd" and that wasn't too often. Icky's crew was a good one; they hovered over her like a hen over her chick.

I started my preflight inspection; this I made a habit of. The crew knew "Icky" better than I, but it was my ass that would be sittin' in this beast for the next few hours, and I wanted to be sure it was all there. As I ran my hand along the leading edge of the stabilizer I remembered my first meeting with "02" back at Hickam Field on Oahu. Several pilots from the 3l8th were flown back to Hawaii to pick up new planes and fly them back here to Ie Shima.

I picked "02". She was brand new, shiny and clean, but was parked right smack in the middle of a big mud puddle at the edge of the taxi strip.

"What a mess this thing's going to be when I give her enough power to move out of this mud," I said to the crewman who was helping me up on the wing.

"Yeah," he replied, "My nice pollish job will be all icky with mud."

And icky she still was when I sat her down on Ie Shima, some 14 flying hours later, and "Icky" she still is. She couldn't fly alone however, and I felt that she belonged to me, so her full name became "Icky and Me".

The people at Republic Avaition, way back on Long Island, U.S.A., had built her. She sailed to the island of Oahu on a Victory Ship and put in combat readiness at Hickam Field. Now I was going to take her into the deep blue Pacific sky and fly her straight into war; that is what this P47N was made for. The "N" was bigger than the old "D" which we had all through the Marshalls and Marianas and the boys in Europe were using. The "N" was built specifically for our war over the vast, trackless waters of the Pacific, it was a VLR (Very Long Range) fighter. Longer wings with squared off tips, a bigger engine, more internal fuel capacity, tail warning radar, auto pilot and many other innovations and improvements just for our type of war. And how well it did it is a matter of record. The first five days of the Ryukyus-Kyushu Campaign the 318th's Thunderbolts had knocked down 54 enemy planes and lost not one of its own and against 17 to 1 odds.

"This is an airplane to fight with," I thought as I continued my inspection. The holes that "Icky" picked up from ground fire yesterday were neatly patched, and a new bottom section was on the engine cowl, She looked good to me, so I climbed the wing and lowered myself into the cockpit.

Everything looked good; the form A and 1A were good. There was a red mark on the generator, "I'll watch that," I thought. I settled my chute in the bucket and reached for the safety belt, the crewman laid the shoulder straps over my shoulders and handed the ends to me as I slipped them through the belt and locked it.

My airplane was strapped on!

I ran through the cockpit check, automatically unlocking the controls, setting the fuel selector on "Main" tank for starting and take off. As I went over the cockpit's controls and instruments from left to right, I plugged in my mike, earphones and oxygen mask, turned on the master switch and pushed the "A" channel on the VHF transceiver. The radio came on just as "Vampire 1" was calling for a radio check. I held the mike button on the throttle handle down, and called, "hello, Vampire one, this is Vampire three, over."

"Roger, Vampire three, I read you, R5-S5 out," came the reply. Then it was time to start the engines. I cracked the throttle, shoved the prop pitch full forward, all switches on, mags on both, and leaned on the energizer. As the pitch of the starter reached its peak, I threw it to engage. The Pratt and Whitney turned over, each prop blade came over the top, then it fired, rumbled and took hold. Smoke poured out the short stacks and out around the cowl flaps as I pushed the mixture to "auto rich", the jug rocked gently, now, as I brought the engine to 800 RPM's. The crewmen were out on the wings. "Icky and Me" were ready.

Brummer went taxing by, then "760". I saw my wing man in "Por-Lil-Fuzzy" coming, slowing down to let me in. I released the brakes and kicked "Icky" around to take my place in the line of taxing fighters.

The tension was building up in me now. The take-off was the first obstacle to overcome, and most any take-off is a bit tense. It is a very critical point,—the airplane is heavy, the engine untried under full load, and the runway is too short. An engine failure on take-off is no bed of roses anywhere, in any airplane, but on Plum strip, with a fully loaded P-47N, every take-off is Hairy! Plum strip was only 4,820 feet long, one third the length of any stateside runway, and here the air temperature was around 80°, so there was less lift and less air for the prop to bite into.

Take-off's on Plum were life or death! One of Republic's test pilots was killed taking off on Plum. His wheels never left the ground till he was at the very end of the runway, and then the "N" tried to fly. God, how it tried! We all watched as, with its nose up and 2,800 horses screaming, it sank slowly toward the rocks on the edge of the cliff. It looked for a moment as if he were going to make it. Then the tail of the fuselage hit, with a sickening grinding noise. Eleven tons of airplane went down over the edge of the coral to eternity - a loud puff as it blew into flames and put a smoky period to it's pilot's life.

Brummer was going down the runway now; I could see him leaning into his shoulder harness as though he were trying to help "Miss Vivian" get rolling faster. His tail was up, the runway was running out—he was off — mushing along — his gear was up — he disappeared below the edge of the runway. I watched and waited. I thought he was out of sight too long — I waited for the smoke, but no — "he made it," I yelled. There, out over the China Sea was "Miss Vivian" - low, but flying.

Lt. Holly rolled out on the runway; I moved up and slewed "Icky's" tail around so that, as I ran the engine up to check mags and prop, I wouldn't blow coral all over Dombray, who was behind me.

Being busy with cockpit and mag checks, I didn't see Holly go off; but I knew he made it all right, my wing men would have let me know if he hadn't. By wing men in this case I refer to the ground crewmen who ride laying on each wing with their toes on the aileron. While taxiing, the pilot cannot see over the nose of a Thunderbolt so the crewmen signal him by kicking the aileron, which the pilot can feel in the stick. Everything checked okay, and I was signalled out onto the runway. I rolled around as close to the end as I dared, held my right brake, and eased the Jug around till it pointed straight down the runway. I then let it roll a few feet, locked the tail wheel and then the brakes. The wing man on the right wing came to the cockpit and I throttled the Wasp back to idle. He told me that my right tire was soft. "Christ no! not now," I thought. "That will keep me on the ground for this mission. "I know," I yelled at him, "it was soft yesterday, too. why in hell didn't you guys put air in it." He shook his head. The Sergeant knew damn well that tire wasn't soft when we started to taxi out this morning, and he knew full well it wasn't soft yesterday either. He hit me on the shoulder and yelled, "Give 'em hell for us, Lieutenant," and jumped down.

The signal officer was winding me up. We took off of this island just as though it was a carrier. With brakes locked we would wind up our engines, then the signal officer would give the go signal. I eased the throttle all the way up—prop pitch full forward. The engine came to full roaring life, twenty five hundred RPM — 50 inches of mercury on the manifold pressure gauge. I cut in the turbo super charger, and the manifold pressure went up to 55, 60, 65 inches of mercury. I flipped on the water injection switch on the throttle - 72 inches of marcury! The Wasp had it all now! "Icky" was screaming; the stick was hard to hold back against the pressure, the noise with my canopy open was a violent ear-splitting thing. The tires were dragging on the white coral surface of the runway. "Jesus, let us go! Before this bucket blows up!", I screamed into the blast of air. The signal officer's hand dropped, and I kicked off the brakes and shoved the stick up to the panel to get my tail up as fast as I could and get rid of the drag of the tail wheel. I, too, leaned into my shoulder harness. "Come on, Baby, let's go," I said aloud. I had to put in left rudder to hold it straight. "That damn right tire," I though, "it's slowing me down." I released the landing gear lock with my left hand, then pushed a little harder on the throttle—the runway was being used up fast now - I could see the end! There was a blur of a red cross as I careened by the meat wagon. There was the end of the runway! "Now, Baby, now!", I yelled, as if it might help. I pulled the gear out from under me and at the same time put back pressure on the stick. I was sinking. I could feel this lousy hunk of iron sinking. "She won't fly," I thought. "This pile of tin will never fly. Come on Icky, up! up!" We sank, belly first, nose up just a little, toward those lousey rocks on the end of the cliff. "Why in hell hadn't the engineers or the Seabees gotten rid of them? I'll move then myself, when I get back," I thought. My hand wanted to bring the stick back more, to pull the ship up a little higher. "No! You'll hang it on the prop, then she'll drop right out from under you," flashed through my mind. I was pushing up against the belt as if to lift her that extra inch or two by myself. "Come on Baby, up! Maybe a little more air speed will do it," I thought. I eased the nose down just a little, now those rocks were in my sights, but the Jug was starting to feel a bit lighter in my hand now! I added a little back pressure on the stick, the nose came up, and so did "Icky", not much but the rocks went under her belly and we were over the water, she was still mushing, but if that Pratt and Whitney just holds on a few seconds more we'll have it made—and hold on it did. Then, with 180 MPH on the clock and climbing, I took back all the bad things I had called "Icky". She was still the best in the air for my money.

The 333rd rendezvoused over Oboe. My wing man had to abort with a generator failure and some of the other planes didn't make the rendezvous for one reason or another. The squadron, instead of 12 planes had 8 - our flight had 3 planes. We picked up the rest of the group at Yoke and picked up our heading. Every so often a plane would slide out of formation and test its guns. I took my turn, slid out and away, flipped the switch to guns only, and squeezed off a short burst. I could feel the eight .50s recoil in the wings as the tracers arced out over the China Sea.

The flight up was routine, each pilot busy with his own thoughts and airplane.

Amami-0-Shima passed 10,000 feet beneath us, then Yaku-Shima came in view on the left, ahead of us. Tycoon leader signaled for combat formation — there was Kyushu. We flew east of the Island over the Hyuga Sea. Right below us, under the ocean's surface lay Sub 539, one of the Air-sea Rescue team today. Playmate and Jukebox would be here soon. They would stay around until all the aircraft were accounted for and all the pilots were safe or beyond their help. The group flew on, everyone on the alert, watching for enemy aircraft. As we bored through the clear morning skies over the very shores of the Land of The Rising Sun, Bungo Channel was slipping by way under "Icky's" belly now. There was the long finger of land with Sada-Misaki Light House on its tip. The group swung around to the east more now, out over the lyn-Nada - we were at 14,000 feet - Tycoon leader let his belly tank go, and I watched it tumble, end over end, down, down, till it went out of sight, I held onto mine because I wanted every drop of gas I could get for that big engine. I'd let my tank go just before I started my target run, and then I'd have plenty of reserve. Tycoon leader with the two other squadrons had moved up and were starting to turn to the southwest now. There they go, looking like silver fish in a clear blue ocean. First Tycoon leader nosed over, ever so slowly, then his wing man, then Number 3, then 4, and as the leader picked up speed in the long dive the spacing grew between him and his wing man, between the wing man and Number 3, and so on. It was a long line of airplanes, spaced evenly all the way down. I watched Vampire One — I saw he was going to take us in short — A different angle than the rest of the flight went. "Good boy," I thought. "All the ground fire will be firing at the wrong angle when we come in."

Brummer gave the peel-off signal. We were going down the chute. Over went "Miss Vivian", the sun glistened on her silver belly for a moment, then the black and yellow zebra stripes of her tail slipped behind Holly's Jug as Holly went up and over. "He's too close!", I said into my oxygen mask, but I was alone at 14,000 feet now, no time to worry about Holly and Brummer. I checked the 360° of sky above me and pulled "Icky's" nose up a little as I rolled her to the left and over, a little back pressure and the nose came through, then we were in the chute. Way down ahead of me I could see airplanes, smoke and tracers. "Icky" was really going down now. "The Belly tank" I yelled at myself. I released it and reset my switches for the rockets, flicked the gun switch to "Guns and Camera" and looked for a target. "There", I thought, "There is a row of 'Zekes' parked along the edge of the field." My mind was racing now. Reality was in slow motion. The tracers floated up toward us, the bursts of flak opened slowly like sooty puff balls in the azure sky. The air speed showed 550 MPH, yet we seemed to close on the first Zero at but a snail's pace! I eased the Jug over, brought my optical sight dead on the first plane, and waited for the range to close. Now! I squeezed the trigger and the eight .50s started spitting steel - I brought the Pipper up through the line of parked fighters. The eight fifties barked their song of destruction. I could see pieces fly off the Zeros as my slugs tore them apart. A lot of automatic weapon fire was coming my way. I could see the tracers knifing through the air past the ship, a huge orange ball appeared right in front of my face, then the world seemed to blow up — I ducked to the side instinctively, and hit my head, hard, on the side of the bubble. I was dizzy and I couldn't see, everything a white haze. Just then my engine died. "This is it, 'Icky'," I said. "You and I are going to part company now." I pulled the nose up to use my excess speed to gain altitude, so I could bail out, then changed my mind and pointed the nose out to the sea. I reached down and switched the gas tank selector to main and hit the emergency full boost switch, more routinely than hopefully. The engine caught. "Hey, chalk one up for you, 'Icky', I gleefully yelled. My head was clearing now and I could see what had happened. A 20 MM had hit square on the thick wind screen, and the heavy 2-inch glass had taken the full impact and explosion of that shell. It was in real bad shape, but still there. I turned in toward shore. There was a small refinery of some type there, the cracking tower was my target. I couldn't use my gun sight because of the shattered windshield, so I leaned to the left and watched my tracers until they started hitting, then the tower blew up in my face! I pulled up and slammed the Jug over on one wing. The blast hurled us up to fifteen hundred feet like a stick, but we were still flyin'. I looked around for a target, out on the Iyn-Nada. I saw two or three airplanes buzzing around a Jap destroyer. I still had my rockets, and here was a worthy target for those ten 5" warheads. I banked around and let "Icky" down to the wave tops, set my nose on the stern of the DD, and opened the throttle to the stop. As we closed on the ship, I could feel "Icky" buck and stagger. We were being clobbered! I started firing at the destroyer, the tracers arched into the water, still out of range, but closing fast. I set the panel to salvo the rockets — Now! I hit the button on top of the stick with my thumb, ten rockets went streaking for their target. I raised the nose and held the trigger down, the tracers whipped into the gun- positions until I roared up and over the DD. I saw the rockets hit the stern, low, near the water line, before I pulled over the ship and as I went over I saw the gun crews lying twisted, by their guns, dead.

"Icky" was hit—and hit bad! That big faithful Wasp was only giving out with 27 inches of mercury, the oil pressure was down and oil capacity was down from 40 gallons to 20, the engine was running very rough. I could see holes in the leading edge of the wings and there were some in the bubble over my head.

I started a long shallow climb as I looked for the rest of the squadron, but there was not a plane to be seen. "Oh boy 'Icky', it's you and I alone again," I said, "and baby, you're hurt." I moved in close to shore and flew southwest toward the Hohyo Strait trying to get some altitude, by the time I reached Hasedo-Hana I had 600 feet under us, so I turned south and crossed the point of land and headed out toward the Bungo Channel. "Icky" was clawing for each foot of altitude she put under her oil-smeared belly now, she had managed to get 800 feet under her, "Boy, what a piece of machinery this gal is, she's shot to hell and still flying — and climbing at that!" Coming in from my right was an airplane, "Oh no! not now," I said, "I don't even dare turn this Bucket of Bolts, let alone fire those eight guns." I only had 160 MPH on the clock. That's practically over the fence speed for landing. The distant plane became a B-24 as it grew closer, I saw we were flying courses that would bring us together in a short while, so I saved "Icky" the trouble of turning to intercept my Mother Hen, for surely that is just what that B-24 was going to be. I would tuck "Icky and Me" right under her big wing and we would fly home together.

As the B-24 and "Icky" came close together I could see the waist Gunner’s grinning face at the port, he waved and I waved, we were like happy little kids who just met outside the dentist office, after the tooth was out!

"Icky and Me" tucked in under the wing and away we went for home. I studied this big bomber next to me with new interest now. She was shot-up pretty bad, the waist gunner's head and arm were wrapped in red-stained bandage, he would go from one side of the Liberator to the other scanning the sky. I dropped a little, in order to see the cockpit, there was only one pilot sitting there. For the first time I noticed the left outboard engine was hanging in its mounts at a crazy angle with feathered prop, these boys were in bad shape too. My Mother Hen was hurt real bad!

"What a set-up for an enemy aircraft," I thought, "A real turkey shoot for any pilot, all the bastard would need to do would be to come up under us from my side of the 24, I would blank out the waist gun’s fire and the Jap could pour all he had into us both."

We were over air-sea rescue "Giltedge" now, "This is it! Should I call 'May Day' and sit 'Icky and Me' in the water now?" I thought. If I ditched here and now my chances of survival were good, "Giltedge" was right under me, "Icky" was still flying, I still had power to set her down right where I wanted her. I could set her so close to Sub 539 that I could walk out on the wing and step over to the sub, but that would be the end of "Icky".

We'd been through a lot together and she was trying, so why condemn her to the ocean to sink? The people at Republic built her to fly and fight and this she was doing! Oil streaked the canopy now and wisps of smoke were coming out around the cowling. That beautiful big Wasp up front was vibrating badly and making odd noises, but it was still running.

My attention was attracted by the waist gunners waving. I turned and looked up in the direction he pointed, and there, about 4 o'clock high were Bogies, not one or two, but at least 30. They were Japs all right, not "Zeros", but a mixed flight of "Tonys", "Jacks", "Tojos", "Vals", and others. "There goes my nice landing alongside Sub 539," I said to myself. "I'd never survive on the water now, because those Jap fighters would blast ‘Icky and Me’ to hell the moment we touched the sea, and if 539 surfaced for me the fighters woul clobber her too. No, we'll stay and fight in our own element."

A sleek "Jack" with a big red meat ball on its side slid out of the formation and started down the chute toward us. I saw the waist gun on the B-24 following the fighter down. I dropped "Icky" down a little and fired a short burst from her eight .50s to give the Jap the impression I was ready and just testing my guns. The "Jack" wasn't pushing us. He turned to fly parallel with us. I started to roll "Icky" toward him when off in the west there was a bright flash. The whole world seemed to light up, then there was a column of smoke rushing skyward. The Jap fighters all swung to the west toward the flash and the smoke which was perhaps one hundred and forty miles away. I watched the fighters disappear to the west as the large cloud of smoke climbed to 40,000 feet and boiled out into a huge mushroom shape at the top — "Nagasaki," I said, "Now I know why we were told not to approach within 100 miles of that city today." I looked at my watch, it was jujt 10:40 A.M., August 8, 1945. "I'll remember this," I thought.

My attention was yanked back to the B-24 above me as the other left engine burst violently into flame. I saw the prop slow down and feather as the pilot tried to keep the big ship on an even keel. The B-24 was losing altitude fast now, and I could do nothing to help. I watched as the pilot turned into his two good engines and let down toward "Giltedge's" position. For the first time I noticed there was no voice on the radio! Was my radio out too? I punched the buttom for "Dog" channel on my VHF transceiver, and there was no sound, I called into my oxygen mask mike, "Hello Giltedge, hello Giltedge, this is Vampire 3 - over." I pressed the earphone against my ear, but no reply came from air-sea rescue. "Hello Giltedge, hello Giltedge, this is Vampire 3 - over," I called again. Then, loud and clear, like a voice from heaven came the reply.

"Vampire 3 this is Giltedge - over."

"Giltedge from Vampire 3, I’m following a B-24 down toward you from the south, he's in bad shape, wounded aboard-over."

"Roger, Vampire 3, we see you, turn west 5 degrees - over."

"Roger, Wilco, Giltedge, Vampire 3 standing by - out."

I eased up along side the B-24 cockpit and signaled the pilot to

bear left a little and tapped my ear phones, he shook his head, indicating his radio was out. The big bomber went around to the heading I had indicated and there directly ahead of us I saw Sub 539. The B-24 let down now, the pilot gave me the high sign with the thumb and first finger forming a circle the other fingers sticking up straight, the universal sign of O.K., thanks, everythings under control, we've got it made.

I watched as the Liberator hit the water, splashed along for a way then settled, yellow life rafts appeared along side the fuselage and the sub came over, they were alright now.

"Vampire 3, this is Giltedge - over."

"Giltedge, this is Vampire 3 - over."

"Vampire 3, aren't you going to ditch that thing? - over"

"Negative, Giltedge, negative," I replied.

"Vampite 3, you're pulling a lot of smoke and your bottom cowl is hanging loose, you don't sound too good - over."

"Roger Giltedge, but she flies and I'm not losing any more power, we'll go home. Well done Giltedge - out."

I turned "Icky" to the south again and started the long climb for Ie Shima.

My oil capacity had dropped to fifteen gallons, fuel was down to about one hundred and seventy five gallons. We had four hundred feet under us now and at least holding it.

My butt was sore. I couldn't sit very comfortably. The sores on my can, from sitting in my own sweat, we're raw again. I loosened my safety belt and chute harness and did a few "in flight" exercises to loosen up my stiff arms and legs, then took a long pull from the canteen of salt water. The water was hot now, but boy, was it good! I cracked the canopy a little to suck out some of the hot air and fumes in the cockpit, took out a cigarette and lit up, then settled back as comfortably as possible.

I couldn't trust "Icky" to the auto pilot, not in the near stalled position we had to maintain to stay in the air. "Icky" had to be gently hand flown, by feel, all the way back to le-Shima.

I bent my course around the southern tip of Kyushu and out over Osumi, the Pratt and Whitney raggedly ran on, why I don't know, no engine ever should have to keep running in that condition. The fuel was getting lower fast, there would be no safety factor today!

Amami-0-Shima appeared on the sea ahead of me, so we were two thirds of the way home now. "Icky" was vibrating bad. We were holding 800 feet of altitude, now we weren't gaining any more. The engine was only giving me 26 inches of mercury, I had the turbo in and the throttle through the war emergency stop, the Wasp had everything I could give her but it didn't have enough left to use it!

Amami-0-Shima slipped by under our belly as the other islands in the Ryukyu chain came into view, we were losing some of our hard won altitude now, the rate of climb showed below the "0" on the dial, not much, but then we didn't have much to waist! I fastened my chute harness and safety belt again. Iheya-Mae-Shima came over the horizon, next one would be le-Shima, home! When "Icky and Me" were over Iheya-Mae, I called the tower on Plum strip.

"Hello Plum tower, hello Plum tower, this is Vampire 3. One duckbill, requesting emergency landing instructions please - over." Duckbill was the code word for P47Ns in the area.

"Vampire 3" came the reply, "Land to the northwest, if possible, on Plum strip, you are clear all the way to pancake - over."

"Roger Plum, I'm in sight of Ie now. I don't have enough altitude to go around to land to the northwest, will have to land southwest - over."

"Roger Vampire 3, wind is ten from 310 degrees. We have you in sight, good luck - over."

"Roger Plum, wind is ten from 310 degrees, I'm coming straight in - out." Plum was right in from of me. "Icky" was smoking badly now and air speed was off to one hundred and fifty five MPH. Oil capacity was almost empty, I was afraid to put my gear down because of the drag, but I didn't want to belly in with all that oil on the Jug's belly either. I pulled the lock on the gear handle, put down a few degrees of flaps, "Icky" staggered in the air, she was near stalling. The runway was rushing up to meet us, I pulled the nose up a little, still full throttle, "Icky" started to sink faster now, I knocked the gear leaver to down position, then the bottom fell out. "Icky" stalled out! I pulled the throttle closed, brought the stick back in my lap and waited, "That tire! That God damn right tire! Was it flat? Was that tire going to pull 'Icky' around in an uncontrolled ground loop after all this?"

Whump! The gear hit the runway, bounced and came to earth again, "Icky" tried to slew around to the right, I put left rudder in hard, then a little left brake, blue smoke curled from the tortured tires as the full force of the violent landing shook the whole plane. We rolled straight, the Curtiss blades ticked over the top a few times then with a weak flump! the Wasp billowed out a cloud of smoke and quit. I rode "Icky" to a stop near the center of the runway, fire trucks, jeeps and the meat wagon were screaming out to meet us. I switched off all of "Icky's" power, "we made it baby!" I said to my airplane. "Thanks to your guts, you and I will always come Home!!!"

a bunch of short stories..

operation manna

With all the destruction the bombing caused, in the Netherlands the heavies are still remembered as live savers. This is because of operation manna, which started on April 29th 1945.

The fact that the northern part of the Netherlands was not liberated after the failure of Market Garden had severe consequences for the big cities in Western Netherlands. As revenge for the rail road strike in 1944, German authorities prevented all food transport to western Holland. The cites entered the worst winter of the war, called the Hunger winter. Hardly any food or fuel was available. Trees were cut down, to be burned for heat and many people, mainly women travelled hundred of kilometres on bike to get some food from the farmers in the eastern part of the country.

After months of negotiations, the german authorities allowed te alles to help these people by dropping supplies from the air. On april 29th, 1945, hundreds of Lancaster bombers dropped 535 tonns of food and supplies, later joined by the B17's of the USAAF. The Germans agreed not to fire on the a/c, although some minor incidents occured, mainly with light weapons. In total 11000 tonns of supplies were dropped during 8 days by 30 RAF and 11 USAAF squadrons. After those 8 days, the German army had surrendered and supplies could be transported in other ways to the hungry dutch.


remarkable kill

The Netherlands, may 1940:
Sergeant pilot J. Roos was flying the Fokker D-21, reg.nr. 225. With two others he had escorted a flight of T-5's, bombing the Maas bridges at Rotterdam. On their way back they were attacked by 12 Me's from Waalhaven. Three of them chased Roos. He was driven in a corner that way that he decided to bail out. As he threw off his cockpit cover to jump off his aircraft he saw the canopy struck the propeller of the following Me, so it was knocked out.
chased D-21
He didn't jump but escaped in the clouds.
Coming out of the clouds he was surprised to be on the tail of another Me. An ideal position to open fire, so he shot down the Messerschmitt.
The moment Roos thought he was safe, his plane was hit by a projectile, obviously from Dutch anti aircraft fire from the ground, and he was thrown out of his open cockpit. Just before reaching the ground he succeeded in opening his parachute and landed, seriously wounded, in the surroundings of Leiden.


more on dutch af

May 10, 1940: After the landing of German transport planes at Waalhaven airport from Schipol airport, an attempt was made by the Dutch defenders to destroy the invaders. Three T-5 bombers escorted by 7 D-21 fighters performed a successful raid and destroyed several Junkers on the ground. The aircrew of II(J)./TrGr 186 had a busy day, shooting down 8 Fokker D-21s - one by Ofw. Kurt Ubben and 2 by Uffz. Herbert Kaiser of 5(J)./TrGr 186 - but lost one Bf 109 near Den Helder and a Bf 109 to ground fire near Borkum. Oblt. Dieter Robitzsch, staffelkapitaen of 5(J)./TrGr 186 was shot down by a D-21, flown by Lt. Jan van Overest and crash landed on De Koy airfield where he was taken prisoner. D-21s from Ja V.A. from De Koy gave the Luftwaffe trouble as they were able to shoot down 4 Bf 109s and harrassed most of the airbourne operations over the Dutch airfields.

a funny story

A Heinkel He 111P was forced to land, with smoke streaming from its port engine, at East Coldingham near St Abbs Head, Berwickshire at 12.30 hours. The enemy aircraft landed in a field in a very remote spot, and as Squadron Leader Douglas Farquhar of No.602 Squadron (whose kill it was) wanted the authorities to examine the Heinkel, he decided to land his Spitfire beside it, to prevent the Germans from destroying their plane, he landed his plane alongside at high speed, the bombers crew looked on in disbelief as it trundled on down the hill and cartwheeled into a bog. They first hauled out their injured rear gunner and set fire to their plane, then ran down the hill to rescue the gallant Squadron Leader, who was suspended upside down by his safety harness, the bomber's crew all took part in this rescue.

By then, the Heinkel was well alight so they all rushed up the hill (Sq Ldr Farquhar included) to pull the German rear gunner further from the flames. The comedy of errors was not quite over, the LDV arrived on the scene over the crest of a nearby hill and because they hadn't seen the Spitfire at the bottom of the hill, assumed that the Squadron Leader was part of the Heinkel's crew, so they arrested him too. It was only when he produced an OHMS envelope bearing his latest income tax demand that they transferred him to the side of the 'goodies'. One of the Heinkel's crew, Fw Sprigarth, was mentioned in Parliament for his part in the rescue.

Squadron Leader Farquhar also took the first British gun-camera film of the war, while attacking and destroying the Heinkel He111 over Coldingham in Berwickshire on that day.


a note to remember

In England monitors heard the German pilots gathering from all over France and Germany to ambush our homeward flight ... All across Germany, Holland and Belgium the terrible landscape of burning planes unrolled beneath us. It seemed that we were littering Europe with our dead. We endured this awesome spectacle while we suffered a desparate chill. The cartridge cases ere filling our nose compartments up to our ankles....

But then we come to the interesting bit at the end:-
The professorial Captain of Intelligence confirmed the story. Eleven unexploded 20 mm shelss were in fact found in Tondelayo's tanks. No he ... could not say why.
Eventually (he) broke down. Perhaps it was difficult to refuse ... the evidence of a highly personal miracle ... Or perhaps ... the truth ... was too delicious to keep to himself. He swore (the crew) to secrecy.
The armourers who opened each of those shells had found no explosive charge. They were as clean as a whistle and as harmless. Empty? Not quite, said the Captain ....
One was not empty. It contained a carefully rolled piece of paper. On it was a scrawl in Czech ... Translated, the note read:
'This is all we can do for you now'.

"what ever you do..DONT FLUSH!"

We were to fly to England to look at this new type artillery shell. They called it a proximity fuse shell. It was a different kind of artillery shell, which exploded above 15 feet from contact of anything. It automatically exploded. This allowed them to shoot down more planes and blow up more open-end trenches that the Germans were hiding in. The Colonel took us with him because they had extra room on the plane.

We got to London and he went to the Cumberland Hotel and we went to the Red Cross. Well, while we were there a Buzz bomb come over and hit the hotel. So we had to go back and get his luggage which was still there. As we entered the building we were told that his room was on the fifth or sixth floor. The bomb had really made a mess of the place and there were some Englishmen laying there wounded on the stretchers and we asked if we could be of any help and they said, "Yeah, sure, mates, you can help carry some of the wounded out."

So when I was getting ready to carry this one guy out he opened his eyes and he looked up and he said, "Hi Yank, how you doing?" I said, "Well we are doing all right." I said, "You are going to be all right." I offered him a cigarette which he said sure. "We are going to take you out of here in a little while." I said, "What happened?" He said, "Tell you the truth Yank, I don't rightly know. I was in the pisser, he said, and I just finished and he said, I was shaking my wicky wacky. I reached up to flush it, pulled the chain and the whole "focking" building came down!

Now this was because in England, they had water closets. There is a pipe and the tank is over the toilet. When he pulled the chain on the toilet to flush it, the place blew up at that instant! He thought he was responsible for it blowing up. We convinced him he wasn't.

lawrence thompson meets a legend...

( sounds a little far fetched to me but interesting reading...)

"this was my first major dogfight I had in the war, in January 1945. I was flying a P-51D and we were supposed to meet with bombers over Romania. Well, the bombers never showed up! And we kept circling and wasting our fuel. When we were low on fuel the squadron leader orders us back to base, with the top group at 24,000 feet and the four bait Mustangs ordered to 15,000 feet. Now you might not really think about it, but the difference in altitude, 9,000 feet, is almost two miles, and assuming that the top flight could dive and rescue the 'bait' airplanes, it might take a full sixty seconds or more for the top group to come to the rescue. A heck of alot can happen in sixty seconds. Earlier, I requested to fly in the bait section believing that I'd have a better chance to get some scores (at that time I had no victories either) and this was my seventh mission. I have to say now that I grew up in Kansas City, Kansas, and my older brother flew a Jenny biplane in the late 1930s, so I learned the basics of flying even before joining the Army.

So we're all heading back to Italy when, all of a sudden, a dozen or so Me109's bounce us. From one moment it's a clear blue sky, next moment there are dozens' of tracers passing my cockpit. I'm hit several times and I roll over to the right, and below me is an P-51, heading for the deck, with an Me109 chasing him. I begin to chase the Me109. All this time I believe there was another Me109 chasing me! It was a racetrack, all four of us were racing for the finish line! Eventually I caught up with the first Me109 and I fired a long burst at about 1,000 yards, to no effect. Then I waited until about 600 yards, I fired two very long bursts, probably five seconds each (P-51 has ammo for about 18 seconds of continuous bursts for four machine guns, the remaining two machine guns will shoot for about 24 seconds). I noticed that part of his engine cowling flew off and he immediately broke off his attack on the lead P-51. I check my rear view mirrors and there's nothing behind me now; somehow, I have managed to lose the Me109 following me, probably because the diving speed of the P-51 is sixty mph faster than the Me109. So I pull up on the yoke and level out; suddenly a Me109 loomes about as large as a barn door right in front of me! And he fires his guns at me, and he rolls to the right, in a Lufberry circle. I peel off, following this Me109. I can see silver P-51s and black nosed camouflaged painted Me109s everywhere I look, there's Me109 or P-51 everywhere! At this time I cannot get on the transmitter and talk, everyone else in the squadron is yelling and talking, and there's nothing but yelling, screaming, and incoherent interference as everyone presses their mike buttons at the same time. I can smell something in the cockpit. Hydraulic fluid! I knew I got hit earlier.

.... I'm still following this Me109. I just got my first confirmed kill of my tour, and now I'm really hot. I believe that I am the hottest pilot in the USAAF! And now I'm thinking to myself: am I going to shoot this Me109 down too?! He rolls and we turn, and turn; somehow, I cannot catch up with him in the Lufberry circle, we just keep circling. About the third 360 degree turn he and I must have spotted two Mustangs flying below us, about 2,000 feet below, and he dives for the two P-51s.

Now I'm about 150 yards from him, and I get my gunsight on his tail, but I cannot shoot, because if I shoot wide, or my bullets pass through him, I might shoot down one or both P-51s, so I get a front seat, watching, fearful that this guy will shoot down a P-51 we're approaching at about 390 mph. There's so much interference on the R/T I cannot warn the two Mustangs, I fire one very long burst of about seven or eight seconds purposely wide, so it misses the Mustangs, and the Me109 pilot can see the tracers. None of the Mustang pilots see the tracers either! I was half hoping expecting that they'd see my tracers and turn out of the way of the diving Me109. But no such luck. I quit firing. The Me109 still dives, and as he approaches the two P-51s he holds his fire, and as the gap closes, two hundred yards, one hundred yards, fifty yards the Hun does not fire a shot. No tracers, nothing! At less than ten yards, it looks like he's going to ram the lead P-51 and the Hun fires one single shot from his 20mm cannon! And Bang! Engine parts, white smoke, glycol, whatnot from the lead P-51 is everywhere, and that unfortunate Mustang begins a gentle roll to the right.

I try to watch the Mustang down, but cannot, Now my full attention is on the Hun! Zoom. We fly through the two Mustangs (he was taken POW). Now the advantage of the P-51 is really apparent, as in a dive I am catching up to the Me109 faster than a runaway freight train. I press the trigger for only a second then I let up on the trigger, I believe at that time I was about 250 yards distant, but the Hun was really pulling lots' of negative and positive g's and pulling up to the horizon. He levels out and then does a vertical tail stand! And next thing I know, he's using his built up velocity from the dive to make a vertical ninety degree climb. This guy is really an experienced pilot. I'm in a vertical climb, and my P-51 begins to roll clockwise violently, only by pushing my left rudder almost through the floor can I stop my P-51 from turning. We climb for altitude; in the straight climb that Me109 begins to out distance me, though my built up diving speed makes us about equal in the climb. We climb one thousand fifteen hundred feet, and at eighteen hundred feet, the hun levels his aircraft out. A vertical climb of 1,800 feet! I've never heard of a piston aircraft climbing more than 1,000 feet in a tail stand. At this time we're both down to stall speed, and he levels out. My airspeed indicator reads less than 90 mph! So we level out. I'm really close now to the Me109, less than twenty five yards! Now if I can get my guns on him.........

At this range, the gunsight is more of nuisance than a help. Next thing, he dumps his flaps fast and I begin to overshoot him! That's not what I want to do, because then he can bear his guns on me. The P-51 has good armor, but not good enough to stop 20mm cannon hits. This Luftwaffe pilot must be one heck of a marksman, I just witnessed him shooting down a P-51 with a single 20mm cannon shot! So I do the same thing, I dump my flaps, and as I start to overshoot him, I pull my nose up, this really slows me down; S-T-A-L-L warning comes on! and I can't see anything ahead of me nor in the rear view mirror. Now I'm sweating everywhere. My eyes are burning because salty sweat keeps blinding me: 'Where is He!?!' I shout to myself. I level out to prevent from stalling. And there he is. Flying on my right side. We are flying side to side, less than twenty feet separates our wingtips. He's smiling and laughing at himself. I notice that he has a red heart painted on his aircraft, just below the cockpit. The nose and spinner are painted black. It's my guess that he's a very experienced ace from the Russian front. His tail has a number painted on it: "200". I wonder: what the "two hundred" means!? Now I began to examine his airplane for any bullet hits, afterall, I estimate that I just fired 1,600 rounds at the hun. I cannot see a single bullet hole in his aircraft! I could swear that I must have gotten at least a dozen hits! I keep inspecting his aircraft for any damage. One time, he even lifts his left wing about 15 degrees, to let me see the underside, still no hits! That's impossible I tell myself. Totally impossible. Then I turn my attention back to the "200" which is painted on the tail rudder. German aces normally paint a marker for each victory on their tail. It dawns on me that quick: TWO HUNDRED KILLS !! We fly side by side for five minutes. Those five minutes take centuries to pass. Less than twenty five feet away from me is a Luftwaffe ace, with over two hundred kills. We had been in a slow gradual dive now, my altitude indicates 8,000 feet. I'm panicking now, even my socks are soaked in sweat. The German pilot points at his tail, obviously meaning the "200" victories, and then very slowly and dramatically makes a knife-cutting motion across his throat, and points at me. He's telling me in sign language that I'm going to be his 201 kill! Panic! I'm breathing so hard, it sounds like a wind tunnel with my mask on. My heart rate must have doubled to 170 beats per minute; I can feel my chest, thump-thump and so.

This goes on for centuries, and centuries. The two of us flying at stall speed, wingtip to wingtip. I think more than once of simply ramming him. He keeps watching my ailerons, maybe that's what he expects me to do. We had heard of desperate pilots who, after running out of ammunition, would commit suicide by ramming an enemy plane. Then I decide that I can Immelmann out of the situation, and I began to climb, but because my flaps are down, my Mustang only climbs about one hundred feet, pitches over violently to the right and stalls. The next instant I'm dangerously spinning, heading ninety degrees vertically down! And the IAS reads 300 mph! My P-51 just falls like a rock to the earth! I hold the yoke in the lower left corner and sit on the left rudder, flaps up, and apply FULL POWER! I pull out of the dive at about 500 feet, level out, (I began to black out so with my left hand I pinch my veins in my neck to stop blackout). I scan the sky for anything! There's not a plane in the sky, I dive to about fifty feet elevation, heading towards Italy. I fly at maximum power for about ten minutes, and then reduce my rpm (to save gasoline), otherwise the P-51 has very limited range at full power. I fly like this for maybe an hour, no planes in the vicinity; all the time I scan the sky, check my rear view mirrors.

I never saw the Me109 with the red heart again. At the mess I mention the Me109 with the red heart and "200" written on the tail. That's when the whole room, I mean everybody, gets instantly quiet. Like you could hear a pin drop. Two weeks later the base commander shows me a telex: "....according to intelligence, the German pilot with a red heart is Eric Hartmann who has downed 250 aircraft and there is a reward of fifty thousand dollars offered by Stalin for shooting him down. I've never before heard of a cash reward for shooting down an enemy ace ... "

The florist remembers the call. Make a silk arrangement suitable for a grave. Deliver it to the
country cemetery south of Arnold on Nov. 11. So Lisa Geiser, owner of Pretty Petals Floral, set
it on the grave of Lt. Roland C. Potter, an American pilot who died in combat Jan. 14, 1945.
The arrangement was ordered by a former German fighter pilot named Theo Nau. Six decades
ago in the skies over Germany, Nau and Potter met briefly as enemies.
He’s not sure if the memory is his, or if the story was told to him. Either way, what happened
feels like a memory to him now.
It was 1948, and Roland K. Potter was 5. The boy everyone called by his middle name, Kerry,
was dressed up, standing with his mother and other adults. The boy asked why everyone was
crying.
“She said, ‘When you get a little older, I’ll explain it to you.’”
Over the years, he would understand they were crying at the funeral of his father, Roland
Potter. After his P-47 Thunderbolt went down, the remains of the 23-year-old were buried in
Germany. Then they were moved to France. Finally, three years after his death, the pilot’s
father brought them back to the Sandhills.
Roland C. Potter was born Sept. 4, 1921, and grew up on a farm outside of Arnold, but he
knew he didn’t want to spend his life tethered to the ground. In the early 1940s, he took flying
lessons in Chadron while he was a student at the local college.
His life moved quickly after the United States entered the war. He enlisted in the Army in May
1942 and was assigned to the Air Corps. He married Betty in November and, a month later,
was assigned to active duty.
Their son was born Sept. 1, 1943, while the pilot was learning to fly P-47s in Texas. The
mother waited to name him until her husband made it home on leave, so for a time, relatives
called him P-47.
When he returned to Arnold, Betty snapped a photo of her husband holding their son. Family
legend says the name Kerry came from a character in a comic strip, a pilot.
By November 1943, the father was flying combat missions in the European Theater.
Theo Nau learned to fly when he was 14. After he joined the German Luftwaffe, he eventually
was put behind the controls of one of their primary fighter planes, the Messerschmitt 109.
On Jan. 14, 1945, Nau was flying with a squadron of German fighters who had a lone P-47 in
their sights. The 19-year-old pilot engaged in the battle and hit the American plane above
Heltersberg, Germany.
The Thunderbolt trailed smoke and appeared to be attempting a crash landing. Nau wanted to
follow, to learn the pilot’s fate, but he only had time to note the plane’s tail number before
realizing another American plane was firing behind him.
Bullets struck the tail of Nau’s plane, then just behind the cockpit. Nau pulled into a turn but
couldn’t lose the Thunderbolt, which stayed about 50 yards behind. After about five minutes,
one of the American pilot’s machine gun bursts struck the Messerschmitt’s engine.
Smoke poured out of the plane. Nau bailed, but not before he saw the numbers on his adversary’s plane.
He severely broke his arm and was hospitalized for three months. Later, he was taken prisoner
by Americans, who turned him over to the Russians. He escaped from a POW camp and when
he made it back to his hometown, he found bombs had destroyed his family’s home and killed
his father.
The war was over, but the pain was just beginning.
Back in the Nebraska Sandhills, Betty Potter worked at the bank in Arnold to support her son.
She rarely spoke of her dead husband but made sure her son knew Roland Potter was a good
man who died for his country.
In 1950, she married John Nelson. Together, they had two daughters, Sandra Jespersen, who
now lives in Lincoln, and Susan Nelson, who lives in Arnold. John Nelson raised Kerry like his
own and today they share a father-son relationship.
As a kid, Kerry Potter built plastic models of P-47s and collected books about the Thunderbolt.
He attended the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where he studied geology and enrolled in the
ROTC program. After college, he joined the Air Force and trained as a pilot.
He married his sweetheart, Elizabeth VanSickle of Lincoln. In May 1969, he left behind his wife,
pregnant with their first child, to serve in Vietnam. He flew more than 200 missions in F-4
Phantoms and returned about a year later to his wife and daughter.
He made the Air Force his career and was stationed all over the world, including Germany. He
retired as a colonel and lives with his wife in Wasilla, Alaska.
For a period in the Air Force, he was assigned to pilot an A-10 jet, also called the Thunderbolt
II.
Nau spent his working life running his family’s wine and brandy distillery in Germany. Now
retired, he and his wife live in Bacharach, on the Rhine River.
For decades, he wondered about the fates of the Americans he met Jan. 14.
Over time, he made friends with former American pilots who helped him track down U.S.
military records of the dogfights that occurred that day. Using the plane numbers and times and
locations of the fights, they eventually came up with the identities.
He learned the pilot who shot him down was an ace fighter named Capt. Joe Cordner, a Native
from North Dakota who died in 1965.
Just months ago, he learned the pilot he shot down was another ace who had survived 80
missions and brought down three enemy aircraft.
His name was Lt. Roland C. Potter of Arnold, Neb.
So Nau contacted a friend, Carl Kahn of Lincoln, who flew American planes in World War II. At
his friend’s request, Kahn made the arrangements to have flowers placed on Potter’s grave.
“I was a very young kid then and Lt. Potter was a young kid then,” Nau said, explaining his
gesture. “We loved to fly. We did not love war.
“The war was terrible ... it was terrible and I hope we have no war in the future.”
When Kerry Potter heard about the flowers from a friend in Arnold, he was shocked. Then he
felt touched by Nau’s gesture.
Fighter pilots, regardless of uniform, share an unwritten code of respect. They know what
happens in the skies is duty.
Nothing personal.
“This particular pilot did not set out that day to kill Roland Potter,” he said. “I think it was nice of
him and an honorable thing to do.”
Still, Potter said, he has no plans to talk to the old German pilot.
Not because he harbors hard feelings, but because he’s concerned it would be difficult for Nau
to hear what the war forced him to take away 61 years ago.

Thanks for posting bobby. I really appreciate these stories.