Philip Wright and Pickle Barrel Bombing
Mid-February of 1945 Major General Elwood "Pete" Quesada, the legendary commanding general of IX Tactical Air Command 9th Air Force, zipped on to our field, A-89, at the village of Le Culot, Belgium - trailed by a host of aides and staff members.
He had come to fly a mission with our 36th Fighter Group to check out why the new "Pickle Barrel Bombing" technique wasn't living up to expectations.
"Pete" Quesada's fame stemmed from his daring and "can do" spirit. On D-Day + 1 he flew a P-38 into the beachhead to establish his own headquarters next to General Bradley's. He often visited the front to check on how his fighter-bombers were doing. On one trip his jeep took a direct hit from a German Panther tank's 75mm. shell, smashing the jeep to smithereens and wounding the driver. The General spent the next twenty minutes ignominiously crawling away under small-arms fire.
But his most famous exploit had raised all kinds of hullabaloo in high places. During a visit by General Eisenhower to Normandy in mid-June '45, Quesada left a staff meeting to go on a fighter sweep.
Eisenhower asked, "Can I come?"
"Sure." Quesada answered.
Eisenhower was crammed into the rear seat of a P-51 and they flew a few miles over the lines, before Quesada thought better of the idea and aborted the flight. Both Eisenhower and Quesada received holy hell from the big-wigs in Washington for this nutty escapade.
Now, "Pete" Quesada was here in Le Culot to fly a Pickle Barrel Bombing mission with us. The us being: 1st Lt. Robert "Red" Ferris, 2nd Lt. Clyde Hartszelle, and me, 1st Lt. Philip N. Wright, Jr., better known as "Junior," because I was always the youngest officer in the Group the entire time I was there.*
Pickle Barrel Bombing was a spin-off from a new radar system, touted to be accurate within fifty feet from a distance of fifty miles. They thought the idea was simple. Send a bunch of P-47s out over solid cloud cover at 10,000 ft. and 250 mph. in tight formation. Guide them to the target with the new radar, and tell them exactly when to drop their bombs. Bingo! It was a great idea, but it wasn't working.
The operation was run out of a site well back of the lines. A Norden Bombsight was hooked up to the new radar, and specially trained bombardiers that gave the order to drop the bombs. We bellyached that these guys were probably yelling, "Bombs Away!" and rushing out for a shot and a beer to ease their "combat fatigue." They probably even expected D.F.C.s for heroism. Damn it, they weren't the ones getting shot at - we were!
At 10,000 ft. and 250 mph., flying straight and level in tight formation, we were sitting ducks for the German radar controlled 88mm flak. Pickle Barrel Bombing missions had turned us into a bunch of lousy bomber pilots. We hated these missions.
On this mission there would be one critical difference- there would be no cloud cover. With clear skies the General hoped to find out why "Pickle Barrel" wasn't working. The idea was nuts! Cloud cover was the only protection we had. If we'd been sitting ducks before, we'd be dead ducks now. Our only hope was we'd be flying behind a two star general's skirts. The Germans wouldn't dare shoot him down!
Why the 36th Fighter Group was chosen for this mission, I have no idea - even more why the 23rd Fighter Squadron was selected, and even more than that why we three were picked.
Our briefing was like no other we'd had before one major general and three lowly pilots, hovered over by a bunch of brass. The target selected was a German Panzer division headquarters, because it was close to the lines. If anyone got hit, he'd have a better chance to make it back before going down.
"Red" Ferris was picked to lead the mission, with General Quesada flying his wing as Vibrate Red Two. I would lead the second element, with Clyde Hartszelle as my wing-man. On the way out to our Thunderbolts, armed with two 500 lb. bombs and full loads of ammunition, General Quesada grinned and said, "Gentlemen, just forget I'm a general," then wryly added, "If you can?" We laughed but knew there wasn't a chance in hell we would.
We took-off, formed up, and it was immediately apparent our new colleague wasn't used to flying our combat formation of low and forward, but instead, he flew the old training command formation of level and back. How was "Red" Ferris going to radio him, "Damn it, Vibrate Red Two, close it up, and get in formation!" So much for forgetting who was what.
Ten minutes out a call came in, "Vibrate Red Two to Vibrate Red Leader, my engine is cutting out when I switch fuel tanks, but I'll keep going." We didn't know what to do about this- and did nothing.
Pickle Barrel Control took over before we reached the target area, and gave us our heading. We snugged up tight and flew straight and level at 10,000 ft. and 250 mph. towards the target, sweating out the inevitable bursts of 88mm. flak. Then "Pickle Barrel" radioed up, "Our radar is acting up, and you'll have start over."
We went through this, on again - off again thing several more times, sweating out the flak each time. Finally, the controllers called and said, "Our radar still isn't working, and we have to scrub the mission. Out."
"Okay. Roger and out." "Red" Ferris responded.
We spread out - "Whoosh." I looked back- "WHOOMPH," six bursts of "88" went off right where we had been. It never fails that the sight of those orange-red fireballs inside the black bursts, turns courage to mush. Without knowing it the Germans had come within a gnat's eyebrow of bagging a renowned two star general. Maybe, those controllers weren't so
dumb after all.
"Vibrate Red Leader, this is Vibrate Red Two. We still have all of our bombs and ammunition. Let's dive-bomb and strafe the target.
Out," the General urged.
"Roger, Vibrate Red Two." Ferris came back.
We dove down on the Panzer division headquarters, each of us firing bursts from our eight 50cal. machine guns, in hopes of shaking up the German gunners firing 20 and 40 millimeter flak at us. We lined up on the target, and let fly. For once, my bombs made a terrific hit, and I hoped Vibrate Red Two was as impressed with me as I was. One run was
enough, and we headed home, happy to be in one piece.
Back at the field, we were de-briefed, then stood around bragging about what hot shot pilots we were. The General's P.R. photographer snapped away, as the rest of the squadron gawked in envy. We played our parts to the hilt.
It turned out the reason General Quesada's engine kept cutting out was that he was turning his fuel tank selector valve through "Off" when he changed tanks a big No-No. But he had a lot of guts and had flown the entire mission on one tank of gas. He was a good sport about his boo-boo. On the other hand, our sympathy towards him was shamefully condescending. We owed him better.
With all the hoopla and good-byes over, the General and his staff took off for IX TAC Headquarters. We continued to carry on in our self-anointed glory. But it didn't last. The next day we were back to where we were- three not so hot-shot fighter-pilots. But thanks to General Quesada and the good Lord, there were no more "Pickle Barrel" bombing missions.
In Aspen, Colorado in the late 1960s, Aspen resident and friend, former Secretary of the Navy, Jim Smith, came into our store with a familiar figure. I approached him and asked, "Are you General Quesada?"
"Yes, I am" he replied.
I reminded him of the mission we'd flown together, which he remembered. I took him into my office and showed him the picture of the four of us of on that long ago day. We went across the street to the Red Onion saloon, downed a couple of beers, and laughed over the great "Pickle Barrel Bombing" fiasco. We agreed it was just another of those great ideas... that didn't work.
At a marvelous party in Vail, Colorado in the 1980s, that Mrs. Quesada also attended, she told me the General was nearly blind and unable to travel, or he would have come.
"Please, say, 'Hi' to him for me, and give him my very, very best," I asked her. She thanked me and said she would be happy to pass along my message.
General Quesada passed away several years later.
* To this day, whenever I attend a 36th Ftr. Grp. reunion, someone always comes up to me and says, "Hi 'Junior.' How are ya?" Despite the incongruity of my bald pate and a more rotund figure, I consider it a compliment.
a story of years later and a reunion of sorts...( by philip wright)
While on a 1986 sojourn in southwest France, a love of fine wine put me in touch with Monsieur Guy Schyler, a distinguished Bordeaux wine négociant and consultant to Chateau Lafite-Rothchild, arguably, the greatest vineyard of the Medoc. Kindly, Guy had arranged a private tour of Lafite for my wife and myself.
Traveling through the famous vineyard towns of Margaux, Beychevelle, St. Julien, and Pauillac, it was a treat for me to see the renowned chateaux, so often read about - but whose product was so less often savored.
Schylers have been prominent members of the Bordeaux wine trade since 1739, and along the way Guy stopped at Chateau Beychevelle, with its lovely filigreed iron gates hinged to massive stone pillars. Gazing wistfully down the long gravel drive to the magnificent 18th century Chateau, he revealed his great grandfather had once owned this renowned estate and contemplated what might have been.
Learning Madame Schyler was a member of the prestigious Pol-Roger champagne family of Épernay, made it even more intriguing. Pol Roger champagne was Winston Churchill's favorite. Once, in a gesture of appreciation, he named one of his race horses for his friend, Odette Pol-Roger. Sadly, the filly was not a speedster.
My enthusiasm for fine wine does not translate to profound knowledge, and I hoped not to make a fool of myself while discussing it with Guy. However, my stock soared, when he learned I had been a sixty-mission P-47 pilot and a P.O.W. in Germany. He had been a fighter pilot in the French Air Force until France's fall in 1940, and following the war he had served with distinction as French liaison to the U.S.A.F. in Bordeaux. It was the start of a lifelong fondness for American airmen. I count myself fortunate, he calls me - "tres cher ami."
In February 1990 my wife and I arrived in Bordeaux on the way to Biarritz for several months stay. Later we would join the 36th Fighter Group tour of our wartime airfields. While lunching with Guy, he told us of two P-51s that had recently emerged from the sand on the beach near Arcachon, west of Bordeaux. They had belly landed in 1944, and wind and sea had buried them. Now, forty-six years later, the same elements had brought these phantom aircraft back to view and memory.
He related how on August 26, 1944 three P-51s were seen by members of the Marquis or French Resistance cruising around Arcachon Bay, then up and down the coast, as if lost. One flew out to sea and disappeared; the other two landed at a spot known as Truc Vert.
Responding to the request of the head of the local Marquis to investigate, Schyler contacted his friend and neighbor, Prince Stanislav Poniatowski, and the two set out by sail across the bay to aid the downed fliers.
Prince Stanislav was a remarkable gentleman. Though a descendant of the royal family of Poland and a pretender to that throne, he was an astute businessman who suffered badly under the Germans. As C.E.O. of the renowned aircraft engine manufacturer, Hispano-Suiza, he was jailed in Paris, then Berlin, for refusing to produce engines for the Nazis. During his military court trial, he escaped severe punishment only through a remarkable bit of luck.* He was freed on condition that he cease all industrial activities, and went to Arcachon in November 1940 under house arrest. Nevertheless, in spite of the risk of deportation and worse for himself and family, he joined the underground.
Reaching the downed planes, Schyler and Poniatowski took the two pilots, Lieutenants Sam Gevorkian and John Kester, in hand, and together they scrambled up and over the dunes. There they were met by the Marquisards and loaded into a truck for the ride back to the boat. The four sailed back to Arcachon, where Prince Stanislav hid Gevorkian and Kester in his home for twelve days.
Guy then took them to his grandmother's, Mme. Guestier of the renowned house of Barton & Guestier [B&G], home in Bordeaux. There they stayed several days making plans for their escape through Spain, to Portugal,
and back to England.
The pilots related the circumstances of their forced landings as follows: Returning from an escort mission to Ludwigshafen in bad weather, the three P-51s became separated from the main formation. Lost, they mistook the Gironde estuary for the Loire, and could not locate themselves. Low on fuel, Gevorkian and Kester opted to belly land on the beach at Truc Vert. The third pilot, 1st Lieutenant Sam Hansard, mistaking the Bay of Biscay for the English Channel, headed out over the open Atlantic. He was not heard from again. One can only shudder at the horror he felt, upon discovering his error.
Completing the saga, Guy showed me the extraordinary photographs he had taken in 1944 of the downed planes and the pilots' rescue. Examining them, it occurred, if I could learn the squadron's designation from the plane's ''CL" markings in the photo, we could contact the Group veterans' organization. Perhaps, Gevorkian and Kester were members? The prospect was exciting.
From our villa in Biarritz, I called Colonel Lewis "Bull" Curry, former C.O. of my 36th Fighter Group, for help. He succeeded, advising that Gevorkian and Kester had been members of the 55th Fighter Group, 338 Fighter Squadron of 8th Air Force. Further, he had contacted Bob Littlefield in Carmel, Ca., who headed the Group veterans' organization. I passed the information on to Guy and told him I'd follow up with Littlefield when I returned home.
Later, when the 36th Fighter Group tour reached Épernay, near one of our old fields, we were met by Christian and Danielle Pol-Roger, and their British friend, Richard Dumbrill. What a day was planned for us! First, a champagne reception, Vin d'Honneur, at Chateau Pol Roger.
Next, we were taken by a grand convoy of French Army armored personnel carriers to a small airport for a magnificent champagne luncheon. With sommelier, Odil Girardin, pouring, there wasn't a dry glass in the house!
Following the luncheon French Air Force Raphaels performed a spectacular fly-by for us. Then we went on in the APCs to the site of our old strip for dedication ceremonies and then to Tour-sur-Marne for more ceremonies and a final glass of champagne for "Auld Lang Syne." It was a never-to-be-forgotten day for the anciens warriors of the 36th Fighter Group.
Without the friendship of Guy and Nicole Schyler, it could never have happened!
Back in Montana, a letter from Bob Littlefield revealed that both Sam Gevorkian and John Kester had later been killed. However, he did have good news. Sam's sister, Alice Davey, lived in California. He thought a letter from Guy, along with the long ago photographs, would be a wonderful surprise. I forwarded his suggestion on to Guy, hoping he would respond. Of course, he did.
It was sometime before we heard from Mrs. Davey, but when her response came it was all we could have hoped for. She was astonished and grateful for what we had done, particularly for the photos and fascinating detail of her brother's 1944 rescue.
For Guy and myself, when we next meet, over a bottle of Ch. Lafite-Rothschild, we shall raise our glasses in tribute:
"Salut! pilotes du chasses, Sam Gevorkian et John Kester - and your 'Phantoms in the Sand.'"
__________________
|