[bobbysocks]

Not My Day to Die
By Jim Kirkendall

Recently I flew from Algiers to Cairo, Egypt, in one of our big military jet transports. The flight at high altitude was extremely routine by today's standards. As the coast line of Tunisia slid into view far below, vivid memories came to my mind of another day and of another flight in this area that was very far from serene — in fact, by all odds it should have been my last one. Why it was not and why fate allowed me to survive that day when others under much less violent circumstances did not survive has always been
a mystery.

It was July 1944. 1 was an Army Air Force Captain and pilot in the 324th Fighter Group, flying P-40 Warhawks from an airfield on the tip of Cape Bon, the northernmost point in Tunisia, North Africa. The allied air forces, of which our fighter group was a part, were engaged in softening up the enemy
on the island of Sicily in preparation for the landing of the ground forces which was to take place on July 16.

On the afternoon of July 7th, I was assigned to lead a flight of P-40s which were to escort A-20 light bombers scheduled to attack Sciacca Airdrome on Silicy's south coast. It was my 23 combat mission in the war. The A-20 bombers were base on a neighboring airfield some miles south of our location. Operational procedures called for us to be ready in the cockpits of our fighters and to wait on the ground for the arrival of the bombers. The A-20s were to fly to our field in formation and there circle at low altitude. This would allow us to start our engines, take off and get in escort position above the bombers before proceeding across the Mediterranean Sea to the target in Sicily.

The first indication that things might not go well that day came when the bombers flashed into view but, instead of circling, passed directly over our field and continued out over the Mediterranean toward Sicily. This forced us into an expedited take-off and accelerated chase. The temperatures in North Africa in July are very high. The extreme heat and the aircraft performance required to catch up with the bombers proved too much for eight of the twelve P40s. The fell so far behind the bombers that they finally had to give up and returned to base. Only my lead flight of four fighters were able to continue the mission. But as we neared the coast of Sicily, we had maneuvered into good escort position, high above and to the left of the bombers. Then the bombers reach the Sicilian coast, turned right and settled down for their bomb run on Sciacca.

Suddenly, my wing man's voice crackled in my earphones, "Bogies at nine o'clock level." I quickly turned my head to the left and saw over a dozen German Messerschmitt fighters closing rapidly on our flight. Over the radio I called, "Break left," and we turned directly toward the enemy. I fired at an oncoming Messerschmitt, simultaneously swerving to avoid hitting him headon. I could see tracer bullets lace the sky all around me and knew that the other three members of my flight were firing also. Our action broke up the enemy formation, and a turning, twisting melee ensued.

As the dogfights continued, I heard in my earphones the bomber leader announce, "Bombs Away!". Then he advised that he was turning his flight back over the Mediterranean and heading for home base in Tunisia with all aircraft intact. I happened to be in a tight turn when, suddenly, I found myself in a nearly ideal kill position behind an enemy fighter. All I needed to do was to pull the nose of my aircraft in a little tighter so as to get the Messerschmitt fully in my gun sight. In a few more seconds I would press the trigger, and there would be one less enemy aircraft in the fight. So I held the turn despite the fact that, because of than numerical superiority of the Messerschmitts, I should have been checking for enemy fighters behind me as well as ahead.

This oversight proved my undoing for, suddenly, my plane shuddered violently as machine-gun and cannon bullets from an enemy Messerschmitt that had maneuvered behind me hammered into the tail, fuselage and wings of my aircraft. Then there was a deafening explosion and a blinding flash of light as an explosive 20 millimeter cannon shell detonated in the plexiglass canopy inches fiom my head. Hot fragments of metal and plexiglass pierced my left arm and leg; my left hand was paralyzed and pinned to the throttle as a large shell fragment struck the back of the hand.

Miraculously my face and eyes were spared. Smoke from the shell burst filled the cockpit; there was the acrid smell of explosive and the sickening odor of burning flesh. I thought for sure that my time had come. Intuitively I applied full left rudder and stick; my aircraft snap-rolled and went into a violent spin. I was going straight down, and the ground was coming up rapidly. But, somehow, I managed to recover just above the trees, heading in the direction of the Sicilian coast which I could see a few miles away:

I quickly took stock and noted that, in addition to the cannon shell in the canopy, other cannon shells had exploded as they struck the fuselage behind the cockpit and ahead in the engine area. There were machine-gun bullet holes in the horizontal tail surfaces and the wings. Half the canopy was gone. The aircraft controls were still functioning, but the engine was running rough and trailing an ominous stream of black smoke. But I had survived what must have seemed to the enemy pilot a sure kill for him. Moreover, I had miraculously recovered from a spin at low altitude, and I was still flying. With rising hopes I continued toward the coast, hoping to limp back across the 150 miles of the Mediterranean Sea to home base on Cape Bon.

Then, as I crossed the coast line and went out over the sea, my hopes sank again as three Messerschmitts came into view about a mile to my right and slightly behind me, flying on a heading that would intercept my aircraft in a few miles. They had seen me and, with the condition of my plane and myself, I did not stand a chance when they attacked. As one of the enemy fighters began to move directly behind me, I made a hard turn to the right.

Thereupon all three enemy aircraft turned right also, then broke off and headed back toward Sicily -- for what reason I'll never know. So, for a third time that day, I had escaped what had seemed certain death.

I turned left again and proceeded at low altitude over the bright blue waters of the Mediterranean toward Cape Bon until I was about 40 miles off the coast of Tunisia. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion in the engine and black smoke poured out of the left side; there could be no doubt that my P-40 was destined for the 'bottom of the sea. I slammed back what was left of the canopy, unfastened my seat belt and attempted to bail out the right side.

This first attempt was unsuccessful as the rush of air forced me back into the cockpit. I was dangerously close to the water, so I quickly tilted the aircraft to the left and tried the left side. Again the rush of air hit me but this time pulled me violently out of the cockpit, with my legs striking the steel frame of the windshield.

My body slid along the side of the aircraft, and an instant later, I experienced what all pilots dread as I smashed directly into the tail of the aircraft, The horizontal section of the tail struck me in the right side. Ribs snapped, and I blacked out. But for a fourth time that day fate seemed to say, "Not yet!" Instinct and training made me pull the rip cord of my parachute although I later had no recollection of doing so. The parachute lowered me into the sea, and I regained my senses, deep in the waters of the Mediterranean.

As I bobbed to the surface, I was gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of me when I smashed into the tail of the aircraft. With each gasp, however, I was getting more sea water than air. I inflated my life vest which helped lift my head out of the sea, but I still was inhaling too much water as I struggled to breathe and the white caps broke over me. I was growing weaker rapidly; I knew that I had to inflate my one-man life raft and get in it somehow if I were to survive.

The package containing the raft was trailing down in the water, fastened to my life vest by a length of webbing. I pulled the package up, opened it and inflated the raft. Getting into the raft took every ounce of energy and all the nerve I had, for I was made painfully aware of broken fibs and, for the first time, of a broken leg, apparently suffered when striking the steel windshield frame on bailout. But I did manage to struggle into the raft, somehow. Then I lay back, looked at the blue sky and wondered for a fifth
time why I was still alive.

The rest was anti-climax. My yellow life raft and sea marker dye were spotted by pilots returning from another mission over Sicily, and my position was relayed to Air Sea Rescue. A few hours later, as dusk was beginning to settle and a cold chill replaced the heat of the late afternoon, a high-speed British Royal Air Force air sea rescue boat approached, slowed, circled, then stopped and put a net over the side. I was motioned to climb up. But as I held up my hands in a gesture of futility, two British crewmen lowered themselves over the side, put a sling under me and hoisted me aboard. I was placed on a table in the cabin, my wet clothes were cut off, morphine was adn-finistered and hot blankets were wrapped around me as the boat sped toward Pantelleria Island and the American hospital there.

The next day I received the good news that the other three P-40s in my flight and all of the bombers had returned safely to base. Two months later I was flying again and, before the war had ended, completed 127 more combat missions — all exciting but hardly as much as Number 23.

I'll always remember the words of one of the British air sea rescue crewmen who picked me up out of the Mediterranean. He stared at me incredulously as I lay on the table in the cabin and said, "Sir, you don't look as good as a couple of dead blokes we picked up yesterday, but I guess this bloody well wasn't your day to die!"