[bobbysocks]

John Carroll, The Saga of "A" Flight; Lost November 29, 1943

This tabulate returns to the days of yesteryear when 20/20 vision was quite normal, coordination was automatic, briefings were at uncompassionate hours, each time respects were paid to "Festung Europa" there were numerous more of them than there were of us. Such was the circumstance, November 29th, 1943.


I was flying wing to our C.O. Major Milton Joel when our flight was cut off by a gaggle of Me-109s and the group was headed away from us in a westerly direction. Joel and I went into the "weave formation", which theoretically would protection one another's tail. Directly after our first pass-by I caught a glimpse of a P-38 headed down trailing smoke and minus a section of tail (Albino or Garvin?). Following our third pass-by it became obvious that "the weave" does not perform without flaw. At the crest of my turn I glanced across the projected pattern and observed what should be Joel's A/C seemingly to disintegrate. Almost immediately thereafter, I felt an instant yaw to starboard and noted the engine on fire, plexiglass everywhere, and the instrument panel badly damaged. I kicked rudder into the yaw and opened the port engine to the fire-wall, at the same time putting the nose straight down and headed for the cloud layer. On breaking out at the base of the layer, and utilising it for top cover, I took a heading for England on the magnetic, which was still operable. After approximately five or ten minutes, with the cross feed off (the prop would not completely feather) I determined the fire was getting out of hand. I realised I could not make the island without either exploding or crashing into the North Sea, which at that time of year had little in common with the Caribbean!

When bailing out of a P-38 one must render considerable delicacy, lest one desires a speedy trip to eternal reward - or damnation as the case may be. At this point I found that the canopy release handle would not perform its assigned task. By raising the seat and using my head as a battering ram and with the aid of a reasonable slipstream I was able to dislodge the obnoxious piece of equipment. I then lowered the port window, trimmed the A/C into a 45 degree climb, cut the engine, and climbed out onto the wing holding on to the corner of canopy. At almost the peak of the stall, I let go and missed the tail by about a foot. This was most fortunate, as going out feet first on one's belly, the counter-weight could proffer a rather serious problem. Now here is the period in which the individual obtains a morbid curiosity as to whether the chute is going to open. As a result of this dilemma I counted to ten, per instructions, faster than normal beings count to two. Upon reading this one may justly surmise as to its workability!! May the Lord bless and keep all chute packers, past and present!!

The landing, if one may call it that, was on the roof of a barn-like building in Holland somewhere west of Meppel. Ignominiously the chute collapsed sending me on a Disney-like ride down the roof and ending, not unlike a ski jump, onto some form of ancient farm machinery. This display of dexterity lost me the use of my right leg for some months to come. It was also at this time that I came to realise I had been wounded in the right hand and shoulder. Curiously, I felt neither until this time. The Wermacht arrived having followed the chute down... one would have thought they had caught John Dillinger rather than saintly John Carroll. "Luft gangster, Chicago, Roosevelt's terror flieger" they greeted, plus a few chosen obscenities, which at that time I understood to a minor degree. (However, upon my release I was quite able to return curse for curse in fluent Kraut.)

I was ultimately taken to Leewarden, Amsterdam, Dulag Luft, and finally to Stalag Luft I, Barth, Germany, in North Compound I, under Col. Byerly. I served as entertainment officer due to my background in broadcasting and the theater. This was a task of reasonable importance due to the facilities at hand and the substantial emphasis placed on morale. It even obtained a field promotion for me but I would be most remiss if credit for fortitude, versatility, and camaraderie to my compatriots were not acknowledged here.

Liberation was the closing chapter of an unforgettable phase of my existence. It is an experience the normal set of nerves can seemingly endure only once in a lifetime. In a moment months of starved energy, enthusiasm, and expectation are suddenly released. Such was the setting at Stalag Luft I, high up on the Baltic Sea, May 1st, 1945.