In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

Sgt William F. Owens 458 bombardment gp

Things hadn’t been too bad through these first twelve missions. Our plane was hit and damaged on some of the missions but none of the crew was injured. We were beginning to build hope that we might make it through the required twenty-five missions and be eligible to go home. All of this changed on my thirteenth mission. The early morning hours of June 29, 1944, had us preparing for another mission into the heart of Germany. This time our target was a JU-88 airplane factory. At the briefing we were told to expect heavy antiaircraft fire (flak) at and around the target. The large guns on the ground would fire at our planes, and the load was set to explode at a certain altitude. The explosion would create a large ball of black smoke and send out many pieces of sharp metal, which we would have to fly through. It could bring down a plane if it were a direct hit. We would usually fly at 20,000 feet or higher, but they could still reach us. We would have to climb to 20,000 feet over England before we crossed the English Channel and this would take several hours. This was in the days before jet planes. At this stage of the war the Germans were relying more on the antiaircraft guns than on their fighter planes. At times we would see their fighter planes but they would seldom attack us while our planes were flying in tight formation. They would wait for a plane that was damaged and couldn’t keep up with the formation. Their big guns were becoming more concentrated around the major targets. Flak was hitting more and more of our planes. The day before this mission, we made it back with a large hole in our wing. On the same mission our buddy crew was shot down. We went through Phase Training with this crew and became close friends. As their plane went down we could see some of them parachuting out of the plane.

I was flying in the nose turret on this mission (#13) on June 29,1944, and could see everything up ahead of us. As we approached our target the flak became heavier and the black puffs of smoke were everywhere. Our formation had to stay on a straight and level course so the bombardier in the lead plane could keep his bombsight on the target. We had to fly through the flak. The bombardier in the lead plane used his bombsight and the rest of the planes dropped their bombs when they saw his bombs drop. We had a switch in the nose turret that would drop our bombs when our bombardier wasn’t using our bombsight. I hit that switch and dropped our bombs as soon as I saw the bombs drop from our lead plane. Shortly after that we heard a loud explosion from anti-aircraft fire either in or just below our bomb bay section. Our plane immediately dropped about 5,000 feet and was damaged greatly. One of our four engines was knocked out, control cables damaged, oxygen system destroyed, and probably the worst of all, the fuel tanks in the wings were punctured and we were losing a large amount of fuel. Through all of this our Lord was still protecting us. Only one crewmember was injured. Our waist gunner was hit in the head with a piece of sharp metal. His flak helmet saved his life. The metal cut through his helmet and into his head. He was knocked out for awhile but was later revived. After dropping out of formation, our pilot and co-pilot got our plane under control and we headed back toward England. We were able to maintain our altitude at 15,000 feet, but had a long way to go and we continued to lose fuel. Our own fighter planes would usually meet us at a certain point and protect the stragglers from the German fighters. We flew alone for awhile before we saw several fighter planes off in the distance. We first thought they were German planes coming to attack us, but as they came closer we recognized them as our own P-51 fighters. I thanked my Lord once again. It was a welcoming sight, and they stayed close by as we made our way back.

Our luck ran out as we flew over northern Holland. We ran out of fuel. If the fuel could have lasted a little longer we would have made it to the English Channel and ditched in the water. When one of our three remaining engines failed our pilot gave the order to bail out. It was only the navigator and myself in the nose of the plane and we had to exit through the nose wheel well. By the time I got out of the nose turret he had kicked the door open and jumped out. I started to slide out of the opening but my parachute harness caught on the door latch. The wind pushed my legs back against the fuselage under our plane. It was very difficult but I finally pulled myself back into the plane. This time I went out headfirst. We had been taught to wait until we got close to the ground before opening our parachute but I couldn’t wait. I pulled the ripcord shortly after leaving our plane. The chute opened and I gave thanks to my Lord once again. After I calmed down I looked at my watch and it was about 11:15 in the morning and it was very quiet. There was no sound at all until one of our P-51 fighter planes appeared and circled me several times. As I floated toward the ground my mind was filled with many thoughts. I was dropping into a strange country not knowing a word of their language. Things seemed bad but they could have been worse. I could have been seriously injured or even gone down with our plane. I thanked my Lord once again for protecting me and I regained some of His wonderful peace, which helped me to face what was yet to come.

It seemed like I was in the air a long time before getting close to the ground, but when I did it came up to meet me. I landed in a wheat field. It was a hard landing on my left side causing rather bad bruises on my left elbow and left knee. I later learned that the area in which I landed had been reclaimed from the sea and was below sea level. The wheat field had large drainage ditches, with smaller ditches draining into them. I disconnected my parachute and started down one of the large ditches, not knowing where I was going. Before long I heard voices and saw two men coming down the ditch carrying my parachute and life vest. One of them could speak English and he told me they were part of the Dutch Underground. We played hide and seek in the wheat field, keeping away from the Germans until we reached the place where he wanted me to hide in the wheat. He told me to stay there and they would come back later. I thanked my Lord once again for sending help. I waited a long time and no one showed up, but I didn’t know of anything better to do so I continued to wait. By this time I was getting rather hungry, thirsty and sleepy, so I went to sleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but it was dark when I felt someone shaking me. It was the two men. They brought me two meatballs and two bottles of green pop. After eating I followed them to the home of a policeman where I spent the night. The next morning they gave me civilian clothes (rubber boots, shirt and pants) and took me into Meppel to stay with another family and wait for my phony passport and working papers. My passport listed me as a dentist born on June 6, 1919, and my name was Hendrick Bloomhoff. After receiving my passport and working papers, I went with a guide to the train station to ride the train down to Amsterdam.

I was in for quite a surprise when I reached the station. I was walking around on the platform and noticed other young men walking around. They were all wearing civilian clothes and one of them looked familiar. On closer look I recognized him as Billy Joe Davis, the waist gunner on our plane. I started looking closer at the other men as I walked and noticed that Edward S. Allen, tail gunner; Frank Peichoto, ball gunner; and Carry Rawls, top turret gunner; were also there. [Davis and Rawls were actually captured upon landing.] All five of us had made it to the ground safely and were picked up by the underground. We couldn’t stop and greet each other but it was a wonderful feeling to be together again and we would smile as we walked past one another. I gave thanks to my Lord once again.

All five of us got on a first-class train along with three guides and headed for Amsterdam. The underground didn’t want more than two of us traveling together with a guide, so when we got to Amsterdam we were divided into pairs of two. My partner was Frank Peichoto. Frank and I went through gunnery school together and became close friends. Then we were fortunate enough to be placed on the same crew. Now we were together again in the Dutch underground. We traveled together for the rest of the time we were in Holland. The two of us, along with our guide, were standing in front of the train station in Amsterdam waiting for a streetcar. Frank was smoking a cigarette and we noticed a German sailor coming toward him. The sailor was holding an unlit cigarette between his fingers and was bringing it up to his mouth as he said something to Frank in German. Frank, not knowing what the sailor said but anticipating his need, reached out his cigarette without saying a word. The sailor lit his cigarette from Frank’s and said, “Danke schoen” (thank you) as he went on his way. This was the first close encounter with the Germans and there would be more.

We stayed in Amsterdam with a man named Davis and his family for several days. He had been the Chief of Police before the war, but now was the head of the underground in that area. People came to him for advice and brought parts of guns or anything that could be used by the underground. We traveled by train only one other time. On that trip, along with several others, quislings (Dutch police in sympathy with the Germans) checked our passports. Our guides did the talking and we always got through. Most of our travel from this point was by bicycle, motorcycle, automobile and walking. At one time I rode on a motorcycle with a Catholic priest. Another time I rode in a 1932 Chevy with a wood burner attached to the back of it to create the fuel to run the engine. The engine kept running as long as there was fire in the burner. I can’t explain the mechanics of this contraption but it was a fascinating means of transportation and was greatly needed since gasoline was so scarce. Bicycles were a great means of transportation in Holland then, as it is now. When we were using bicycles or walking, our guides would tell us to stay some distance behind them in case they were stopped. If they were caught helping us they would have been put to death. On one bicycle trip we were following our guide on a road that was on top of a dike next to a canal. The water in the canal was higher than the land on either side of it. We were several hundred yards behind our guide when two German soldiers stopped him. We couldn’t stop when we got to him because we would have given him away. We kept riding along slowly until we got out of their sight and decided we had better stop and wait. We went over in the woods at the base of the dike and waited several hours but our guide never came. Finally another man stopped close to us and motioned for us to follow him. We followed him back the same way we had come until we came to a side road crossing the canal. We followed him on that road for several miles and found our guide waiting for us. He explained that the German soldiers were suspicious and he couldn’t follow us since the road crossing the canal was our turning off place.

We traveled almost the full length of Holland in the twenty-one days we were there and stayed in seven or eight different homes. One of the homes was on a farm out in the country. The house and the barn were all one building. The house was on one end and the barn with the animals on the other, but they both were very clean. Their pigpen was as clean as their kitchen. The men still wore wooden shoes or rubber boots while working in the fields due to the damp soil. I remember helping the ladies shell green peas for several hours while I was at this home. We stayed in another home that was an apartment, and there were German soldiers housed in the adjoining apartment. The people we were staying with told us not to talk out loud that night in our bedroom because the soldiers would be able to hear us. Their bed was right beside ours. Only the wall separated the two beds. While staying at another home I wrote a letter to my parents explaining all that had happened. I told them I was not injured and was with the underground in Holland. It was a rather long letter in which I told them other things like how much I loved them; what wonderful parents they were; how anxious I was to see them again; etc. A young man at this home said he would keep the letter until after the war was over and mail it for me in case I didn’t make it back home. He did mail the letter and Mom and Dad received it before I got back to the States. By that time my parents knew I was O.K. They had received letters from me while I was a prisoner.

The last home we stayed in before crossing the border into Belgium was in the small town of Erp. Two schoolteachers and their brother lived there and this was the first home where we could spend some time outside of the house because it was a small town and a secluded back yard. It was one of the few places where I didn’t feel the stress of being hunted by the Germans. We stayed there about four days waiting to cross the border into Belgium. They made pictures, which they later sent me along with some souvenirs (small wooden shoes and a spoon made of Dutch coins). Copies of these pictures can be found in the back section of this notebook.

[Korsakov829]

Alot of these guys seem to have made it to Colonel late in life. I'm a Major, and only in my early 50s, so either my life is late or they just toss promotions out yearly these days. Hey, if I write a war diary about how we lifted sewer drain grates and ate snails in Grozny, do you think it will be a best seller?

[bobbysocks]

Originally Posted by Korsakov829

Alot of these guys seem to have made it to Colonel late in life. I'm a Major, and only in my early 50s, so either my life is late or they just toss promotions out yearly these days. Hey, if I write a war diary about how we lifted sewer drain grates and ate snails in Grozny, do you think it will be a best seller?

well most of them got the promotions due to an unexpected vacancy...ie the former co was shot down and KIA or POW. kinda puts you on the fast track IF you live so long. a lot of the guys my dad flew with ended up generals or high ranking....but they also started at 18 to 20 years old and had flown in several major conflicts and a few minor ones. as for the catching eating snails from the drains....there is a huge market in the US for "survival cookbooks"...so write away....might make you a top selling author.

[Korsakov829]

In my family history, going back about 6000 years there have only been a few colonels. The whole eating snail things didn't really work out so we just traded with the rebels which, kind of stalled a promotion.

[bobbysocks]

the captured P-38 used by an Italian pilot to shot down crippled USAAF bombers,

Or so the story goes;

A YB-40 was involved in an interesting encounter. It bagged an Italian ace, Guido Rossi. In 1943 a P-38 ran out of fuel and ditched outside Sardinia. The pilot was overwhelmed by locals before he could use his pistol to ignite the tanks and burn the craft. Rossi had the clever idea of using the captured P-38 to kill wounded B-17's returning from bombing missions as stragglers. He bagged several bombers this way. One B-17 Pilot, Lt. Harold Fisher survived an attack, and had trouble convincing others that he was shot down by a 'friendly'.

Fisher was persistent and obtained command of a prototype YB-40 gunship, and flew several missions lagging behind the rest of the bombers trying to lure out the 'Phantom' P-38. As intelligence was gathered in Italy, they discovered Rossi and his captured '38 did indeed exist and had a wife in Constantine. Allies occupied this city, so when the nose art was applied to the YB-40, the artist used a photo of Rossi's wife, and named the gunship after her, 'Gina'.

Fisher flew a mission on August 31st that year, and was actually damaged in the bombing raid, so with two engines out, the YB-40 was even slower, and flew back completely solo. Sure enough, a P-38 approached, one engine feathered, and asked to join up for the trip back in very good english. Fisher almost fell for the same trap again. With the extra firepower of the friendly P-38 along, everything was being unloaded, guns, ammo, armor plate, anything to keep the YB-40 in the air. At this point Rossi came over the radio with an innocent question. "Gina, nice name. Your girl?" Fisher froze and ordered his men to keep their guns, and started baiting Rossi with details of his 'relationship' with Gina of Constantine.

Rossi became enraged, fired up the 'dead' engine, and circled around, intending to fire right through the nose, cockpit and the entire length of the YB-40. The '40 had an innovation that was later added to all B-17's, a chin turret. As Rossi came in, he faced down a total of 8 forward firing .50's. As the P-38 came apart Rossi even tried to ram the YB-40, but could not maintain flight. He ditched and was picked up by Allied pilot rescue and remained a prisoner for the remainder of the war.

Lt. Harold Fisher received the Distinguished Flying Cross for the encounter, and Major Fisher was killed during a crash in the Berlin Airlift. Former Lt. Guido Rossi attended his funeral out of respect.

[bobbysocks]

an il2 cga type film about the account of robert johnsons run in with lw ace egon mayer. its an amazing story as told by johnson.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rnIVCxuc-fg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpNlsD6rmHw&NR=1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=209nbNM5qmA&NR=1

[bobbysocks]

finally coming home

FULLERTON – In his last letter home, Claude "Bud" Ray wrote of his eagerness to return to Kansas for a white Christmas.

A tail gunner aboard a B-24D Liberator, Ray had spent most of 1943 flying missions out of Papua New Guinea, and he longed for home after a year in the jungle.

Shortly after writing the letter, Ray's plane disappeared during a storm, and for nearly 67 years his family was left wondering exactly what happened.

On Monday, more than six decades after his bomber was lost, Ray's remains are being flown to California for burial. The event is an answer to a nearly life-long prayer by his niece, Fullerton resident Karen Gideon.

"There was always the hope we would learn something," Gideon said.

Her family's most painful question was answered by an unexpected discovery in the jungle, modern science, and a unit of the military dedicated to identifying fallen service members and bringing them home.

One last flight

Gideon, 74, was only 6 when "Uncle Bud" signed up for the U.S. Army Air Forces, but her memories of him are vivid.

Ray was close to his family, a good uncle, the kind of guy who wrote individual letters to his little niece and nephew back home in Kansas. He planned to buy a farm and live near his parents when he returned from war.

He was deployed with the "Jolly Rogers" 5th Air Force, 90th Bomb Group, flying on a number of combat missions and earning a Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal, Oak Leaf Clusters and a Purple Heart.

Ray's crew had completed its combat mission and was preparing to return to the United States in October 1943, when Ray volunteered for one last flight.

During his time in the Pacific, Ray had suffered a bout of malaria, making him about three hours short of his crew's 300-hour service mission, Gideon said.

So when the tail gunner for his replacement crew became ill, Ray volunteered to go for the man who was to take his place. Fellow crewmembers begged him not to go; he had done his job, it was time to go home. Ray went anyway.

On Oct. 27, 1943, Ray flew out of Port Moresby, New Guinea on a reconnaissance mission with the new crew. The plane ran into foul weather, and radio contact was lost shortly after the plane was instructed to return to base. Ray was 25 years old.

Search crews were sent out, but no trace of the plane or its 12 crew members was found.

Coming home

For a while there was some small hope that perhaps Ray had survived – the military even received reports that he might be in a Japanese POW camp.

When that was disproven, there was nothing but a lingering sadness.

"There was never any burial, so it was just something that hung in the air," Gideon said.

Ray's mother would get up and leave the room when "White Christmas" came on.

Ray's parents passed away. So did his siblings. Most of the family moved from Kansas to California.

Gideon and her brother, Burt Risser, are perhaps the last immediate surviving family members who knew Ray personally.

According to the Department of Defense, there are currently 83,918 servicemen and women listed as Missing in Action from past conflicts. Of those, 74,064 are from WWII.

In an effort to bring as many of those service members home, the military branches have combined efforts to create the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command.

Last year JPAC – which has a staff of about 400 and what it claims is the largest forensic anthropology laboratory in the world – identified the remains of 98 service members, including 53 from WWII.

In 2004, JPAC contacted Gideon and told her the search for her uncle's remains was ongoing, and they would like a DNA sample from the family on file – just in case.

What Gideon didn't know at the time was that in 2003, a local villager had discovered the remains of Ray's plane in a remote and dense jungle area of Papua New Guinea.

"I don't think they wanted to give us false hope," said, Gideon, who heard nothing after giving the DNA sample.

In 2007, a JPAC crew spent three months at the crash site, digging and sifting for remains.

Then, two months ago, the military called to set up an appointment with Gideon and Risser: They had identified Ray's remains and those of the other crewmen, and would be flying him home.

On Wednesday, the 67th anniversary of Ray's disappearance, Gideon and Risser will escort their uncle's remains to Riverside National Cemetery. Ray will be buried with full military honors, not far from the burial site of a sister he never got to say goodbye to.

In the spring, the siblings will fly to Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, where the military is erecting a memorial to the crew. All unidentifiable remains from the crash site will be buried together in a shared casket at the memorial.

"It's a relief to know his remains are coming back to his country, so we can honor him," Risser said.

[bobbysocks]

some short quips from 3 squadron raaf

GROUP CAPTAIN Peter JEFFREY DSO DFC MiD(2)

Twenty-two year old Peter Jeffrey joined the RAAF in 1935, well before the outbreak of war. He was posted, as a Flight Lieutenant to the desert in 1941 with 3 Squadron RAAF as a Flight Commander. In February 1941, as a Squadron Leader, he became Commanding Officer of 3 Squadron.

On 15 April 1941, he shot down one of four JU52's that were landing and then destroyed three more on the ground.

At this time, he was flying Hurricane QS-J. For energetic and capable leadership, he received the DFC in 1941. In June 1941 he shot down a JU88 bearing Italian markings, and two days later a Martin 167 bomber of the Vichy Air Force.

He was later promoted to a Wing Leader uniting 112 Squadron RAF and 3 Squadron into a Wing; he handed over 3 Squadron to Squadron Leader Alan Rawlinson on 10 November 1941. On 22 November 1941, he was shot down but managed to return to base. On the 25 November he shot down a Bf 110 with three other pilots. On the 30 November, he landed his Tomahawk in the desert, discarded his parachute to make more space for Sergeant Tiny Cameron, a downed 3 Squadron pilot and the largest man in the Squadron, and flew safely back to base sitting on Cameron's lap. This happened just a few days before he was awarded the DSO.

WING COMMANDER Andrew (Nicky) BARR OBE MC DFC and Bar

Nicky BARR, a star International Rugby player, was in England when World War II broke out. He returned to Australia, joined the RAAF and graduated as a Pilot Officer in September 1940. In October 1941, he was posted to 3 Squadron in the Middle East and soon displayed his skill in the Tomahawk and Kittyhawk fighters. In his first 35 operational hours, Barr flew 22 missions, engaged in 16 combats and destroyed 8 enemy aircraft.

On 11 January 1942, during an attempt to rescue a fellow pilot he was shot down, which resulted in a 25 mile walk back to base. On 26 June 1942, he was again shot down but this time, captured; and as a consequence, spent a long period in P.O.W. camps as well as enemy hospitals. Whilst enroute to Germany by train, he escaped and joined an allied Special Airborne Services unit in which he operated for eight months.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT Arthur DAWKINS

Arthur Dawkins served with 3 Squadron for a period of 5 years and flew operations in the desert and Northern Italy. On the 10 March 1943, with other pilots, he strafed an enemy motor column. As Arthur passed over a motor transport that he hit, it exploded with such force that the canvas tarp from the vehicle flew up and wrapped around his wing; he flew back with the tarp draped over his wing tip. On landing the mechanics found that the air intake of his Kittyhawk CV-B No. FL-288 was full of packets of razor blades.

SQUADRON LEADER Reginald N. B. STEVENS DFC and Bar

Bobby Gibbes once described Reg Stevens as a very skilful pilot with bags of guts. Even as a Flight Sergeant, he befriended all the sprog pilots and earned his reputation for operational reliability by his outstanding eyesight. His rapid rise through the ranks from Warrant Officer to Squadron Leader in just two weeks, to take command of the Squadron was unparalleled in the Squadron.

On 3 August 1943, Sergeant Johnny Howell-Price was shot down into the sea off the Sicilian coast near Catania. Reg saw his plight and pin-point dropped his dingy to him, and whilst circling above him, alerted Air Sea Rescue. He stayed above until the Walrus arrived but during the pick-up rescue, a shore battery began shelling the Walrus. Reg went straight in and put the battery out of action but suffered serious aircraft damage in doing so. He crashed landed but stepped out unhurt and rejoined the Squadron that same day. For this action, he was awarded an immediate DFC.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT John Rowley PERRIN DFC MiD

The second pilot in 3 Squadron to be decorated was Flight Lieutenant John (Jock) Rowley Perrin. Perrin was the leader of a formation of three fighters on patrol near Mersa el Berga when he noticed bombs bursting on the ground, and saw nine Stukas dive-bombing and strafing our troops. He called up the others in his formation, but was apparently misunderstood. At all events, after a careful look round for possible escorting fighters, Perrin dived on the Stukas, accompanied by only one of his companions.

As the pair dived, they were attacked by 15 Messerschmitts which Perrin had not seen, and Perrin's companion was shot down. Perrin bagged one of the Stukas and a Messerschmitt before a cannon-burst in his petrol tank set his aircraft on fire and slightly wounded Perrin.

In spite of fire and wound, Perrin continued to attack the enemy until he had exhausted his ammunition. He then crash-landed in the desert. As he staggered from his burning aircraft, half blinded with oil and blood, he was machine-gunned by the pilots of the Messerschmitts which continually dived at him as he made a desperate dash for the shelter of a tree.

"It was the fastest 100 yards I have ever run," he said jokingly later, "and when I barged into that tree in my haste, I saw stars by the thousand."

The citation to the immediate award of the D.F.C. granted Perrin for this incident stated that his determined leadership and bravery in the face of vastly superior enemy forces, and his bearing after the combat had had a very beneficial effect on the morale of the remainder of the squadron.

Perrin was picked up by a patrol car and taken to Benina aerodrome and a hospital. A little later, during the withdrawal of the British forces across Cyrenaica he was again in action.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT Cecil (Tiny) CAMERON DFM and Bar

Posted to 3 Squadron R.A.A.F. in May 1941, Sergeant "Tiny" (Cec) Cameron's natural popularity was quickly enhanced by his beloved mascot, a cute monkey called "Buzz" who often flew as an unofficial co-pilot with Tiny.

Shortly after he joined the Squadron, the Syrian campaign developed. Tiny along with other members of the squadron took an active part. In fact, Tiny and his close mate, Derek Scott (Scotty) - another pilot with whom he shared eventual incarceration in Lamsdorf - on the signing of the Armistice in Syria, were sent in to occupy Bierut Aerodrome on behalf of the Squadron.

After completion of hostilities in Syria, the Squadron was transferred to the Libyan Campaign and took an active part in opposing the Luftwaffe, and it was not long before Tiny accounted for his first victim. Shortly after, he became a victim himself and was shot down, but became part of Air Force history when he was picked up by Squadron Leader Peter Jeffrey, who landed beside the crash site, squeezed Tiny into his cockpit and brought him back to the Squadron. This was quite an achievement as Tiny was 6ft 4in (193cm) and it was a single seater aircraft.

About a month later, after scoring 2 more victories, Tiny was again shot down and according to all reports, had crashed with his aircraft and had not survived. Five days later, he returned with an Army unit to his squadron much to everyone's surprise and delight. Tiny went on to claim 4 more victories before he was again shot down on 10 January 1942. He became a prisoner of war. Coincidentally, on this date, he was awarded the D.F.M. for outstanding devotion to duty and for his score of 5 enemy aircraft shot down. He was subsequently transported to Italy where he remained in a P.0.W. camp until the Italians surrendered in 1943 when he was transported to Germany.

He and others were force-marched across Germany and half way back again before being released at Halle on 8 May 1945 when he was told of his retrospective commission as a Flight Lieutenant.

FLIGHT LIEUTENANT Wilfred S. (Woof) ARTHUR DSO DFC MiD

Flight Lieutenant Wilfred Stanley Arthur started 1942 well for 3 Squadron by adding his D.F.C. to its mounting tally. A Queenslander, Arthur was 22 when he gained the award. He joined the Permanent Air Force a day after war was declared, and was posted to the squadron in March 1940 as a Pilot Officer, becoming Flying Officer in the following September, and Flight Lieutenant in October 1941.

His D.F.C. was awarded for great gallantry in operations. On one occasion under difficult weather conditions, he was leading a flight over Bir el Gobi when a large formation of enemy aircraft was encountered. Arthur immediately shot down two Stukas, and was then attacked by enemy fighters. His own engine was hit, but before this had happened, he had shot down one of the enemy fighters. Turning away his damaged aircraft from the fight Arthur shot down an Italian Macchi 200, making his day's total four. He went on to finish the war with 10 victories, 6 + he scored in the Squadron.

SQUADRON LEADER Frank FISCHER DFC.

In June 1941 Frank was shot down near the French air base of Hama. Crash landing his aircraft, he was faced with a 140 mile walk back to base. During this trek he was befriended by a tribe of nomadic Arabs who took him under their protection. Dressed in Arab clothing they guided him back to his base.

In November 1941 Flying Officer FISCHER was returning alone from a patrol, a defect having arisen in the aircraft which caused the windscreen of his aircraft to be completely covered with oil, when he saw a force of 9 Messerschmitt 109 about to machine gun aircraft on one of our forward landing grounds.

Despite the handicap imposed by his lack of vision Flying Officer Fischer engaged and destroyed one of the hostile aircraft and attacked three of the others before he was compelled to abandon his own aircraft.

By his skill and initiative Flying Officer Fischer completely broke up the enemy attack thereby saving the aircraft based on the landing ground.

SQUADRON LEADER Murray Percival NASH, DSO DFC and Bar

"Gasher" Nash was Commanding Officer of the Squadron at three different times during the Italian Campaign. His first hand-over to Rex Bayley was because his tour of duty had expired. Yet he still came back for another tour.

His flying ability was exceptional. On 8 January 1945, his "tree-pruning" during a very low level attack on enemy transport vehicles, resulted in the tip of one of his Mustang's wings being torn off by the tree and, as well, the mainframe was badly dented. Only his superb flying skills kept the aircraft under control and he limped home on a wing and a prayer.

[bobbysocks]

Saburo Sakai was one of Japan’s living legends during WW2 during which he was credited with 64 aircraft destroyed. He survived the entire war, remaining an active front-line pilot to the end in spite of the crippling injuries he sustained when his Zero was almost demolished during a dog-fight over Guadalcanal in August 1942. Paralyzed in both his left leg and arm and permanently blinded in his right eye (and temporarily blinded in his right eye), he nevertheless returned to his Rabaul base and was still able to land his damaged Zero. Many of his air-battles were fought against P40s which many of our ex-3 Squadroners flew after their postings to the New Guinea theatre of war.

The following is an extract from his descriptive autobiography "SAMURAI" (Ballantine Books, New York, copyrighted to Martin Caidin, 1957 with writing assistance by Fred Saito).

Apparently I was never to cease being surprised at what awaited me in each new naval training program. Hardly had I arrived at the new school than I discovered that my prior experiences with naval discipline were minor ones. I was amazed to realize that the disciplinary customs of the Sasebo Naval Base were pleasant interludes in comparison with those of Tsuchiura. Even the Navy Gunners School was hardly more than a kindergarten alongside the Fliers School.

"A fighter pilot must be aggressive and tenacious. Always." This was our initial greeting from the athletic instructor who called together our first wrestling class. "Here at Tsuchiura we are going to instil those characteristics into you, or else you will never become a Navy pilot." He lost no time in showing us his ideas of how we were to become indoctrinated with constant aggressiveness! The instructor at random selected two students from the group and ordered them to wrestle. The victor of this clash was then allowed to leave the wrestling mat

His opponent who had lost the important match had no such luck. He remained on the mat, prepared to take on another pilot trainee. So long as he continued to lose, he remained on that mat, tiring with every bout, slammed about heavily and often sustaining injuries. If necessary, he was forced to wrestle every one of the other sixty-nine students in his class. If, at the end of sixty-nine consecutive wrestling bouts, he was still able to resume standing, he was considered fit-but for only one more day. The following day he again took on the first wrestling opponent and continued until he either emerged a victor or was expelled from the school.

With every pilot trainee determined not to be expelled from the fliers course, the wrestling matches were scenes of fierce competition. Often students were knocked unconscious. This, however, did not excuse them from what was considered an absolute training necessity. They were revived with buckets of water or other means and sent back to the mat.

Following a month's basic ground training, we began our primary flying lessons. Flight lessons were held in the morning, classroom and other courses in the afternoon. Following dinner, we had two hours in which to study our subjects until the lights were turned out.

As the months wore on, our numbers diminished steadily. The training course demanded perfection from the students, and a trainee could be dismissed for even the slightest infraction of rules. Since the naval pilots were considered the elite of the entire Navy, of all the armed forces, there was no room for error. Before our ten-month course was completed, forty-five out of the original seventy students had been expelled from the school. The instructors did not follow the violent physical-discipline system of my former training installations, but their authority to dismiss from the school any student, for any reason, was feared far more than any mere savage beating.

The rigidity of this weeding-out process was forcibly brought home to us on the very eve of our graduation; on that same day, one of the remaining students was expelled. A shore patrol discovered him entering an off-limits bar in the town of Tsuchiura to celebrate his "graduation." He was pre-mature in more respects than one. Upon his return to the billet he was ordered to report at once to his faculty board. By way of apology the student knelt on the floor before his officers, but to no avail.

The faculty board found him guilty of two unpardonable sins. The first, every pilot knew. That was that a combat pilot; shall never, for any reason, drink alcoholic beverages the evening before he flies. As part of the graduation exercises, we were to pass over the field in formation flight the next day. The second of the two crimes was more commonplace, but equally serious. No member of the Navy was ever to disgrace his service by entering any establishment marked "off limits."'

The physical training courses at Tsuchiura were among the severest in Japan. One of the more unpleasant of the obstacle courses was a high iron pole which we were required to climb. At the top of the pole, we were to suspend ourselves by one hand only. Any cadet who failed to support his weight, for less than ten minutes received a swift kick in the rear and was sent scurrying up the pole again. At the end of the course, those students who had avoided expulsion were able to hang by one arm for as long as fifteen to twenty minutes.

Every enlisted man in the Imperial Navy was required to be able to swim. There were a good number of students who came from the mountain regions and had never done any swimming at all. The training solution was simple. The cadets were trussed up with rope around their waists and tossed into the ocean, where they swam or sank. Today, thirty-nine' years old and with pieces of shrapnel still in my body, I can swim fifty meters (162 feet) in thirty-four seconds. At the Fliers School, swimming that distance in less than thirty seconds was commonplace.

Every student was required to swim underwater for at least fifty meters, and to remain below the surface for at least ninety seconds. The average man can, with effort, hold his breath for forty or fifty seconds, but this is considered inadequate for a Japanese pilot. My own record is two minutes and thirty seconds below the surface.

We went through hundreds of diving lessons to improve our sense of balance, and to aid us later when we would be putting fighter planes through all sorts of aerobatic gyrations. There was special reason to pay strict attention to the diving lessons, for once the instructors felt we had received enough assistance from the boards, we were ordered to dive from a high tower to the hard ground! During the drop we somersaulted two or three times in the air, and landed on our feet. Naturally, there were errors-with disastrous results.

Acrobatics formed an important part of our athletic instruction, and every requirement laid down by the instructors was fulfilled or the student was expelled. Walking on our hands was considered merely a primer. We also had to balance ourselves on our heads, at first for five minutes, then ten, until finally many of the students could maintain position for fifteen minutes or more. Eventually I was able to balance on my head for more than twenty minutes, during which time my fellow trainees would light cigarettes for me and place them between my lips.

Naturally, such circus antics were not the only physical requirements of our training. But they did permit us to develop an amazing sense of balance and muscular coordination, traits which were to have lifesaving value in later years.

Every student at Tsuchiura was gifted with extraordinary eyesight; this was, of course, a minimum entry requirement. Every passing moment we spent in developing our peripheral vision, in learning how to recognize distant objects with snap glances-in short, in developing the techniques which would give us advantages over opposing fighter pilots.

One of our favourite tricks was to try to discover the brighter stars during daylight hours. This is no mean feat, and without above-average eyes it is virtually impossible to accomplish. However, our instructors constantly impressed us with the fact that a fighter plane seen from a distance of several thousand yards often is no easier to identify than a star in daylight. And the pilot who first discovers his enemy and manoeuvres into the most advantageous attack position can gain an invincible superiority. Gradually, and with much more practice, we became quite adept at our star-hunting. Then we went further. When we had sighted and fixed the position of a particular star, we jerked our eyes away ninety degrees, and snapped back again to see if we could locate the star immediately. Of such things are fighter pilots made.

I personally cannot too highly commend this particular activity, inane as it may seem to those unfamiliar with the split-second, life-or-death movements of aerial warfare. I know that during my 200 air engagements with enemy planes, except for two minor errors I was never caught in a surprise attack by enemy fighters, nor did I ever lose any of my wingmen to hostile pilots.

In all our spare moments during our training at Tsuchiura we sought constantly to find methods by which we could shorten our reaction time and improve our certainty of movement. A favourite trick of ours was to snatch a fly on the wing within our fists. We must have looked silly, pawing at the air with our hands, but after several months a fly which flew before our faces was almost certain to end up in our hands. The ability to make sudden and exact movements is indispensable within the cramped confines of a fighter-plane cockpit.

These improvements in reaction time came to our aid in a totally unexpected way. Four of us were racing in a car at sixty miles an hour along a narrow road when the driver lost control of the car and hurtled over the edge of an embankment. The four of us, to a man, snapped open the car doors and literally flew from the vehicle. There were some scrapes and bruises, but not a single major injury among us, although the car was thoroughly demolished.

[bobbysocks]

Heroic young pilot killed in dogfight
story from this is kent website

A FEW weeks ago I paid a tribute to the Polish pilots who escaped from their occupied homeland in 1939, made their way to France and, when that country fell, came to England to join the RAF.

Those brave men, some in their early 20s and younger, used all kinds of tricks and the most elaborate methods for escaping.

Many dressed in second-hand civilian clothing and, equipped with fake passports, slipped out like eels between guards and gendarmes.

One of those pilots was Stefan Wojtowicz.

At the age of 20 he escaped from Poland to Romania, then to France where General Sikorski was reconstituting the Polish Air Force, and finally to England where he joined 303 Squadron at Northolt.

On September 11, 1940, Stefan was involved with his squadron in a dogfight over Westerham.

Having shot down at least one Messerschmitt, possibly more, he found himself cornered by six German fighters.

Witnesses in Westerham and nearby villages saw the battle fought at low altitude.

Stefan's Hurricane was hit and hurtled to the ground, burning.

It embedded into a field at the top of Hogtrough Hill, Brasted, and he was killed immediately.

A few weeks ago, on the 70th anniversary of that crash, a group of friends unveiled a plaque on the site.

Among them was Peter Finch, of Quebec Square, Westerham, who watched the air battle and many years later corresponded with Nina Britton Boyle, a Polish squadron researcher, who wanted to know more about the circumstances leading to the tragedy.

Peter was able to tell her that he was 14 at the time and, like many schoolboys, a great souvenir hunter. His garden shed contained parts from crashed planes, their equipment, bomb shards and ammo. According to Peter the battle on September 11 lasted about 15 minutes.

He and his friends saw the Hurricane crash and rushed to the site in time to see the body of Stefan Wojtowicz removed to the morgue. There, Peter looked through a window and saw the blackened body not yet covered.

"The pilot had very small hands," he said. "It was the first time I had seen a body and the image is still in my mind today."

A few days after the crash, a 303 Squadron intelligence officer came to this part of Kent to find out more about Sergeant Wojtowicz's death and discovered he had been hit in the head by a shard from a cannon missile.

He also found out that two enemy planes were destroyed, possibly more, by the young Pole. Already, in an earlier mission, he had shot down two Dornier bombers and lost part of his engine, but still managed to land safely in a field near Tenterden.

His commanding officer, Col Johnny Kent, acting CO, recommended the highest British military decoration, the Victoria Cross, for exceptional courage on the battlefield.

He was reminded that it could not be given to a foreigner.

Sgt Wojtowicz was posthumously decorated with the Silver Cross of Virtuti Militari.

The research by Nina Britton Boyle was thorough.

Using a metal detector she found pieces of the plane scattered over a wide area.

She also discovered more about Stefan, his village in Poland, how he enrolled on an advanced pilot course after leaving school and about his adventures when the country fell in 1939.

She wrote comprehensively about his family in Poland, the small plaque in the village commemorating those killed during the Second World War and how she met Stefan's sister, who said she had seen him for the last time on September 17, 1939.

"His mother cried and begged him to stay, but he had to go. He was full of the will to fight. On his leave he said to his mother: 'You will yet read about me'."

He was not wrong.

Nina Britton Boyle and Peter Finch were among those in the commemoration party on Hog- trough Hill, meeting each other for the first time.

She told him that on that day, 70 years earlier, 12 pilots of 303 Kosciuszko Squadron had raised their Hurricanes and destroyed 16 enemy aircraft, one of the greatest successes of the Battle of Britain.

The price of victory was the death of Sgt Stefan Wojtowicz and Lt Arsen Cebrzynski, who was also shot down and severely wounded. He crashed at Pembury and died in hospital several days later.