In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

US pilot who crashed in Britain in 1944 returns to unveil memorial to comrades after plane wreckage is found.

Waiting in the departure lounge at JFK in New York for a flight to London, an announcement came over the public address system. We would be traveling with a very important passenger, it said.

An elderly man was sitting in a wheelchair. This, we were told, was Norman Landberg, who had flown 56 missions over Europe in B-24 Liberators during WWII. He was returning to Britain for the first time since 1945 to be guest of honor at a ceremony to unveil a memorial for two of his comrades, who had died when a plane he was flying had crashed on take-off.

America has a great sense of respect for war veterans and the passengers rose to applaud Mr Landberg as he was wheeled through the gate and down to the plane. I found him sitting in business class, his seat set in the reclining position, being cosseted by two flight attendants, a modest, quiet-spoken man in a tracksuit and trainers, slightly bemused by all the fuss.

During the war, Lt Landberg of 36 Bomber Squadron, as he was then, was stationed in Cheddington Air Base in Ivinghoe, Buckinghamshire. His trip to Britain was not only the first time he had been back to the country since 1945, he told me, but the first time he had been in an aircraft, "I'm a little nervous." He thought for a moment. "Anticipatory."

It was all very different from flying over Germany in a B-24. "What was that like? Oh my God, there was no insulation. It was cold as hell, 50 degrees below. Your wings would be flapping all over the place, rackety as anything. It was terrible."

Mr Landberg's squadron was engaged in special operations, attached to RAF 100 Group. His B-24 did not carry bombs but top secret radar-jamming equipment. His job was to fly lone missions over Germany, without any support from fighters, in advance of the Lancaster bombing raids. Flying below enemy radar, Lt Landberg would circle an area at an altitude of between 50ft and 100ft, transmitting radar signals designed to fool the Germans into scrambling their fighter squadrons in pursuit of a non-existent enemy.

By the time the actual bombers arrived - or so the theory went - the nightfighters would be back on the ground refueling. Mr Landberg's description of this is succinct: "Scary."

He was just 21 at the time, responsible for the lives of his 10-man crew. "That responsibility was not lost on me and that's the reason I'm coming to England." On the night of Nov 15th 1944, Lt Landberg took off on what he expected to be a routine - if such a word can be used - mission.

Shortly after take-off, his aircraft lost power. "All my lights went out. My engineer had a flashlight which he shone in my eyes. I couldn't see the instruments and my left wing caught the ground and I started to tumble."

The plane hit the ground, ploughing across two fields. The aircraft was loaded with 4,000 gallons of fuel and 26,000 rounds of ammunition. It should have exploded but amazingly, it didn't.

However, Lt Landberg's navigator and best friend William Lamson and the left-waist gunner Leonard Smith were killed on impact. The cockpit in which Lt Landberg was sitting was ripped from the fuselage and thrown 300 yards from the wreck. "I just snapped off the safety belt and stepped out onto the ground" he said. "Oh my God, it was something."

The other seven crew members also survived. Lt Landberg had a week of rest in Torquay before rejoining his squadron to fly another 30 missions.

At the end of the war he went back to his home and young wife Elizabeth in Atlantic City. "She was a great girl" he said. "She still is."

He thought of staying on in the Air Force, "but I'd sort of had my fill. Particularly of flying." He went to engineering school and then got into sales. "I was travelling all over the country, you can sell anything and I loved driving a car."

Mr Landberg has been so affected by the crash that he never spoke of it, not even to his wife. It might have passed, forgotten, into history had it not been for Chris Jellis, a 43-year old film prop man who lives in Ivinghoe. Mr Jellis' cousin owns Force End Farm, where Lt Landberg's B-24 crashed in 1944. For years, he had been plowing up bits of the wreckage, including live .50 cal ammunition without knowing what they were from.

In 1993, Mr Jellis himself picked up a piece of metal bearing a manufacturer's plate - Ford Motor Co. Dearborn - and soon became, in his own words, "a bit of an anorak on the B-24." A local historian told him that American bombers had been stationed at Cheddington. Through military records here and in America he determined the squadron and names of the crew of the crashed bomber. Dialing every N Landberg in phone directories in America, he eventually found his Lt Landberg.

I said "Is that Lt Landberg?" Mr Jellis told me. "He said 'No-one's called me that since 1945' "
When I told him I'd been picking up bits of wreckage from his plane for years, he said "Didn't they clear that sucker up?"

Mr Jellis resolved to erect a memorial in honor of the two airmen who had died. Yesterday, Mr Landberg joined the only other surviving member of his crew, the tail-gunner George Eberwine, whom he had not seen since the end of the war, at a ceremony to unveil the marble stone at the site of the crash. The ceremony included a dedication by a USAF chaplain, fly-past and wreath laying.

Mr Landberg later planned to visit the American war cemetery in Cambridge and the Imperial War Museum. As we neared Britain on Thursday, Mr Landberg told me, accepting a drink from a flight attendant, that the flight "was quite something". It might even have cured his aversion for flying. "It was most pleasant." he said, as we taxied to the arrivals gate. "I don't think I'll be quite so nervous flying home."

[bobbysocks]

My turban saved my life after I was shot down in dogfight, reveals Sikh WWII flying ace

A sikh fighter pilot's life was saved by the padding in his turban after he was forced to ditch his plane in a WWII dogfight.

Squadron Leader Mohinder Singh Pujji, one of only a handful of Indian ace flyers in the RAF, crashed into the English Channel after his plane was shot down in a mid-air skirmish.
Advised to plant his stricken Hurricane in the sea because he was unable to swim, the 22-year-old nose-dived into the water.
Rescuers boarded boats to help the young flyer, who crashed landed near the White Cliffs of Dover, and pulled him from the wreckage with bad head injuries.

But Sqdn Ldr Singh Pujji, now 91, has told how his specially-adapted headgear, which even had his wings sewn onto it, acted as a cushion for the crash-landing.
He said: 'The padding of my turban saved me, it was full of blood. I was taken to the hospital but after seven days I was back to flying again.'

He added: 'I couldn't swim. I carried on until I saw the white cliffs of Dover and I thought, "I'll make it."
'The aircraft was a total wreck. I was dragged out and I heard voices saying, "He's still alive, he's still alive." Because my eyes were closed I couldn't see.'

Sqdn Ldr Pujji added how his turban was fitted so that the earphones could go over the top and how he carried a spare in his cockpit.
'I had a special strap made to hold my earphones. I used to carry a spare turban with me so I would have one if I got shot down.
'I thought I was a very religious man, I shouldn't take off my turban.'
Sqdn Ldr Singh Pujji surrounds himself with wartime memorabilia at his sheltered accommodation block in Gravesend, Kent.

He relived his daring wartime exploits ahead his memoirs published later this year, called For King and Another Country.
He said he signed up for the RAF after responding to an advert declaring 'Pilots needed for Royal Air Force' in an Indian newspaper.

And after learning to fly in 1937 he was one of only eight pilots from the Empire colony deemed good enough for fighter duties.
Arriving in August 1940, at the height of the Battle of the Britain, the young officer then flew countless missions against Hitler's Luftwaffe.

He said: 'Every day was a question of life and death. Every flight we made we weren't sure we were going to come back.
'It's a job which can't easily be described, escorting convoys over the English Channel, going over occupied countries looking out for enemies, escorting bombers and making interceptions.

'In one minute we would have to be strapped in and up in the air ready to meet enemy fighters. This was three to four times a day, throughout six months.'
He had another lucky escape when he was shot down by Rommel's army in the Western Desert in north Africa.

He said: 'I didn't know what to do. I wasn't on fire, I didn't get hurt. I knew if I carried on north I would get to the Mediterranean, but any other direction I knew nothing.
'I gave up and sat on top of my plane and after a while I saw a cloud of dust. I did not mind who it was picking me up, Germany or Britain.
'I started waving my shirt and luckily it was the British.'

Sqdn Leader Pujji, who was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his bravery, hit the headlines last year after campaigning against the BNP.
He was angered by party leader Nick Griffin's use of the iconic Spitfire to symbolize Britishness.

[bobbysocks]

The Death of George Preddy

CHRISTMAS DAY 1944
By Samuel L. Sox, Jr.


The 9th Air Force, already operating from the continent for months providing close ground support for Allied armor and infantry, found itself much in demand and greatly overworked. The 9th sent an urgent request to the 8th Fighter Command requesting two additional fighter units to come to its aid. On the 23rd of December, Preddy led his 328th Squadron along with the 487th and 486th to a small remote 9th Air Force field located at Asch, Belgium, designated Y-29. The field was so close to the German lines that aircraft in the landing pattern were occasionally fired upon by enemy antiaircraft units.

The 352nd was not accustomed to the tough living conditions it now faced. Living in tents was a far cry from the Nissen huts the pilots occupied at Bodney. Most of the troops thought they would freeze to death the first night. The next day was spent getting the unit settled down and assembled. The ground crews who were transported in C-47s became lost and arrived a day late. The first mission from Y-29 was a milk run, no action. Christmas Day found flyable ceilings and two missions were scheduled that day. Preddy led his unit on the second one, a support mission into Germany with the bombers from the 8th. Lt. Gordon Cartee was Preddy's wing man. Cartee recalls, "After stooling around for a while, due to no action, we were vectored to an area close to Koblenz, Germany, where enemy aircraft had been encountered. Preddy, receiving the call said, "They've started without us, let's join them." Preddy immediately turned in that direction. Just as Mitchell was about to peel off, he looked up and spotted two 109s coming down on him and Lambright. He called to Preddy for assistance, but there was so much chatter on the radio that Preddy never heard him. Mitchell believes to this day that, had Preddy heard his cry for help, he would never have placed himself into the series of events that were to follow.

Cartee continues, "Preddy spotted two 109s and got into a Lufbery with the first one. Neither were gaining much advantage when all of a sudden another 109 cut in front of him. He eased up on his controls just enough, gave it a short burst, blazed it and then resumed his pursuit of the first one. The 109 lost his concentration seeing his buddy flamed and Preddy nailed him. Preddy's score now totaled 27.5 aerial and five ground victories. Moments later, Preddy and Cartee were vectored to an area southeast of Liege where it was reported that enemy aircraft were strafing Allied ground troops.

As they neared Liege, they were joined by a white nosed Mustang from the 479th FS, Lt. James Bouchier, who had become detached from his squadron. From the initial intercept point, approximately 3 to 4 miles SE of Liege, Preddy, now from a height of about 1500 feet, began to accelerate having picked out a long nosed FW-190 in the distance heading Northeast. He radioed “tally ho” to Control and was immediately cleared to make the intercept. There was also some talk between Control and Preddy about intense flak in the area of intercept and it being halted so the attack could be made. Unknown to Preddy, Cartee and Bouchier, was that their line of flight was taking them over the quad 50 cal. AA of “A” Battery of the 430th AA (who was attached to the 258th FABN XIX at that time) positioned on the west side of a large clump of trees 2 miles Southeast of Aachen, Germany. As they neared the AA gun positions, Preddy was hit first by ground fire, followed by Cartee and Bouchier. Cartee saw Cripes A'Mighty begin to lose coolant, the canopy came off and Preddy began a chandelle maneuver to his left. Cartee noticed that a tracer that had entered his cockpit was on the floor moldering. Without getting it out of the way, it could start a fire at his feet. He began trying to kick it around still trailing Preddy. Lt. Bouchier's Mustang also received fire, began smoking and he too broke left, climbing to about 1000' where he realized that he would have to bail out to free himself from his severely damaged P-51. He released his canopy, rolled the '51 over and dropped out safely landing in the British sector 7 to 8 miles North of where he had been hit. Further up Preddy's and Cartee's line of flight, now a couple miles South of Weisweiler, Sgt. Charles Brown, PFC John Starzynbski and Lt Murray Grobman ( 258th FABN XIX Corps) were standing at the NE edge of a very large wooded area approximately 2..5 miles SW from the a large church located in the little town of Langerwehe. They were startled by the sound of a sudden burst of quad 50-caliber mounted on a half track from behind and to their left. The burst lasted 3 to 4 seconds. When they looked to their left, just coming into their field of view was Preddy's Mustang, now upside down, approximately 200 to 300 feet altitude and 20 to 30 degrees nose down attitude.

Up in the steeple of the church in Langerwehe, as had been the case on several other occasions, was Sgt. Harold M. Kennedy and his buddy Cpl. Elmer L. Dye (both with the 104th Infantry Division). While the Battle of the Bulge raged just a few miles away, it was relatively static in their sector where the Division had dug in on the chance that the Germans might veer in their direction. Division headquarters had been set up in a large steel foundry just north of Langerwehe. Dye and Kennedy had spent quite a few hours killing time by posting themselves in the church tower with binoculars and watching the considerable air activity along the front.

Cartee recalled having passed over a wooded area and seeing in the distance a large church in their flight path. The woods NW of the church were occupied by elements of 555th AAA (AW) BN which were located on the northern edge of the German penetration. Their weapons were 40 mm anti-aircraft guns and quad .50 cal. machine guns. They were assigned to protect US troops from low flying German aircraft. The ground was frozen, covered with snow and the sky was filled with snow and heavy clouds making it very easy for the German armor to move about. The troops had lined up for a hot Christmas dinner consisting of turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries and pumpkin pie. T/3 Leo J. Thoennes, of "B" Battery, recalls that he had just taken his mess kit of food and walked to the nearby gun section #4. Suddenly, before he could eat his dinner, what was thought to have been a P-47 (a FW-190) and a P-51, came over with their guns firing. The NCO in charge of the battery ordered his guns to return fire.

Kennedy recalled that as the Mustang passed over the church, firing from the 555th batteries became continuous and heavy. Lt. Mitchell, some distance away, recollects seeing multiple tracer rounds that gave every appearance of being "a whole field of golf balls," so intense was the anti-aircraft barrage.

From their vantage point looking NE, Sgt. Charles Brown, PFC John Starzynbski and Lt Murray Grobman saw Preddy fall from the Mustang at about 200 feet, his parachute not deployed and Cripes A’Mighty now inverted disappearing behind a tree line where they heard her hit the ground. Cartee glanced over his shoulder to see the Mustang continue it's rotation and violently impact the ground. After things quited down a bit, Lt. Grobman took his jeep and drove over to see what he could find. Later on when he returned, he told Brown and Starzynski that he did not go the crash site but he found where Preddy's body was located, added that the pilot was identified as a Major and his chute wasn't deployed. Brown recalls within minutes of the crash, 2 Me-109s flew over line abreast on the same path as Preddy and no US AA guns fired.

Sgt Kennedy and Cpl Dye went to the crash site of the Mustang noting that the largest portion remaining of the Mustang was the engine. Kennedy recalled seeing a piece of the fuselage on which swastikas had been painted.

Lt. Cartee returned safely to the field at Y-29 and made an uneventful landing.


William, George's brother, was also a P-51 fighter pilot and he too was killed in action over Budejovice Airfield in Czechoslovakia on April 17, 1945.

[bobbysocks]

here's one from the "strange but true" files....


http://www.flixxy.com/world-war-ii-f...ncarnation.htm

[McQ59]

Originally Posted by bobbysocks

here's one from the "strange but true" files....


http://www.flixxy.com/world-war-ii-f...ncarnation.htm

Spooky...

[bobbysocks]

an account from the battle of midway...

2nd Lieutenant William. V. Brooks

I was pilot of F2A-3, Bureau number 01523, Our division under Capt. Armistead was on standby duty at he end of the runway on the morning of June 4, 1942, from 0415 until 0615. At about 0600, the alarm sounded and we took off. My division climbed rapidly, and I was having a hard time keeping up. I discovered afterwards that although my wheels indicator and hydraulic pressure indicator both registered "wheels up", they were in reality about 1/3 of the way down. We sighted the enemy at about 14,000 feet, I would say that there were 40 to 50 planes. At this time Lt. Sandoval was also dropping back. My radio was at this time putting out no volume, so I could not get the message from Zed. At 17,000 feet, Capt. Armistead led the attack followed closely by Capt. Humberd. They went down the left of the Vee , leaving two planes burning. Lt. Sandoval went down the right side of the formation and I followed. One of us got a plane from the right side of the Vee. At this time, I had completely lost sight of my division. As I started to pull up for another run on the bombers, I was attacked by two fighters. Because my wheels being jammed 1/3 way down, I could not out dive these planes, but managed to dodge them and fire a burst or so into them as they went past me and as I headed for the water. As I circled the island, the anti-aircraft fire drove them away. My tabs, instruments and cockpit were shot up to quite an extent at this time and I was intending to come in for a landing.
It was at this time that I noticed that a important feature in their fighting. I saw two planes dog-fighting over in the east, and decided to go help my friend if at all possible. My plane was working very poorly, and my climb was slow. As I neared the fight both planes turned on me. It was then that I realized I had been tricked in a sham battle put on by two Japs and I failed to recognize this because of the sun in my eyes. Then I say I was out-numbered, I turned and made a fast retreat for the island, collecting a goodly number of bullets on the way. After one of these planes had been shaken, I managed to get a good burst into another as we passed head-on when I turned into him. I don't believe this ship could have gotten back to his carrier, because he immediately turned away and started north and down. I again decided to land, but as I circled the island I saw two Japs on a Brewster. Three of my guns were jammed, but I cut across the island, firing as I went with one gun. But I could not get there in time to help the American flier and as soon as the Brewster had gone into the water I came in for a landing at approximately 0715 (estimated).
It is my belief that the Japs have a very maneuverable and very fast ship in their zero fighters, plenty of fire-power . They can turn inside the Brewster, but of course on the speed I would be unable to say as my wheels were jammed about 1/3 way down all during the fight, causing considerable drag.
My plane was damaged somewhat, having 72 bullet and cannon holes in it, and I had a very slight flesh wound on my left leg.
It is my express desire that Lt. Sandoval, deceased be logged up with the bomber which one of us got in our first run.

[bobbysocks]

RAF museum podcast series....

http://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/podcasts...ast-series.xml

[bobbysocks]

Mi Amigo : the Fate of a Flying Fortress

At Hunters Bar, Sheffield, in the north of England, there is a green space called Endcliffe Park. Kids still play football there after school. Some things never change.

John Glennon Kriegshauser was Missouri-born, and his sweetheart came from Ohio. About the way he met his destiny, we can know little and imagine much.

An incredulous man went in search of a stone, and was moved to write a book.

A doctor who wanted to be an artist pondered the ring-pulls of beverage cans.

And there was once a machine called the B-17. Its legend will never be dimmed.

All these pieces come together in the terrible and wonderful story of Mi Amigo.

Testament


This is a letter I hope is never mailed...

...My final word is that I'm glad to have been able to lay down my life for a cause which I believed was just and right.

As dusk fell on 22 February, 1944, a Flying Fortress fell from the sky over Sheffield, and crashed in woodland at the edge of a city park. In spite of the efforts of townsfolk, none of its crew of ten could be saved. Accounts of the incident were sparse from the beginning, and soon they became confused and embellished. Some of the mysteries surrounding the stricken aircraft's final hours could perhaps be resolved by the chroniclers of the formidable 8th Air Force. Some of them might never be explained.

The paucity of information about the last flight of Mi Amigo has itself become part of the myth. Commentators have speculated that the truth is too harrowing to be lightly told. We should remember, though, that this was just one sorrow among a relentless litany of sorrows. More than 40 other aircraft, and more than 400 other airmen of the Mighty 8th, were lost on that very same day. No single tragedy could merit special attention. All of the telegrams were brief.

Under such circumstances, the reminiscences that take the place of a more formal record have a poignant and intimate quality. For many years, the fate of Mi Amigo was almost unknown outside the families of her aircrew and the veterans of the Royal Air Force Association who diligently mark her anniversary.

But some tales, even half-complete ones, possess a remarkable power. They endure quietly in the folklore of the community that bore witness, until they bloom in the imagination of succeeding generations. They bloom because they weigh on the heart and summon the spirit at one and the same time.

This is such a story.

Black Thursday

14 October, 1943 was a fateful day in the history of the 305th Bomb Group. Fifteen of its B-17 Flying Fortresses set out from their base at Chelveston, Northamptonshire, taking part in one of the huge daylight raids that characterised this middle phase of World War II. Their target was a notorious one, a ball bearing plant at Schweinfurt, and its tenacious defence had already inflicted grievous losses in an earlier sortie. Sixty bombers failed to return from the mission. Of the 305th's complement only two came home; the worst percentage loss endured by any allied bomber squadron in the entire war.

Far away in Seattle, a B-17G rolled out of the Boeing plant on the same date. Her serial number was 42/31322, and the bomber born on Black Thursday was destined for a dreadful fate of her own.

The G-variant of the B-17 incorporated features adopted as a direct result of the first disaster over Schweinfurt. The aircraft underwent several refinements throughout its European war service, and nearly all of them were to enhance its defensive firepower against fighter attack.

The B-17G was the ultimate version, and it was equipped with no less than thirteen 0.5" machine guns. The distinctive chin turret with its forward-pointing twin cannon was added at this time. These guns were remote-controlled, under the charge of the bombardier. Eight of the crew of ten were called upon to operate the various machine guns in the event of a dogfight. Sometimes it was still not enough.

Mustering

The newborn B-17 spent the rest of 1943 flying around the United States, progressively acquiring the accessories of war. She sojourned in Illinois, Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska. They furnished her with her fearsome guns, and with radio and navigational instruments, and they attached her bomb-racks. Within the Perspex nose canopy, they fitted the latest precision Norden bombsight.

It was appropriate in its way that the aircraft became all-American in the course of its augmentation. It would have a crew to match; young men, bright and optimistic. They were Everymen from Everywhere:

Lt John Kriegshauser (Missouri) - pilot
2nd Lt Lyle Curtis (Idaho) - co-pilot
2nd Lt John Humphrey (Illinois) - navigator
2nd Lt Melchor Hernandez (California) - bombardier
S/Sgt Harry Estabrooks (Kansas) - engineer and top-turret gunner
Sgt Charles Tuttle (Kentucky) - ball-turret gunner
S/Sgt Robert Mayfield (Illinois) - radio operator
Sgt Vito Ambrosio (New York) - right waist gunner
M/Sgt G. Malcolm Williams (Oklahoma) - left waist gunner
Sgt Maurice Robbins (Texas) - tail gunner
This crew was assembled at Geiger Field, Spokane, WA. It was destined to train together for longer than it would fight together, though in truth such an outcome was not unusual.

On the day that they all died, the youngest of these men was 21 years of age and the eldest 24. Lyle's wife was carrying a daughter he would never see. Vito's wife had spent a single day with her new husband before he left for England.

They came to Europe via Newfoundland, over-flying Greenland and Iceland before touching down at Prestwick in Scotland on 16 January, 1944. Within a fortnight, Mi Amigo was at Chelveston, and they painted a large letter 'G' in a triangle on both flanks of her tail. Now she was marked as part of the 305th Bomb Group. In a little over three weeks, she would fly fourteen successful missions.

At this stage of the war, with the Luftwaffe's combat effectiveness still at a high level, bomber crews completing twenty-five missions would be allowed to return home to the United States. Many did not get that far. The average number of missions flown by a B-17 crew was fifteen. As the end of February 1944 drew near, Mi Amigo's luck was due to run out.

Harvey

David Harvey was not a native of Sheffield, but he had already been a resident there for fifteen years when he chanced upon a story that he found hard to believe. A book discovered in the Imperial War Museum's repository at Duxford said that a Flying Fortress had crashed in his home city, and moreover in a part of it that he knew well.

Harvey was already a devoted researcher of the air war in Europe, and he was incredulous for two reasons. First, he knew that no planes of this type were stationed as far north as the Yorkshire city and that an off-course bomber returning home in distress would be expected to come down much closer to the east coast. Second, he couldn't understand why his friends (who were well aware of his interest) had never mentioned the incident.

There was even supposed to be a memorial stone in a park where he had often taken his children to play. He went looking for it.

The stone weighs half a ton, carries not one but two bronze plaques, stands about fifty metres from a busy café and is surrounded by ten oak trees deliberately planted to commemorate the lost airmen. In spite of this, it's deceptively easy to overlook. David Harvey didn't find it immediately, but when he did find it, he knew at once that he must tell the story.

Harvey's deeply moving little book was published in 1997. It remains the only substantive public account of the legend of Sheffield's Flying Fortress.

Naming

Superstition and sentimentality combine in the naming of a warplane. This one acquired its personality with the help of its Spanish-speaking bombardier. Melchor Hernandez surely did think of the craft as his friend, and the others acquiesced.

Mi Amigo was a good name. Discreet and reassuring, it belied the terrible purpose of the recipient. It captured the reliance of ten men on this unnatural thing of the skies, and it suggested their calm acceptance of their lot. It wasn't a vain name, or a defiant name. Mi Amigo still sounds like the choice of men who considered themselves neither heroic nor wronged.

She would have had nose-art. Sadly, there is no record of the image she bore. The only known photographs of Mi Amigo depict her smouldering remains among the trees, with only her tail recognisable.

Even her colouring is uncertain. Some eye-witnesses, who saw her while the fire was contained within the fuselage, claim she was the natural silver-grey of her aluminium skin. The intact tail, though, appears to have been painted in a drab camouflage shade. Depictions of the 305th BG's livery are inconclusive.

The Allies were committed to bombing round the clock. While the RAF carried out the night-raids, the 8th Air Force was assigned to daylight missions. For the Americans, camouflage was probably ineffective. A best guess is that Mi Amigo was mainly silver, with a tail plane in green and black.

Chelveston

They called it Big Week, that third week of February 1944. The air war was coming down to a simple equation. British and American bombers strove to destroy Germany's aircraft factories, and Germany's existing fighters strove to stop them. It became clear to the Allies that mass raids might overwhelm the Luftwaffe's defensive capacity, and Big Week was intended to do just that.

The first three days of bombing wreaked impressive destruction from Rostock to Augsburg, but the allied losses were also severe. Part of the problem was that the Americans were stretching their own capacity in terms of fighter escort. The plane of choice for that role was the medium-range P51-D Mustang, but these were new entrants to the theatre and not yet up to the numerical strength needed to cover bombardment of this intensity.

So it was that Col. Curtis Le May assented to fresh plans for his 305th Bomb Group. This contingent of the much larger force would attack the Germans' principal northern fighter base itself, at Alborg in Denmark. The intention was to compromise the Luftwaffe's defensive response. If they engaged the bombers bound for Germany, then they might have nowhere to come home to. If they chose to defend their airfield, then there might be no factories left to build their successors.

Kriegshauser and his crew would have learned this in the briefing room at dawn on 22 February, only minutes before taking to the air. The ground crew would have readied Mi Amigo during the night, including the stowing of her 4000-lb bomb load.

It was a morning like many others, though the weather was already poor and worsening. Mi Amigo's four Wright Cyclone engines powered up to their full 5000 horsepower as the Aldis lamp at the end of the runway winked her turn. Moments later, she climbed into the gunmetal skies of a wintry Northamptonshire morning for the last time.

Artist

In about 1992, a doctor called Tony Kemplen decided that it was now or never as far as his artistic ambitions were concerned. He put his career in General Practice on hold, and enrolled on the Fine Arts degree course as a mature student at Sheffield Hallam University. Some time later, looking for inspiration for a project, he was strolling through one of the green spaces on Sheffield's west side. He noticed the ring-pulls of aluminium drinks cans littering the ground around the café in Endcliffe Park.

Kemplen had heard the story of Mi Amigo, and knew that many aeroplanes including the Flying Fortresses were made of aluminium. What if some of this aluminium had been strewn over this slope before, in the wreckage of an American bomber that crashed here fifty years ago?

Zero Hour

By around noon on that Tuesday in February, 1944, the 305th were over the coast of Denmark. The sky was blotted with the deadly black smoke-puffs of flak from 88mm anti-aircraft guns. Worse still, the cloud-cover was solid, and the bombers had little hope of locating their target. If the nature of the mission had been different, the bombers might have turned for home sooner. This time, though, it was imperative to maintain the threat, and so draw the teeth of the German fighter squadrons.

The first wave of Focke Wulf 190 fighters came out of the cloud close to the formation, leaving the gunners little time to respond. Judging that manoeuvrability was now the most urgent need, the squadron leader jettisoned his bombs. The rest of his convoy immediately followed suit, and the unburdened bombers climbed and wheeled back out to sea. For a little while, the enemy aircraft disengaged.

In the Park

Close to the bottom end of Hunterhouse Road at Hunters Bar, Fred Nichols had an electrical repair shop. Jeff and Tony, for a while yet too young for their call-up, were working there that afternoon. The kids who would soon be playing football in the park were still at their lessons. Some of them might already have been thinking about those precious minutes of abandon between the school bell and the fall of darkness.

In the streets nearby, there were bakers and bar-keepers, a dentist and a clergyman and many more who would all tell their stories in the days to come. For now, though, none of them can have imagined what they were destined to see.

Debrief

Big Week went well for the 305th. They deployed 300,000 tons of munitions for the loss of seven aircraft. Even the Alborg sortie, with a zero bomb-count, could be judged a success, since it prevented the interception of the raid on Rostock.

Two planes didn't make it back from Denmark. 42/31409 went down into the sea, its engines crippled by sustained enemy fire. Mi Amigo also took heavy damage, but Kriegshauser resisted the Focke Wulfs' efforts to isolate his craft from the main formation. The plane was still airborne when the Germans fell away, with ammunition and visibility compromised. She was by now well out over the North Sea, heading west in dense cloud.

Observers from neighbouring aircraft later gave a consistent, if detached, account. For whatever reason, Mi Amigo could not effect radio communication. More than one of her engines was misfiring, and her skin was in tatters. She was having difficulty maintaining altitude, and soon began to fall behind.

There was no effective way to assist a bomber in this situation. Its crew could not bale out over water, since they would die of hypothermia within minutes if they entered the sea. The first battle was simply a matter of regaining land, and after that it would be down to luck and the skill of the pilot. The squadron leader did all that he could, by assigning one plane to try and nurse Mi Amigo home. That done, he lead the rest back to Chelveston at full speed.

Mi Amigo was now almost alone. An hour before, the clouds had probably saved her. Now they became her nemesis. A tight escort was impossible because of the risk of collision. The nursemaid lost the stricken B17 some five hundred miles off the English coast, and, after a few minutes of tentative patrolling, the search had to be abandoned. Mi Amigo, it was assumed, had lost her struggle, and had plunged into the cold sea.

Hourglass

Mi Amigo did not crash for another four hours. What happened in the intervening time will never be known. We can only try to piece together John Kriegshauser's dilemma from the known facts.

At some point, she went off course, her flight ending a hundred miles north of her home base. This suggests that her navigational equipment was disabled, and possibly that the two crewmen in that area of the aircraft (the navigator and the bombardier) were incapacitated. The condition of the rest of the crew is unknown, though the fact that enemy fighters appear to have been able to sit on her tail and strafe her engines might mean that the tail-gunner and ball-turret gunner had also been lost.

Kriegshauser must have been aware of another aspect of his crew's welfare, too. The six men behind the cockpit of a B17 were exposed to severe cold when flying at altitude (in fact they wore electrically-heated suits for this reason). Waist-gunners in particular sometimes literally froze onto the aircraft's fabric, and so injured men who could not support themselves were prone to suffer a horrible death.

Mi Amigo's pilot may well have been faced with a dreadful choice. For the reason above, he would have wanted to fly at low altitude in warmer air. The damaged engines, on the other hand, might have denied him the power to ascend, so that the height he started with would be all he could ever have. We can surmise that the approach to the English coast was a slow, and perhaps irresistible, descent.

The condition of the engines may also explain why Mi Amigo flew so far inland (around a hundred miles) without apparently trying to make a landing. The weather conditions give a further clue. Though it was still daylight, cloud cover was complete down to about 500 feet. Kriegshauser probably judged that he would have insufficient power to abort a blind approach, and so chose instead to fly on for as long as he could, hoping that the cloud would clear. It never did.

SK329858

This is the Ordnance Survey grid reference of the place where Mi Amigo came to earth. It's also the partial name of Kemplen's exhibition.

The artwork is diverse, all of it beautifully judged and executed, all of it deeply touching.

There are playing cards, a perfect symbol of the lives of young men wiling away hours on the very brink of fate.

There is the ten of hearts, each spot a portrait, and almost too much.

Chaos

It was just before five o'clock in Endcliffe Park. Youngsters chased their football in the failing light. They heard her before they saw her.

Some accounts say that the aircraft tried to put down in that tiny green space, but that the pilot pulled up the nose when he saw the children, and hit the hill instead.

Some say that it circled, that it rolled, that it clipped the trees even as it broke the cloud. Some say that the engines stuttered at the last.

This can't all be true, and yet none of it really matters. All that can be said for sure is that photographs prove that the aircraft was pointing down the hill when it crashed. If Kriegshauser's last act was to save the footballers, he carried it out by bringing the plane down too soon, rather than by over flying the field.

Mi Amigo shed her tail, and slewed to a halt among the trees, her wings and fuselage more or less intact. Fire broke out internally, but for the first couple of minutes the astonished onlookers were able to draw close. The children were shooed away, since at least one man's corpse was thrown clear, though no public record identifies him.

Some observers describe cries from within. Some say that they begged for help, and others that they pleaded with would-be rescuers to get away. One young Sheffielder said he tried to pull an airman clear, but the man's legs were trapped and the flames consumed him.

Nobody seems to have considered the possibility of live bombs on board. It was only once the fire took hold, and ammunition began to crack and whine, that the huddle of people on the hill dispersed in search of shelter. The inferno, when it came, was shocking in its intensity. An hour after the crash, as the last natural light faded away, the remains of Mi Amigo were ashes and blackened shards of metal, and all hope had gone.

Legacy

There is an annual service on the Sunday closest to 22 February. Wreaths are laid at the crash site. The service is read in St Augustine's at Brocco Bank. The anniversary is kept by the Royal Air Force Association.

Jeff Hawkins was one of the young electrical apprentices at Fred Nichols'. His account is especially coherent and eloquent. He describes the immediate aftermath but also the scene three days later, when the authorities re-opened the park and children combed the slope for souvenirs. The clearance of debris seems to have been slapdash, for Jeff himself recovered a broken watch, stopped at two minutes past five, and someone else found a misshapen signet ring. The stream at the bottom of the bank yielded a pair of flying goggles.

Charles Tuttle, Harry Estabrooks and Maurice Robbins still lie in the American Military Cemetry at Madingley, Cambridgeshire, along with nearly four thousand of their countrymen who gave their lives in the defence of Europe between 1942 and 1945. The other seven were interred here briefly, too, but their remains were later reburied in the land of their families.

There are at least two h2g2 Researchers, one American and one English, who possess a copy of David Harvey's little book. This Entry can't add anything to that account, and it might never have been written, but on the evening of 5 November, 2005, the Englishman drove past Endcliffe Park, and there were trails of fire and showers of sparks in the sky above the fateful hill.

Eulogy

John Kriegshauser DFC was an unassuming young man from St Louis, with a job in a shoe factory, a 1936 Ford Sedan and a fiancée called Peg. His letters show that he believed in the cause he fought for and he knew the risks he took. He fought to save his aircraft and his friends until the very last.

Nowadays, the schoolchildren of Sheffield learn about Mi Amigo, and about John's sacrifice, and the sacrifice of many others like him. The city's vitality, manifest in its children, is part of their legacy.

It was a terrible war. The destruction wrought by allied bombing should never be forgotten, but the picture sometimes painted of a merciless toll inflicted on German cities is not the whole story. Big Week opened the floodgates, it's true, but the price of ascendancy was paid by thousands of young airmen before it, and by no small number afterwards.

At the time of writing, it's the onset of winter in Sheffield, making the copse on the slope cold and grey and a little eerie. There were no children there today, as the light faded like it did on that evening half a century ago. Mi Amigo was there, though. Her presence can still be felt.

How many places like this must there be? Nothing about this story, neither the aircraft nor the place, is unique. Nothing about it is even unusual. All of this happened so many times that we become numb to it.

But we shan't forget. Not now. Not ever. Let Mi Amigo stand for what we should aspire to and for what we must never repeat, an enigma for all time.

[bobbysocks]

eyewitness...

On a mission to Merseberg (No 146) on Nov 8th, 1944, two planes of the 457th mysteriously collided while in formation. One of the planes was s/n 42-38064 named "Arf & Arf" piloted by Lt Arnet L Furr. The other plane involved in the collision was s/n 44-8418 named "Bad Time Inc II". The pilot of Bad Times Inc II was James Elduff. The copilot of "Bad Times Inc II" was Lt James Jenkins, Jr.

The official account says that "Arf & Arf" was cut in two by "Bad Time Inc II". The two portions of "Arf & Arf" spiraled into the sea with no survivors. "Bad Time Inc", while badly damaged, was able to return to base and flew again only to crash land in Belgium while on a mission to Euskirchen several months later

In the June 1991 issue of the Association Newsletter is a letter written to the Association by George Crockett regarding this incident. It is published here in it's entirety.

"Reading Lt Jenkins (Copilot on "Bad Time Inc.) article in a previous issue of the Newsletter brought back many vivid, but sad memories. I remember sitting across from Warren Rankin and Leroy Wetzel at breakfast on the morning of Nov 8th, 1944. It was to be the last time we would eat together or see one another. Our mission was to be the Luena synthetic oil plant at Merseberg. Fourteen of our planes were assigned to it. We had already crossed the channel when we were recalled due to bad weather.

As we were returning over the coast, we were met with a "flak" barrage and flew through it without any apparent damage. We were flying above and to the left of Lt Elduff. I was the right waist gunner on Joe Coleman's crew "Rattle Snake Daddy". Lt. Furr's, "Arf & Arf" was to the right and below Lt Elduff's "Bad Time Inc.". As I looked down on Furr's plane, I waved to their left waist gunner, and he waved back. As I watched, they started edging closer and were climbing closer to our level. At the time I thought they were just tightening the formation but they suddenly climbed up and under Lt. Elduff and hit him. The next thing I saw was "Arf & Arf" in two parts plumeting towards the water.

Contrary to the account in Col. Byers "Flak Dodger", one chute did open. We were instructed to 'hold position'. Joe (our pilot) said "To hell with you, I'm going down" and we went. We were going to try and drop a raft. We made two passes about 30 feet off the water and managed to drop a raft near him, thanks to Tom Crowley (our bombardier) who was calling the shots. The man in the water was Glen Wisdom. He made it to the raft and waved. We thought he had been saved but could not get any information on him. As we left the area, there was a swarm of fighters circling over him and the "flak" started up again trying to reach them.

It was hard to return to our hut and find their bunks empty and their personal effects gone. A lot of us cried to ourselves that night. We were given a 48 hour leave and found ourselves drowning our sorrows in London. When we got back, there was a new crew in their bunks and business went on as usual. There were two other survivors from that crew. Ed Rambler had left the crew a month before and Sgt Ramoe went to the hospital with severe abdominal pains the night before. He was replaced by Sgt Brunsvold, flight engineer. Joe must have caught "hell" for doing what he did but I thought he deserved a medal."

[bobbysocks]

Ken Blakebrough Lutzkendorf


On my first mission, the airstrike against Schmalkeiden, I encountered a minimum of anti-aircraft fire (flak) and a solitary enemy fighter attack which was repelled. This experience left me with a confident feeling that there was a chance to survive the required 35 missions. My optimism was shattered when I flew my second mission on February ninth.

This time the target was an oil refinery at Lutzkendorf in eastern Germany. In the briefing room the curtain was removed from the large wall map showing a deep penetration flight into Germany of nine hours duration. We were warned to expect heavy flak plus aggressive fighter attacks. If shot down we were reminded to avoid capture by the now increasingly enraged German civilians. Clear weather was predicted at the target with a deterioration to heavy clouds on the return flight.

In the equipment room I checked out a parachute a flotation vest and, for the first time, took an electrically heated suit which was of a coveralls type and activated by plugging its cord into an electrical unit in the cockpit. The choice of the suit was a mistake. When I tried to use it in the severe cold at high altitude I found a problem with its heat distribution which required me to frequently adjust its temperature.

Takeoff and Group assembly proceeded as briefed and we joined the long stream of bombers heading toward Germany.The long flight to the target area was uneventful. Our plane and the eleven others in the low squadron of the Group maintained a good tight formation. Ahead of us I noted the lead and high squadrons were also keeping a good formation. We reached the Initial Point.

The bombing run began. As we closed in upon the target, bomb bay doors open, we were suddenly engulfed in a barrage of black, hour-glass shaped, bursts of heavy and accurate flak. A shell exploded near my right window sending metal splinters through the plane's thin fuselage and into the cockpit. My first reaction was that I must be wounded but there was no pain, no sign of blood. I turned to look at Ralph and Peschan but neither of them complained of wounds. It was a close call for the three of us.

The flak continued during the course of the bombing run. It seemed as though any second we'd be blown out of the sky. Finally, the plane gave an upward lurch as the bombs were toggled out by Steve in the nose compartment. This was followed by a yell over the intercom by Beran, "Let's get the hell out of here." An outcry which he made thereafter on every mission as the bombs fell away. It also meant he and Steve were removing their masks and lighting cigarettes from which they would alternately inhale smoke, then switch back to their masks to inhale oxygen. This was their way of smoking in an unpressurized plane at an altitude of 25,000 feet, five miles above the earth.

An overcast of heavy clouds developed and continued to drop lower on the long, and what I felt was tediously slow and stressful, homeward flight.

When we crossed the English coastline the formation spread out due to the clouds and fast approaching darkness and we soon found ourselves separated from the other planes. Within minutes it became too dark to use ground references to navigate. We were forced to fall back on "dead reckoning", an inexact system wherein we followed a compass heading given us by Beran based upon his best estimate of our present position in relationship to the airfield at Glatton. As we flew this compass heading which would in theory bring us to Glatton, each crew member was assigned to a window as lookout for other planes, hopefully to give sufficient warning against collision in the dark and plane-filled sky.

The flight continued for some time, altitude 1,000 feet. Then, we glimpsed the dim outline of runway lights of an airfield below us. A hurried discussion between the cockpit and the navigator. Yes, it was agreed that we had flown sufficient time via "dead reckoning" to place us over the Glatton airfield. We started to fly a counter-clockwise landing pattern, landing gear down. Suddenly another B-17 loomed in front of us. Ralph yanked back on the control column to avoid collision. I held my breath, prepared for a fatal collision, it seemed there was no way to avoid a crash. We missed but it had been very close.

We turned on a final approach to the runway. Too late to contact the control tower now. The altitude gained during the effort to avoid collision was making us come in too high, too fast and slightly to the right of the runway. I hit the full flaps position just as Ralph chopped the throttles all the way back to idle speed, we had to lose height and speed otherwise we would overshoot the runway. The plane settled to the runway, bounced, then stayed down in a full three-point stall. The end of the runway was in sight. Full brakes applied with the hope we wouldn't nose over. The plane stopped rolling at the very edge of the concrete. Ralph and I were momentarily exhausted. We slumped on the dual control columns and breathed deeply.

We started to taxi, looking for our parking hardstand. We saw other B-17s parked adjacent to the taxi strip, but something was wrong. These planes had the insignia of a triangle enclosing the letter "S" on the high dorsal rudder rather than our own triangle "U". We'd landed at the wrong airfield. This was Deenethorpe, home of the 401st Bomb Group.

In view of the weather conditions there was no question of a takeoff and attempt to find Glatton that night. Before we left our plane I pocketed several of the jagged-edged shell fragments lying on the cockpit floor. After we were served dinner, a truck from Glatton picked us up.

The Lutzkendorf mission was an awakening for me. Enemy anti-aircraft fire and the German Luftwaffe were not our only perils. Both the severe English weather with resultant lack of visibility plus the crowded skies were also our enemies. How to survive 33 more missions?
How?

Note: The name Lutzkendorf no longer exists on a map of Germany, The area is now known as Krumpa.