In their own words...

[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.

[Korsakov829]

The Polish airforce have some good pilots, although I can't say much for planes. They flew Spitfires in England but in the begining, they all were like the Soviet I-16 and I-153 in a way, only worse.

[Gilly]

Originally Posted by Korsakov829

The Polish airforce have some good pilots, although I can't say much for planes. They flew Spitfires in England but in the begining, they all were like the Soviet I-16 and I-153 in a way, only worse.

They actually flew hurricanes when they arrived. Which was about the same time as Russia was dividing up their country and shooting most of their military. And in what way were spits like I-16's and 153's, only worse?
And do me a favour, look up Frantisek, see how badly he did in his short time in the seat of a hurricane.

Apologies Bobby for marring your thread but this sort of xenophobic rubbish anoys me especially within a thread that is dedicated to preserving the memory of these few true heroes.

[Korsakov829]

I meant the Polish planes, you know? Those things made of tinfoil, wood, and strings. The Polish had good pilots, but their own planes were bad. The PZL P7 is similar to a I-153, only its a monoplane.

[bobbysocks]

not my thread just started the ball rolling...anyone can contribute. the russians used hurris and p 39s at the onset like 40 and 41. they dug one out of a bog years ago along with pilot. not sure where all the battles were at that time but theoretically it is possible for a hurri with a red start to have been over stalingrad. now whether one did or not i wont even venture a guess.

[bobbysocks]

veteran's day is coming up so...

Mark Stepelton
Normandy Invasion

I was a young Fighter Pilot flying with the famed 357th Fighter Group stationed at Leiston, England. Our main mission was to escort the 8th Air Force Bomber Force on missions deep into Germany. We flew the greatest fighter plane of World War II, the P-51, Mustang. Our performance was outstanding.

We had flown many combat missions prior to June 6, 1944, during which time we had saved thousands of lives of Bomber Crews on long combat missions over enemy territory. Our fighter crew losses were serious and we all wondered when the Invasion would take place. Upon returning from a combat mission on June 4, 1944, we were told that our P-51s would be in a grounded condition temporarily. Little did we realize the magnitude of coming events.

Our ground crews began painting white stripes on the wings of our Mustangs and even then we didn't realize those stripes would soon be recognized as "D" Day stripes. The purpose was for our ground troops to easily recognize our aircraft as friendly planes.

When not flying, our favorite meeting place was the Officers Club, so it was there, at about 9:00 P.M. or 2100 hours military time on June 5th 1944, that an announcement was made that all combat flight officers would report to the Group Briefing Room immediately. Of course, the excitement was tremendous. No previous combat briefing had created this much attention, even our first mission over Berlin, Germany.

Identification was required at the Group Briefing Room and one could feel that something tremendously vital to us was about to take place. We were seasoned combat pilots by now and had seen many fine friends lost in combat. We felt confident in our abilities as fighter pilots to succeed in any mission assigned to us.

We were called to "attention" as our Fighter Group Leader entered the briefing room. He immediately requested the Intelligence Officer to first brief us about the "Top Secret" aspects about the mission we were about to hear.

We were sworn to secrecy. We were not to tell our ground crews or talk to anyone. Phone calls were "off limits." Our Group Commander then made a very terse announcement that we had been assigned to fly cover for the greatest of all combat missions, the "Invasion of Europe" by our combat ground force enroute by sea. This mission would be called "D" Day and to begin during the early hours of June 6, 1944.

I well remember a feeling of supreme excitement, similar to the feeling I'm now experiencing as my mind races back to those indescribable events. We were all young men who, a few years before had never dreamed of being given such a vast responsibility. Our assigned mission was to protect the Normandy Beachhead from attack by German Fighters. The ground combat troops would be asked to invade France against seasoned German Troops. Only a few of our ground troops had combat experience and needed to be assured that the only aircraft above them would be friendly.

The Group Commander ended the briefing by stating that we should retire soon as possible because a specific mission briefing would be held at our Squadron briefing room about 2:00 AM. How could we possibly sleep with such a tremendous mission soon to be our responsibility? I couldn't sleep. I laid down on my cot, fully dressed in my flight suit and sought the help of our Lord Jesus Christ. I prayed for the safety of the thousands of young men in ships, waiting for the signal to board their landing crafts. I had no thoughts or concerns for my safety, I already had 38 combat missions.

I didn't look at my watch when an officer entered our room and quietly told us to report to the Squadron Briefing Room immediately. Now the excitement was beyond description. Only combat pilots were allowed at this briefing. The Squadron Commander (The worlds best) Lt. Col. John Storch of Long Beach, California, gave us individual assignments in specific areas along the Normandy Invasion Areas. We noted that a light rain was falling and the sky was very black, however, all of England was on a "blackout." Due to weather conditions, we would fly to our assigned areas in pairs. My great buddy, Captain Leroy Ruder from Nekoosa, Wisconsin, would be my partner. Of course, you realize that a P-51 Mustang holds only one person, so we would take off in pairs and be on our own from the moment of takeoff.

After synchronization of watches, we received our assigned "start engine" time. We raced to our revetments where our planes were parked and sporting a new set of white stripes on the wings. I carefully checked my plane which I had named "Lady Julie." She was no lady. My Crew Chief and Armorer knew that something extremely important was about to happen because we had never taken off at this time of the night. No questions were asked and the only comment made to me by my Crew Chief, as I sat strapped in my Mustang, patting me on my back he said, "take care of yourself."

Waiting for "start engine" time always allowed time for reflection of your lost buddies, and fond memories of times back home. I was never afraid of being shot down. Previous "dog" fights had given me self confidence. The sound of Rolls Royce Merlin engines of our P-51s barking as they were energized, jolted me back to realization of the job ahead. Captain Ruder began taxiing to the takeoff runway ahead of me. The nose of the P-51 is so long that it was necessary to "s" turn the aircraft in order to observe the aircraft ahead of you.

We finally reached the area of the takeoff runway, turned the aircraft so as to avoid damage to the plane following you and went thru the "takeoff" check. My engine roared to a high pitch, sweet sound found only in the Merlin engine.

Rain now was rather severe. No turning back due to bad weather on this mission. Captain Ruder taxied to takeoff position and I joined him on his right side. He motioned to me with a forward motion of his hand and with full throttle we raced down the runway and up into the black night. Captain Ruder turned out over the North Sea and headed southwest toward the greatest event of our history, the "D" Day Normandy Invasion.

Captain Ruder was an "Ace" and a very fine fighter pilot. He was one of those pilots who was extremely confident of his capabilities and was not afraid of anything. We timed our approach to arrive over Normandy before dawn. We dropped down from our flight altitude to a very low altitude as we began our patrol. NO GERMAN FIGHTER PILOT WOULD APPROACH THE LANDING INVASION AREA OF OUR RESPONSIBILITY.

As dawn slowly arrived, we could see the vast armada of ships heading toward Normandy. A sight that is etched in my memory for all the days of my life. I prayed hard for the safety of our invading troops. I cannot begin to describe the picture before my eyes, so vast and powerful looking. Large Battleships firing toward shore.

After about four hours of patrolling, Captain Ruder called me over the radio to state he had been hit by ground fire and was going down. We were not in close formation. He crash landed and died soon thereafter. The loss of my friend, Captain Leroy Ruder was so shocking because it happened so fast and it was beyond his ability to avoid. I now patrolled alone with a very heavy heart.

Captain Leroy Ruder, a very brave and experienced pilot, always extremely aggressive against German Fighter pilots, now lost his life during the early phase of "D" Day. He was the only Fighter Pilot in our Fighter Group and the entire 8th Fighter Command to lose his life on "D" Day.

Finally, as my fuel became dangerously low, I returned to our base at Leiston, England. I had logged the longest combat flying time of our pilots on the first mission and could barely climb out of my cockpit.

The cockpit of a P-51 Mustang is very confining and not a place for anyone who is claustrophobic. I was the last fighter pilot of our Group to arrive back at our home base from that momentous first mission.

After debriefing, I went directly to my barracks and slept for two hours. I was awakened by an announcement that we should assemble at the Squadron Briefing room in 45 minutes. I had not undressed and was still in my flight suit. Even though I was extremely tired, the excitement of this great day dept us young pilots living on adrenaline. At the Squadron Briefing, we learned that we would patrol back of the German lines behind the "beachhead" and to destroy anything moving toward the front. About an hour later, we were back in our P-51's for an "Area Support" mission on this great day.

We located a train moving toward the invasion area. We circled the train at a very low altitude, knowing that anything moving was the enemy. The engineer had pulled the engine into a tunnel, leaving the passenger cars exposed. While making a circle, our engine noises alerted the German troops who flooded out of the cars into the area next to the cares. We knew what we had to do, so these German combat troops never reached the invasion area.

After several hours of patrolling at low altitudes, we returned to our base at Leiston, England. I was totally exhausted as my Crew Chief helped me climb out of my cockpit. Now it was dark and raining. After debriefing, all I could think about was sleep. I had logged this combat mission at 5:25 hours, some what less than my first mission. The combat troops in the invasion area had no place to sleep.

This is the first time, I have attempted to write about the most important day of my life which is so deeply etched in my mind. While our job was exciting and dangerous, EVERY AMERICAN OWES GREAT HONOR AND THANKS TO THE VERY BRAVE COMBAT TROOPS WHO HAD THE TREMENDOUS RESPONSIBILITY OF ACTUALLY INVADING INVINCIBLE EUROPE CONTROLLED BY GERMANY UNDER THE MAD MAN, HITLER. WE AMERICANS CANNOT BEGIN TO THANK THOSE TROOPS ENOUGH. JUST VISIT THE AREA ABOVE OMAHA BEACH, WHERE THOUSAND OF AMERICAN SOLDIERS ARE RESTING AND IT WILL TEAR YOUR HEART OUT.

[bobbysocks]

June 29, 1944 Rescue

Captain Mark Stepelton, 364th Fighter Squadron

This date, June 29, 1944, is one of the most memorable of my combat tour against the Germans. Our mission was called RAMROD, which meant we would provide fighter protection for B-17 heavy bombers who will attack targets in Leipsig, Germany. The target was heavily protected with flak and German fighters.

Arriving in the target area, German fighters attacked our bombers in force, trying to score victories. Our fighters followed the Germans leaving the main bomber force unprotected. After talking to crews of our bombers, pleading with us for fighter protection, a few of us climbed to the area where we could see activity. The few of us had split up. I destroyed a FW 190 and decided to escort bombers until my fuel became quite low, at which time I headed toward England.

Upon reaching our base at Leiston, England, I was immediately picked up and taken to operations where our Squadron Commanding Officer, Lt. Col. John Storch, announced that he had just received an urgent message that a B-17 bomber is down in the North Sea off Holland, where some German fighters are firing at the crew of ten men.

Col. Storch asked if I would refuel and immediately takeoff and receive flight instructions from our base locator section. I took off alone and was contacted by the English Air-Sea-Rescue unit for further directions.

As I approached the area where the aircraft was just slightly in view, I saw men in their dinghy's (small life rafts). As soon as the German fighters became aware of my approach they evidently thought that more than one of our fighters was enroute, because they immediately ceased firing at our crew and headed east toward Holland.

I remained with the men until I observed the Air-Sea-Rescue team approaching. I returned to my base at Leiston feeling that we saved the lives of ten bomber crewmembers. Between the Leipsig mission of 4:35 and the Air-Sea-Rescue mission of 3:10 hours, my total flight time for that date was 7:45 hours.


On July 14, 1944, near Lyon, France, I participated in a very important " Top Secret" mission protecting 8th Air Force Bombers while dropping supplies to the underground forces called the "Maquis". French underground forces caused serious problems for Germany by destroying many ammunition dumps and troop trains taking men and supplies to the German front. Some of our troops assisted the "Maquis." We dropped our troops (special) by parachutes at designated locations

Our Squadron (364th FS) was selected to protect at all costs the 359 8th Air Force Bombers who were dropping supplies via parachute from a very low level flight, about 500 feet. We were told that we must destroy any German Fighters who might report the "Maquis" activities.

My wingman, Lt Reed and I were attacked by 20 FW 190 German Fighters. A dogfight resulted at tree top level. As I got on the tail of two Fighters, they split up and I chased a long nose FW190 west and finally got close enough to fire a burst from my machine guns. My shells started hitting his aircraft at the tail and up to his cockpit. His aircraft hit the ground and exploded. I claimed that victory.

Our mission finished, we resumed our escort of the bomber force back to England. We were never given credit for that mission.

My flight time for that very important mission was six hours.

5. Disastrous Combat Mission, March 5, 1944

After a very long mission escorting Bombers to and from Berlin, Germany yesterday, we logged 5.5 hours and lost Mederious, a Flight Leader. And now Flight Headquarters selected our 357th Fighter Group for another long mission. This March 5, 1944 mission was given the orders to attack targets in Bordeaux, France area, mainly the German Bombers that are devastating our shipping in the Atlantic Ocean. We encountered a vast amount of resistance from enemy ground fire and there was much fighter activity and at one point a pilot (ours) said, "Hi Fellas, I just got hit, and have to bail out." This pilot was Chuck Yeager. A new type long nose FW190 had got on Yeager's tail and shot him up. We searched the area to make sure that Germans had not picked up Yeager.

After some additional damage was done our commander, Col. Spicer said, "Lads, let's go home." I was flying Lt. Col. Hayes wing as we headed toward England. Col. Hayes was our Squadron Commander. It appeared that Col. Spicer had damaged his plane on the strafing runs and now announced he was having considerable trouble keeping his plane in the air and would have to bail out quite soon. The Colonel was over water, as we were, and we told him that we would request the English Air Sea Rescue to pick up the Colonel. He had gotten into his dinghy and was paddling out to sea. He was not going to give up. Lt. Col. Hayes ordered a flight to go to our base at Leiston, refuel and rearm and return to the area where Col. Spicer was down, so to give him cover while we waited for the Air Sea Rescue boats.

We were getting low on fuel so we had to return to Leiston. Upon arrival we expected to refuel and return to help cover Col. Spicer. Our Group Executive Officer had advised our Fighter Wing HQ, who refused to allow any of us to return to the area where Col. Spicer was down.

An International Red Cross message was issued for the Germans to pickup Col. Spicer. The Colonel became CO of a POW Camp in Germany. The Air Corp's lost the finest of all Fighter Pilots for the duration of the war.

Colonel Russell Spicer was so mistreated by the Germans that he passed away a few years after WWII. Our loss was great!