In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

heres one for buzz bomb about buzz bombs...

The buzz bomb season settled down late that afternoon. I was on the street, walking around aimlessly, when I heard a loud putter like a motorcycle. Suddenly the putter coughed and died. I had heard all about the V-1 buzz bombs from the pilot who had brought me over from France and I knew this buzz bomb was going to hit somewhere pretty close. You could sense that.
People stopped walking and stood rooted in their tracks. There came a kind of boom, then an ear-splitting roar. I felt the sidewalk beneath me move. Two blocks away I saw a building, lighted by fire, crumple into the street, and it seemed to me that tons of glass were crashing everywhere. There was something more terrifying about the robot pilot in a V-1 than there was when bombers came over with live pilots in them.There was an awful uncertainty...

An Englishman, who was standing mear me, said it was a good thing that D-Day came when it did of the Germans might have wiped London off the map with their buzz bombs. He said when the buzz bombs first started coming over, all the anti-aircraft guns in London would open upon them but after a week of this, the military decided not to shoot at them and maybe some of the bombs would go on past London, which they did. I was astonished at the casual way the Britisher talked. From his tone of voice, we might have been in the Savoy-Plaza Bar, having a Scotch-and-soda, and I wondered if we Americans would have stood up as well if the tables had been turned.

By this time the fire fighters, rescue squads, and the Home Guard were on the scene, and they all swept into action. I tried to do what I could to help but the English moved too swiftly for me. I walked back to my room at the hotel but not to sleep.

It didn't take London long to set up a good defense against the robot enemy. On later missions I saw great masses of balloons several thousand feet high in the air. These balloon barrages were centered southeast of London - between London and the Channel- and there was also a large concentration of guns placed in this area, which was known as "Flak Alley." This stretegy greatly eliminated the number of bombs that got over London.

The People were taking to the air raid shelters, as they had done during the blitz. In the early part of the afternoon the Londoners would begin making their makeshift beds in the shelters and in the corridors and stations of the subways. By 11:00P.M. one could hardly get on and off the subways for all the sleepers around.

We Americans tried to be pretty fatalistic about the buzz bombs. We wouldn't go to the air raid shelters. We figured sort of foolishly if our time had come, the bomb with our number on it would find us whereever we were - in the American Melody Bar or in the air raid shelter.

The night before I left London I had gone to bed early. I had spent hours at headquarters that day waiting to see the Colonel, only to be told nothing save to come back the following day. I was mortally knocking it off when the next thing I knew I was sitting squarely on my behind on the floor and there was the most awful rocking you've ever felt. For my money, the hotel was doing a Betty grable rhumba, and I clipped it down to the air raid shelter and spent the rest of the night there- to he**, with that stuff about your number being on it...

The buzz bombs seemed to pursue me. The next morning on my way to headquarters I could tell we were going to have an unwelcomed visitor. The people on the street were freezing up and waiting to see if they were going to have to fall flat on the sidewalk. Sure enough we had to fall flat, and it would have to be raining that morning.

The English showed a courageousness during the buzz bomb season that was unequaled by anyone else so far as my personal knowledge went. They'd go to work in the morning, not knowing if they'd have an office to work in, and in the evening when they started home they'd never know whether they had a wife or a home to come back to.

The uncertainty was far worse than when the bombers came over. The Britishers had warning then, but the buzz bomb was right there --bringing sudden slaughter, ravaged homes and buildings, and anguish and sorrow.

[bobbysocks]

TOP SECRET MISSION: PROJECT "ANVIL"
By: William W. Wells, 55th.FS, 20th.FG

It was one of those rare summer days in England, warm and sunny, August 12, 1944. On this day the 20th. Fighter Group flew two missions. The first one was east of the Seine River escorting B-17's on another bombing mission with our P-51s strafing their way back home hitting any moving form of transportation. The second mission, just east of paris, was similar to the first; bombing by heavies, fighter-bombing and then strafing targets of opportunity. Both were quite successful.
In the meantime, those pilots not on the main missions were on standby in their respective operations areas. About 4p.m., the phone in the 55th. Squadron Operation rang. Someone from Group Operations called to tell us to get a flight of four P-51's in the air at once and fly to a field called Winfarthing-Fersfield located about 15 miles southwest of Norwich, and about 60 miles east of Kings Cliffe. We were to report to a Commander Smith of the US Navy. Lt. John Klink and I with two other pilots (unknown at this time) took off as directed and reported to CommanderSmith, US Navy, at Fersfield for the mission briefing.

Commander Smith took us into the briefing room and closed the door. He began by saying that this mission was, next to the invasion of Normandy itself, the highest classified mission of the war. In fact it was 17 years after the war before the facts of this mission, called Project "Anvil" were made public. Needless to say, he swore all of us to secrecy.

Commander Smith told us of the extreme concern of the Allied High Command over the unleashing of the German V-1 and V-2 robot finds. For months, the Allies had made countless bombing strikes on suspected V-1 and V-2 launching sites without much success and yet with the loss of nearly 450 planes and 2,900 aviators. Some other means of stopping this onslaught was desperately needed.

It was for this reason that Project "Anvil" was conceived. The idea was to create a pilotless "drone" aircraft with some two tons of high explosives and, guided by remote control from another plane, send it crashing onto a launching site. This idea had previously been used in the Pacific Fleet where a specially designed drone had been loaded with explosives and directed against targets. Something bigger and more powerful was needed here.

Commander Smith explained how this Project "Anvil" was to be implememnted. He pointed out a PB4Y Liberator (B-24) painted all white parked on the side of the field. This he said, was our drone; but because of its heavy weight, it would have to have a pilot and co-pilot to take it off and get it set on course. After it was on course and before it reached the channel, the two pilots would bail out, leaving the PB4Y under the control of accompanying radio control planes.

He went on to tell us that the drone was loaded with 374 boxes, containing 55 pounds of Torpex each, and six Mark-9 demolition charges containing 100 pounds of TNT each. This came to 21,470 pounds of high explosives. He then told us of the other planes which were to participate in this project. The first plane to take off was an RP-38 photo ship, then a Mosquito photo recon ship, then two PV-1 Venturas, especially equipped with radio equipment, for guiding the drone. After this, the drone (PB4Y) itself would take off and finally the four P-51's. We were told to climb up and maintain about 1,500 feet above the PB4Y drone at all times until it was launched on to the target. We were then to accompany the PV-1's back to Fersfield base and report to Commander Smith.

At 5:52p.m. the aircraft proceeded to take off in their proper sequence. The drone leveled off at 2,000 feet; the photo planes went up to 15,000 feet; the PV-1's were also at 2,000 feet but about 200 feet on either side of the drone. We took our position at 3,500 fetand throttled way back, constantly turning so as not to over-run the drone.

The Nazi occupied island of Helgoland was the target, since this island was a proving ground and launch site for V-2 missiles. I'm sure all of the Allied pilots remember this island fortress in the North Sea. We drew flak from here every time we crossed the Danish coast.

The remote control system of the PV-1's and the drone were to be checked at five points. The first point "Abel" was over Framlingham, about 25 miles southeast of Fersfield. Then the drone would turn north to point "Baker" at Beccles, thence south to point "Charlie" at Clacton-on-Sea and on to point "X-Ray" near Manston airfield, wherethe PV-1s would take control and the two pilots would bail out. Then the drone would be directed to pont "Dog", about two miles south of Dover and thence toward the target some 350 miles to the northeast.

The drone and its control ships and the P-51s moved towad Checkpoint "Abel". Just before they reached Framlingham, the drone pilot signaled by radio that he was ready to conduct the first radio-control check. Point "Abel" was passed at 6:15 p.m. the group then turned left for point "Baker" over Beccles. We flew over Heveningham Hall, the home of Lord Huntingfield, crossed the Blyth River and could see the North Sea off our right wings. The tall tower of St. Michael's loomed ahead in the town of Beccles. At 6:20, the drone was over a field near the villages of St. Margaret and St. Lawrence. We, in the escort P-51's, were in a slow, lazy right turn and were looking right down on the drone directly below us. Suddenly it exploded in a searing orange ball of fire blowing us up into the air another 1,000 feet. A huge mushroom cloud boiled up to 25,000 feet and nothing remained of the drone or the two pilots.

We returned to Fersfield and landed. We told Commander Smith what had happened even though he could hear the blast and see the high cloud. He told us that, sadly enough, the same thing had happened the previous week to another drone. He also told us that the pilot, in this joint Navy-Army Project "Anvil", who had been on our mission was Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr., the son of the Ambassador to the court of St. James, Joseph P. Kennedy, Sr., from Boston. Young Joe was an outstanding flier and had volunteered for this mission knowing full well how dangerous it was. A true hero, he was awarded the Navy Cross posthumously.

Joseph P. Kennedy Jr was the brother of late US president John F. Kennedy

[bobbysocks]

not ww2 but pretty damn good...

Brian Shul, Retired SR-71 Pilot, via Plane and Pilot Magazine



As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the

question I'm most often asked is "How fast would that SR-71 fly?" I can

be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend.

It's an interesting question, given the aircraft's proclivity for speed,

but there really isn't one number to give, as the jet would always give

you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35

miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most

missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it

run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot

had his own individual high speed that he saw at some point on some

mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way,

and max power was in order. Let's just say that the plane truly loved

speed, and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn't previously

seen.



So it was with great surprise, when, at the end of one of my

presentations, someone asked: What was the slowest you ever flew the

Blackbird? This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was

reminded of a story I had never shared before, and relayed the

following:



I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England, with my

back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe

and the Iron Curtain, when we received a radio transmission from home

base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a

small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71

fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot,

and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see

the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem; we were happy to
do

it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we proceeded to

find the small airfield.



Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back

seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic

speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze.

Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had

a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we

were close, and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw

nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a

little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from the 325 knots we were
at.

With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said

we were practically over the field, yet there was nothing in my

windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in

hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile,

below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the

tower, in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet,

still day, with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to

give me indications that the field should be below us, but, in the

overcast and haze, I couldn't see it. The longer we continued to peer

out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the

awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my

flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As

I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart

stopped, and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full

forward. At this point, we weren't really flying, but were falling in a

slight bank. Just at the moment, both afterburners lit with a

thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was), and the

aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower.

Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of

fire-breathing titanium in their face, as the plane leveled and

accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer

than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of

ultimate knife-edge pass.



Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall

without incident. We didn't say a word for those next 14 minutes.

After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was

reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said

the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had

ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise

maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that

some of the cadets' hats were blown off, and the sight of the plan form

of the plane in full afterburner, dropping right in front of them, was

unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of breathtaking

very well, that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just

excited to see our low approach.



As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight

suits, we just sat there: We hadn't spoken a word since the pass.

Finally, Walter looked at me and said, "One hundred fifty-six knots.

What did you see?" Trying to find my voice, I stammered, "One hundred

fifty-two." We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, "Don't

ever do that to me again!" And I never did.



A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officers'

club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71

fly-past that he had seen, one day. Of course, by now the story

included kids falling off the tower, and screaming as the heat of the
jet

singed their eyebrows. Noticing our Habu patches, as we stood there
with

lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such

a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, "It was

probably just a routine low approach; they're pretty impressive in that

plane". Impressive indeed.



Little did I realize, after relaying this experience to my audience that

day, that it would become one of the most popular and most requested

stories. It's ironic that people are interested in how slow the world's

fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it's always a

good idea to keep that cross-check up -- and keep your Mach up, too.

[bobbysocks]

Top Secret Project Ivory Soap -- Aircraft Repair Ships
by Bruce Felknor

As 1943 ended, German forces had been defeated in Africa, and Italian troops were helping the Allies drive Germany out of their country. Operation Overlord and the Normandy landings were far advanced in strategic planning. Major planning efforts were under way to hasten victory in the Pacific.

The top-secret atomic bomb was a year and a half from its first test. In the Pacific Theater everything depended on conventional warfare, with B-29s bombers carrying the island-hopping war all the way to the Japanese home islands, with P-51s protecting the bombers.

One thing was certain: the invading aircraft would face a skilled and deadly foe in the air. Major damage to our planes was inevitable, but many of them would limp safely back to base. What then? No advanced air field had either the men or the machine shops and other facilities necessary for major airplane and engine repair and rebuilding.

Thus was born Ivory Soap, a secret project kept "classified" for more than a half-century. It is not even mentioned in the official history book "The Army Air Forces In World War II."

The idea arose in Air Corps staff meetings in Tunisia and Italy. It then went to Washington, where it was approved by the commander of the Army Air Corps, Gen. Henry H. "Hap" Arnold, and by the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Ivory Soap consisted of 24 ships and some 5,000 men drawn from the Army, Navy, and Merchant Marine. The ships were six Libertys and eighteen 180-foot freight/salvage (F/S) auxiliary vessels that were converted into floating machine shops and repair and maintenance depots. Their main "clients" would be B- 29s and P-51s but they could handle any other aircraft as necessary.

The Libertys were designated Aircraft Repair Units, Floating (ARUs), each with a total complement of 344 men. The Aircraft Maintenance Units (AMUs) were 187 foot long ships built by Higgins in New Orleans and had a complement of 48 men. The ARUs (Libertys) had shop space big enough to accommodate components of the enormous B-29s. The more numerous and smaller AMUs could handle the fighters. Because of their shorter cruising range fighters advanced bases had to be more numerous, and closer to the targets; so did their floating repair depots.

The ships were operated by the Army Transport Service (ATS), all of whose officers and men were merchant mariners. They were well-armed against air attack: each Liberty had a 3-inch 50 at the bow and a 5-inch 38 aft, plus twelve 20mms and two 40mms. Proportionately less firepower went aboard the auxiliaries. The guns were manned by Naval Armed Guard crews.

Acquiring the ships and getting them to the deepwater terminal at Point Clear, close to the Marine Air Technical Services Command at Brookley Field, outside Mobile, Alabama, began in the spring of 1944. Once in place, they had to be modified. For the Libertys this meant fitting them with machine tools, cranes, and all the elements of complete machine shops. Similarly, equipment for sheet metal work, fabric repair facilities. They carried a large inventory of steel, lumber, aluminum, and other materials to manufacture needed parts.

Facilities had to be built into the ships to accommodate two big R-4B Sikorsky helicopters on board. These were to locate downed planes, rescue their flight crews and passengers, ferry shipwrights and mechanics wherever they might be needed on the islands of the Pacific campaign, and to haul parts.

Each ship was also equipped with two motor launches and two DUKWs or "ducks," amphibious trucks for carrying parts too heavy for the helicopters. Divers were part of each crew, so room for their support equipment was also necessary.

Similar work on the 18 smaller maintenance vessels, which would be principally concerned with smaller fighter planes, went on simultaneously. When the ships were ready, so were their crews and repair teams. Selecting the men and training them for the unfamiliar parts of their new assignments took time. The mechanics and machinists had to learn rudiments of seamanship and swimming, including how to abandon ship if need be. The Assistant Commandant was C. E. Hooten, a Mariner, and other Merchant Marine Officers were part of the Army teaching staff at Point Clear

All Army technicians required marine survival skills before they could board the 24 depot repair ships at Mobile, Alabama in 1944

The Liberty ships selected for Ivory Soap were:

Original name Name as Aircraft Repair ship
Rebecca Lukens Maj. Gen. Herbert A. Dargue
Nathaniel Scudder Brig. Gen. Alfred J. Lyon
Richard O'Brien Brig. Gen. Asa N. Duncan
Robert W. Bingham Brig. Gen. Clinton W. Russell
Daniel E. Garrett Maj. Gen Robert Olds
Thomas LeValley Maj. Gen. Walter R. Weaver

Inevitably, the six hybridized Libertys were known as "The Generals." The 18 auxiliaries, each named in honor of an Army Colonel, naturally, were "The Colonels."

These ships returned hundreds of wrecked or seriously damaged B-29s and fighters to battle.

On October 1, 1944, SS Maj. Gen. Herbert A. Dargue sailed for New Orleans, then to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, to join a convoy through the Panama Canal. Once in the Pacific, she sailed alone, chugging along at the Libertys 10 knots per hour toward Eniwetok in the Marshall Islands. There the Dargue was ordered to Saipan, in the Marianas, where heavy action was about to begin. In November they dropped the hook in Tanapag Harbor near Saipan.

One of the ship's helicopter pilots, First Lt. Daniel A. Nigro, recently recalled some of their experiences in an interview with Sue Baker for the Air Corps magazine Airman at Wright- Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. (See her story online at Water Wings )

Nigro and his fellow pilot, John Halpin, flew repair personnel to airstrips on the island and returned with aircraft parts needing repair in the Dargue's shops. Frequently they would carry so many parts needing repair that they taxed the helicopter's capacity. "We did anything -- even taking off the 'copter doors--to lighten our load," he said.

While the Dargue was at Saipan her gun crew shot down two Japanese "Betty" bombers. They got another Japanese plane in May after they moved on to Iwo Jima.

The information in this article came to me through Fred M. Duncan, who was a 16-year-old merchant seaman when he found himself part of Project Ivory Soap. Now the survivors of that hardy band are in the seventies to nineties.

Small honors have been paid to them at last. The Air Force Museum at Dayton, Ohio, established a museum exhibit commemorating the ships and men of Ivory Soap.

A Memorial Plaque was dedicated there on October 3, 1997. Fred Duncan and other survivors from all three services--Army, Air Corps, Naval Armed Guards, and Merchant Marine assembled in a reunion at Washington, D.C., in October 1998.

[bobbysocks]

Col. Harold Rau Remembers
The 20th. Fighter Group

"...Some of the outstanding missions that I recall being involved with in the 20th. Group... well, of course the big show at Salsbury*, where we took off in the afternoon after the bombers had already been there and were on the way home. We were able to sneak in and pull off a pretty good strike on the airport at Salsbury and too also to shoot down a few krauts on the way in and the way out, and bang up a few locomotives.
We found out that the P-38 was a pretty good low-altitude airplane and from there on, up through D-Day, we concentrated very heavily on low-altitude attacks. We did alot of skip-bombing, dive-bombing, strafing and also some high-altitude bombing with the Droop Snoot..."

"One of the missions that stands out in my mind was a mission to skip-bomb a railroad bridge in the vacinity of Amiens, in France. We decided to go in over the coast at about 1,400 feet, which supposed to be a little too high for light flak and a little too low for heavy flak. We were rudely jolted out of this theory when we crossed in over the coast of France, down a little bit north of Le Harve, when we ran into some of the worst light flak that we had ever encountered. It was appearant that, as D-Day was approaching, the Germans had moved everything they could get their hands on into the coast so they could protect that part of their flank. As we drove in across the French Coast, the small-arms fire, the 50 caliber and 37 mm fire was pretty intense and all of us were getting pretty badly hit.

"E.O. Smith was flying as white leader in my group, my squadron, and he got hit. We each had a 1,000 pound bomb under each wing, 2,000 pounds all together. E.O. Smith got hit and caught fire in his engine, which of course was right over the 1,000 pound bomb. Somebody in his flight let out a shrill cry, 'White leader, white leader, bail out, bail out, you're on fire!' E.O. Smith, being the strong, clown Texan that he was simply came back, ' Alright, god d**n it, I know it.' About 30 second later the same shrill voice came over the R/T (radio telephone) again, screaming louder than ever, 'Bail out, bail out white leader, you're gonna' explode!' E.O. Smith came back, very calmly, "Alright god d**n it, I'm leaving.' And about that time he did.

The rest of the story is pretty well known, he bailed out and had his Texas grandfather's old 45 on his hip, he shot a couple of krauts when they came close to him...He escaped, evaded, got with the French underground and got back over the Pyrenees and eventually came back to rejoin his outfit again. His is one of my favorite stories of individual heroism of the war in that under the most adverse of circumstances he could be so calm and do everything as deliberately and quietly as he did."

"I remember one of the most colorful characters in the 20th., of course, was Jack Ilfrey. Jack's greatest stunt was, having gotten hit and bailed out while dive bombing and strafing south of the Normandy beachhead after the invasion. He bailed out and started to walk north with the idea that he would eventually get back to our own lines.

He stopped a young French boy on the road and traded everything he had for the French boy's clothes and his bicycle. He traded, among other things, his fountain pen, his watch, his money and his clothes, his parachute... he gave this all to the French kid and got on this bicycle dressed as a French peasant. He had a little blue beret on his head and he started pedaling towards the north. A German convoy came along and he latched on to one of the trucks and let them pull him for several miles up towards the front lines. When they got up close to the Front Lines, the truck stopped and the driver got out and grabbed Ilfrey off the bicycle, gave him a boot in the tail, said 'Get going Frenchy!' and took his bicycle.

In order to get away with not being able to speak French, Jack kept pointing to his ears and saying 'boom boom,' pretending he was deaf. A German doctor picked him up and took him to a German hospital and forced him to work there for several hours as an emergency man when they were bringing the wounded from the front. After he'd worked ther quite awhile, the German doctor gave him a couple packs of German cigarettes and a pat on the a** and told he to get going. So, Jack started north again, and eventually got through the German lines and up into the British lines, and identified himself. The British took him into their headquarters and eventually got him a hop back to King's Cliffe.

When he got back to King's Cliffe he was still wearing his blue denims, the funny little soft-soled shoes, the blue beret and blue shirt that he had gotten from the boy. I have a picture to this day of Jack as he arrived back on the base after this. Jack was one of the most daring and skillful and aggressive fighter pilots that we had

"Another of the really, truly great fighter pilots, and also one of the most individually courageous men I ever knew was Cy Wilson. Cy Wilson came to the group as the Squadron Commander of the 55th. Squadron while I was in command. Then, when I went home on emergency leave in July of 1944, he took over command of the group. The day I arrived back in England and hopped a ride back to King's Cliffe, I got out of the airplane and was met by Jack Randolph who greeted me with the news that Cy was down in the North Sea and people were trying to fish him out. Well, as it turned out the Germans beat us to it and they fished him out and he was a POW. I had the chance to see Cy after the war, when I was stationed back down at Langley Field. He came to my quarters and we sat out on the sun porch of my quarters for about four about four or five hours and, over a bottle of scotch, refought the whole war. We decided that, if it wasn't for us the whole thing would have been a total loss. Unfortunately Cy was later killed when he crashed a jet down in North Carolina** and he wiped himself and the jet both out.

Cy was always a cool head, no matter what happened. We had been strafing an airdrome in southern France. Cy's wingman got hit and knocked out an engine. The boy lost his head and completely panicked. He started screaming over the R/T, 'I'm hit! I'm hit! I'm gonna' die! I've only got one engine, I can't make it!'

Cy pulled along side of him and said, 'Shut up and fly your god d**n airplane!' The kid started screaming somemore, 'I can't do it! I can't do it! I've only got one engine!' Cy said, 'Alright, I'll cut off an engine too and we'll both fly home on one engine.'

So he did, deep in enemy territory, down on the deck, Cy very calmly feathered the corresponding engine to the one the boy had shot out and said, 'Now come on, get on my wing, we're going home.' He led him home and both landed safely cause Cy had the leadership and guts to do what it took to get that boy out of his panic and get him home."

footnote:

THE DROOP-SNOOT P-38

Largely the creation of Col. Cass Hough of Operational Engineering, the Droop Snoot was a P-38 converted to carry a bombsight and bombardier in the nose. Work on a prototype commenced at Bovington in January, 1944, the project being transfered to Lockheed at Langford Lodge for the major engineering needed. The aircraft's name was bestowed when someone, viewing the cut-off nose during modification, enquired as to the purpose of the "droop-snooted P-38." Changes involved all armament and associated equipment being removed from the nose, an escape hatch fashioned on one side, a plexiglas moulding fitted to the front, Norden bombsight and bombing fitting installed, together with a seat for the bombardier and oxygen supply. Tactical employment was planned whereby the Droop-Snoot would lead a tight formation of standard P-38s, all carrying bombs on the wing shackles, to make a high speed attack on heavily defended targets such as airfields. A mass drop would make on the Droop Snoot release in samilar fashion to the mode of attack used by medium and heavy bombers. Designed bombload for the Droop-Snoot was two 1,000 lbs. bombs, but a maximum of 6x500lbs. bombs could be carried. Successful trials were carried out from Bovington over Bradwell range using aircraft # 42-681184, while six other conversions were being made at Langford Lodge.


The first operational use of the Droop-Snoot was on April 10,1944 when 20th. and 55th. Fighter Groups used one each to lead formations. Droop-Snoots were subsequently employed by all for 8th.AF P-38 Groups and by the 56th. Group to lead P-47 Thunderbolts. Other conversions were made by BADA for the 9th.AF.

In July it was recommended that all but three Droop-Snoots be transfered from the 8th.AF, those retained being aircraft #42-104075 used by operational engineering, #43-28490 used for the Aphrodite Project, and the third used for the Dilly project.

[bobbysocks]

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

[bobbysocks]

Lt. William C. DuBose, "Evading the Enemy"

It was about 2 pm on Saturday, June 17, 1944. We were flying over the beautiful green wheat fields and farms of northern France. Our mission that day was to glide two eleven second delayed action, thousand pound bombs, into a railroad bridge, across the Somme River near Perrone. The purpose was to help cut the German supply lines leading to Normandy.

There were 48 of us on this mission. We were to take turns flying in elements of two about 100 feet above the water, release our bombs just as the target passed through our gun sight, pass over the bridge and make a sharp climbing turn to the left. Not far beyond the bridge the river swept left and on the right bank was a German airfield.

When our turn came, my flight leader Capt. Don Penn and I dove down and flew along the river towards the bridge. We could see French people atop the high banks waving and cheering us on.

Apparently we were only about 10 seconds behind the aircraft ahead of us. As we lined up on the bridge, one of the bombs from the previous P-38 went off in the water far short of the bridge and I could not help flying through the splash.

Don release one bomb instead of two so I quickly changed my trigger switch so I would also only release one bomb. My thought at that moment was that we were to make a second run along about 20 feet above the train. Then all hell broke loose. German flak positions on both sides of the tracks opened up on me. They couldn't miss. Shells flew through my wings and nacelles. Instantly I triggered my guns and dropped the bomb but it was too late. My plane was on fire and Don was screaming for me to bail out.

I pulled up, jettisoned the canopy, unhooked my seat belt and decided to go out over the top because smoke was pouring into the cockpit. After I pushed myself up into the slip stream, I was pinned against the back of the canopy hanging half in and half out of the plane. I couldn't move and just dangled there for a few seconds until my plane turned over into the dead engine and started down. A few seconds later I was pulled free. I saw the tail whip by and I pulled the rip cord. My parachute opened with an explosion and I saw my plane burning on the ground. I looked around to see where I was going to hit and tried to turn my chute so I would hit facing forward but it was too late. I slammed into a wheat field going sideways and broke and dislocated my right ankle and sprained my left. I hit with such force that my one-man dingy was popped loose and spread all over the area. I pulled in my collapsed parachute and unhooked my harness. We had been told to bury it but I did not have the strength so I left it there and crawled about 30 feet to a dirt road. At the top of a hedge row on the other side I could see German soldiers running from the village of Chaulnes towards my plane which had hit about 100 yards from where I had landed. I crawled back across the road and into the wheat field and headed towards some trees about a mile away. As I crawled towards the edge of the field I saw two German soldiers running towards me. I thought they saw me so I laid down. They got to the edge of the wheat field and turned down towards the road. Had they have run straight ahead, they would have tripped over me.

At this point, I decided it was too risky to crawl across an open field so I headed back to the hedge row on the side of the road and hit myself with leaves and bushes. I looked at my watch, it was 3:15 PM. As I laid in that hedge-row, forty German soldiers combed the area looking for me. A few came within five feet of me as they walked and drove along the road. Luckily they gave up after only a few hours.

As evening approached, I could see the lights of a farm house several miles away. I decided that would become my destination. I hadn't crawled very far before I realized this was going to be a painful task. My green summer flying suit gave little protection to my knees. Perhaps if I got to my feet and could find something to use as a cane, I could hobble to my destination. I saw a concrete power pole in the distance. I crawled to it and tried to pull myself to my feet. It was too painful. I could not put any weight on my ankles. I sat down, tore the legs from my flight suit and wrapped them around my knees. This gave me some relief.

As early morning light appeared my knees were bleeding and every movement was painful. I decided to sit on my back-side and push myself along backwards using my hands to propel me. I did this from early morning until late that afternoon.

About 5 pm I reached a dirt road near the outskirts of Chaulnes. Finally, a woman and her young daughter walked by. I got to my knees so they could see me and yelled, "I am an American." The woman was startled but kept calm. She grabbed her daughter's hand and pulled her along, apparently telling her not to look back at me or say anything.

Approximately 30 minutes later a man came walking down the road in my direction and seemed to be looking for me. I hollered at him and he came over, knelt down and spoke to me. Using my French-English translation card from my Escape Kit, I was able to show him sentences that stated that I was an American airman, shot down, injured, thirsty, hungry, and wanted to be hid. He was cautious and asked if I could speak German, Spanish or French. I was not able to speak any of these languages but from the little I had learned in high school, I could understand what he was getting at. He wanted to make sure I was not a German spy planted there to find out who were members of the French Resistance. He motioned for me to stay low in the wheat so I would not be seen, then he left.

Sometime later two teenage boys came looking for me. One motioned for me to crawl across the road and follow them. I got across the road but was not able to crawl any further. One of the boys helped me on his back and ran about 100 yards down the road to a driveway leading into a farm. His father was waiting for us with a wooden wheelbarrow. They put me on it and put an old piece of carpeting over me and wheeled me back to a barn behind the house. In the corner of the barn was a pile of grain. Somehow, they pushed me up and over the crest so I was hidden between the grain and the wall. I quickly fell asleep.

Hours later when it was dark, I heard voices below and could tell someone was crawling up toward me. They brought me a piece of bread and a bottle of water. After I had eaten, they pulled me down and took me into the house. I was taken to a bedroom on the second floor where we attempted to communicate. I do not recall how many people were there, but I do know they were concerned with my physical condition. One lady was from the local Red Cross. They called her, "Mademoiselle Rouge." There was nothing she or anyone else could do to help my ankle. They took what was left of my flight suit, my GI pants and shirt and gave me a sweat shirt and pair of pants to wear. I kept my wings and dog tags.

The next morning I was awakened and a man who could speak English appeared. He was a former World War I English soldier who had married a French lady and settled in France. They put me in his horse drawn carriage, told me to lie down so I was hidden, and I was driven about ten miles out into the country to his farm. He told me that their big beautiful home had been burned by the German occupation forces as they invaded France. They now lived in the servant's quarters nearby. There was not room for me in this one bedroom house which they shared with their daughter. They had cleaned out a chicken coop for me. Actually the chicken coop was adequate. It was clean, had a cot and an end table and the chickens next door were noisy but good company. While there I was made to stand and hobble around with a cane as soon as the swelling when down. I am sure they were concerned about getting me mobile as soon as possible and moved somewhere else. Both my legs were black and blue all the way to my hips.

Two weeks later I was transported back to the village of Chaulnes and put into the care of the Edward LeBlanc family. They lived on the main street about two blocks from the railroad station where I had tried to bomb that train. The downstairs front of their house was a store. Their living quarters were behind the store and upstairs. I lived in a bedroom on the second floor. During my approximate three week's stay with the LeBlancs the railroad yard was bombed by B-26 bombers. I was watching them fly over and saw and heard the bombs falling. Even with my bad ankles I ran down the stairs and out the back door to their slit trench bomb shelter. A piece of metal from one of the bombs when through the wall of my room. Numerous French civilians and German soldiers were killed or wounded.

The French had given me false identification papers and use the picture from my Escape Kit (we all carried out picture taken in civilian clothes, just in case we were shot down). My French name was Jean Pierre DuBose. I was supposed to be a friend of the family from the Normandy area who was deaf and mute, injured during the invasion of France. The LeBlancs had neighbors sympathetic to the Russians who visited quite often unannounced. They would bring their map of Europe and discuss the latest positions of the Russian and American fronts. The LeBlancs were not sure their friends should know they were hiding an American flyer so every time they visited I played the roll of a deaf and mute person.

The French insisted that I get out of the house occasionally to get some exercise. They got me a bicycle and we rode along the dirt road beside the flak positions so I could see my enemy. They also took me out to the hole in the ground where my P-38 had hit. I can assure you I was not enthusiastic about making these bicycle trips. It was more interesting to watch the 100 regular German troops and 100 SS troops who occupied this village and manned the flak positions march down the main street every evening singing German songs. I stood at an open window upstairs in the back of the LeBlanc's house and watched three or four German soldiers standing on a road just behind their yard. They saw me watching and yelled something. I had no idea what they were saying so I just stood there. One of the soldiers pulled out his pistol and fired at me. I got the point and moved away from the window!

I at a lot of boiled tripe, strawberry sandwiches and chicken. The sanitary conditions were not the best and a few days before I was to be moved to another family I got diarrhea. It made me very sick and very weak. However, the French school teacher who was to take care of me for the next few weeks showed up and we took off on our bikes. I was so weak I had to walk beside my bicycle and put it up any kind of incline. On one of our walks up a hill we were accompanied by a German soldier. My French school teacher friend and he talked all the way up the hill. I just played deaf and mute and was scared.

I lived with this family about two weeks and was told that I would be transported by car to another location. This time I was picked up by two members of the French Resistance. In the car was an American B-17 gunner ... my first contact in a long time with someone with whom I could really communicate. As we drove north through the countryside we saw a group of P-47s strafing. Our driver immediately pulled into a farmyard and parked under some trees. We all ran for the house. Shortly after we got into the house two truck loads of German soldiers drove into the yard and parked under the same trees. AS the soldiers ran for the house, my new B-19 gunner friend and I were told to run out the back and hide behind an outhouse near the edge of a field. We hid there for what seemed like eternity, watching the P-47s strafe on one side of us and the German soldiers milling around in the house on the other. Finally, the P-47s left, the Germans left, and we departed. We were taken to the apartment of a Madame Heller in the village of Billy-Montigny. She was the head of the French Resistance in that area. She was Australian and her husband a Hungarian photographer. They had been caught in France when the Germans invaded. Neither were French citizens but were forced to stay there during the war.

We arrived in time for dinner and were told we would be spending the night with a brewer on the edge of town. We were told to walk down the stairs to the street, turn right, go to the corner, cross the street and wait for a car to pick us up. We did this but no car showed up. We waited and waited. It was getting late, 8:45 pm and curfew started at 9:00 pm. Finally, a young man riding a bicycle showed up and motioned for us to follow him. He could see that I could hardly walk so he put me on the handle bars and drove several blocks and then told me to get off and walk straight ahead. he then went back to get my friend and in this manner shuttled us to the brewer's home on the edge of town. We were lucky no German soldiers were around or we would have been apprehended for being out after curfew.

Our new French host offered us food and drink. I was too scared to be hungry. The next morning we were awakened and given coffee and cognac and a tour of the brewery. Under the loading dock of his brewery was a secret entrance to an area where he had stashed hundreds of cases of champagne and a room where he kept his radio. Here he could listen to broadcasts from the BBC direct to the people of the French Resistance. Radios were outlawed by the Germans. Upstairs in one corner of his brewery were stacked hundreds of cases of empty bottles. His car was hidden behind them.

Madame Heller and her driver came by that afternoon to take us to our next destination. On the way we picked up a typical looking Englishman, mustache and all. Madame Heller tucked our wings and dog tags in her bosom. We came to a gate guarded by several German soldiers. The soldiers, the driver and Madame Heller spoke for a few minutes and finally the guards raised the gate and we drove through. My heart was in my mouth! Our destination was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Dernancourt who live in the city of Lens. Six other Allied airmen already lived with them. From that point on the nine of us lived together in the room above their store which was located on the main street of the city.

By day we played poker with our, "escape money", sunned ourselves in the brick courtyard behind the house, shared by a pig, or watched the activity of the German soldiers from the windows upstairs. We all picked out pretty girls on the street whom we would like to meet when we were liberated. We also helped prepare the meals. We ate a lot of soup which contained everything our hosts and their close friends could conjure up to put into the pots. We spent many hours grinding, peeling and stirring.

This is where I met Clifford O. Williams, a P-38 pilot from the 343rd Fighter Squadron. He had been shot down the same day that I got into the 55th Fighter Group. The nine of us consisted of two Australians, two Canadians, two Englishmen and three Americans. Madame Heller had also found places for about 14 other Allied airmen to live in the Billy-Montigny, Lens, area of northern France.

One evening while all of us were sitting around the dining room table eating, we heard a scream from the teenage girl who was minding the store up front. She came running back to warn us that a German truck with many soldiers had driven up and parked in front of the store. We all thought that some one had turned us in and we would be taken prisoners and the French people shot! As it turned out the Germans had stopped to take hostages. They made it a point to take a husband or wife from a family ... never both. This was shortly before we were liberated by the English 1st Army. The French were out every night blowing up bridges, killing German troops and cutting telephone wires. For several weeks, we could hear the explosions, see the flashes of light as the French Resistance did their thing... things like putting unexploded bombs into carts and dragging them under railroad bridges where they hoped they would eventually explode.

It was interesting to watch the German troops retreat. For several days before the English 1st Army arrived, the Germans came down the main street heading north in every conceivable mode of transportation imaginable... trucks, cars, bicycles, horses, horse drawn carts, tanks and on foot. This went on 24 hours a day. Finally the English 1st Army rumbled through with tanks and trucks and many troops. Everyone was waving and cheering, flags were flying and people were crying tears of joy. As the troops sped by they threw us cigarettes and candy bars but would not stop. When a convoy finally did stop we told them we were Allied airmen and needed transportation back to Paris. This was arranged but it took a few days. In the meantime we were treated as heros by the townspeople, were given a banquet and asked to march in a liberation parade. In the parade with us were French collaborators. The women collaborators had their heads shaved and they were kicked and spit upon as they marched along. The pretty girl I had picked to meet after liberation was one of those women!

We were eventually turned over to the American 1st Army and then transported to the Hotel Maurice in Paris. There the Evaders and Escapees were interrogated. Our false identification was taken and we were given clothes and a cold water bath, my first in three months.

Paris still had pockets of Germans but that did not bother us. As soon as possible, we were in the sidewalk cafes drinking champagne and trying to pick up French girls. We were then flown by C-47 back to London. I was put into a tent hospital north of London where I spent another month or so. Every V-1 shot toward London seemed to pass over this location - another very terrifying experience! I was flown back to the good old United States in November of 1944 and soon returned to my home state of California. Again I was put in a hospital where they tried to repair my ankle.

And you know, the irony of all this is that very few people understand why I like to watch WW II Air Force movies on TV and will not buy a Japanese or German car! Vive la France and God Bless America!!!!

[bobbysocks]

Leonard "Kit" Carson's account of the air battle of 14 January, 1945.


The 357th Fighter Group came to life by the clatter of the teleprinter machine in group operations, punching out Field Order 1515A from 8th Fighter Command, northwest of London, a hundred miles away.

The night watch at group ops scanned it and then the field phone and the one in our squadron orderly room buzzed lightly. The Charge of Quarters picked it up and heard, "Roust'em, the briefings in one hour". He then knocked cautiously at our door, as if he knew the hostility inside to being roused at such an uncivilized hour. In the blackest part of the January night we groped our way to consciousness, pulled on cold boots and stumbled to the mess hall through the half frozen mud that comprised the local real estate. The Nissan huts that were our home looked like igloo-shaped freighters floating in a sea of mud. The freezing cold was the wet kind that permeates the soul. The only thing good about the morning was that the weather wasn't as rotten as it could have been.

No one bathed or shaved after getting up. Sleep was more important and if doing something didn't make the missions shorter, improve the weather or your chances, why bother? All the amenities plus a combat ration of bourbon or scotch, administered by the flight surgeon, would come after the mission if you wanted it. Many pilots ate nothing before a mission except for the usual fighter pilot breakfast, a cigarette and a cup of coffee. Some believed that having an empty stomach made them more alert. Some believed if they were gut shot in combat, the likelihood of peritonitis was less on an empty stomach, if they got back at all which was unlikely in the event. However, I'll leave the medical truth of that belief to the experts. Who's going to argue with a man trying to shave the odds of survival in his favor?

Being a farm boy I ate everything in sight, because I had learned about the need of food to generate body heat when you're going out to work in sub-zero temperatures. None of the misgivings had anything to do with the Luftwaffe per se. Most of the pilots believed as I did, that, with the superb fighting machine we had in the Mustang, they couldn't lay a glove on us if we saw them coming. We made it our business to see them, that's what it was all about. Escort fighters were the defensive line backers, as in football, and you can't clothesline the opposition if you don't see them.

My first concern was of having to bail out or ditch in the North Sea in winter and dying of exposure. Nobody hates cold water more than I do. I've never taken a cold shower in my life if there was any other choice. If you didn't get out of the water into your dinghy within 20 minutes, death from exposure was almost certain. The near freezing water would take the body heat from you that quickly.

The second was bailing out and lying in a PW camp hospital with a broken back or a gangrenous arm or leg with drugs and medical expertise in short supply, or non-existent.

Third was of being massacred by the civilian population if I went down in the area of a heavily bombed target. It happened to others. I had no illusions about my reception by a hostile, overwrought mob of bombed out civilians, especially if I were standing next to a wrecked Mustang with 19 swastikas painted on its side. They weren't going to hand me any bouquets. The Geneva Convention and the Rules of War would be several light years removed. It could be a one-on-one gut level confrontation with a mob. That's the reason I carried my service Colt .45 and two extra clips of ammo.

After bacon, pancakes and coffee the pilots took the dirt path that had been scuffed across a small meadow and walked almost idly in clumps of 3 to 4 to group operations for the briefing. Small talk, the latest jokes, a lot of bull and some bitching passed back and forth, mostly about weather. The Army was recouping the situation i the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes, in the worst weather that Europe had seen in 30 years. For the past two weeks we tried to climb up through that crap, as much as 25 or 30,000 feet thick, picking up ice most of the way, only to have the mission scrubbed and ordered to return home. We lost 13 pilots that month, at least 6 of the losses were directly attributable to the weather. The P-51 was a fine weather airplane but if an inexperienced pilot panics, gets vertigo or collides with someone in that muck, nobody can help him.

The pilots were fed up with the morning scramble to get to briefings and then having the mission scrubbed, sometimes before the actual briefing started. Hurry and wait. Attitudes on the morning of January 14th were no different. As the 66 pilots of the 3 squadrons filed into the briefing room they were watched by Doc Barker, our group flight surgeon, checking for red eyeballs, sniffles, and bronchial coughs. I walked in with John Sublett and my wing man, "Hot Shot Charlie" Duncan ... both aces. Damned comforting to have an ace for a wing man. That kid's got his head screwed on real good and is a fine a shooter and rudder stomper that ever came down the pike. "Is it scrubbed yet?" "Nope still on." "Fraid so, the B-17s have already taken off, I heard'em forming up to the west as we came in."

The ominous red ribbon that marked our route and target ran eight feet across the large briefing map of Europe pasted to the wall at the rear of the speaker's stage.

"What's the Target?" "Berlin" "Dammit, I can see that." "Someone said Derben/Stendahl, but for you and me, that's Berlin" "All I need is one more trip to Berlin to round out my career in aviation" "What's at Derben?" "Snow and sauerkraut."

Briefing time. Over six thousand kids just out of their teens, but in reality light years away, and a few old timers over 30, in Mustangs and Fortresses were converging for a single purpose. The bombers had indeed taken off and a corps of crew chiefs, armorers and radiomen were in a last minute hustle to get the fighter escort off. The name of the village, Derben, at the end of the ribbon, really didn't matter. It was Berlin - in January.

The chances of evading the enemy and walking out if you were shot down that time of year were zero. The nearest friendly territory was occupied Denmark, but even that was a 250 mile hike from the target area. The chances of being mobbed and cut down by civilians, the SS, or a trigger happy private in the Wehrmacht were excellent. The chances of becoming a POW, with your skin in one piece, in that populated area were somewhere between mediocre and non existent. The best bet was to put yourself in the hands of the Luftwaffe, if you could spot an airfield on the way down. Failing that - well, be sure and take mother's little helper along in the shoulder holster. Wisely used, it could put some distance between you and any hostile parties on the ground and make the difference in staying alive.

"The target's probably a couple of forty pfennig outhouses." "Yeah, they'll think the sauerkraut backfired. It'll cause a national stampede." "That's our secret weapon." Talk. Just idle, nervous loose talk while you're standing by waiting for something to happen.

This was my 99th mission n a year, the 14th to Berlin. No sweat. The vital characteristic of the whole group was that they still had the "spirit of attack." If that spirit doesn't exist you're out of business. The fundamental characteristic of fighter action was at all times and in all places to be on the offensive, because only the fighter that attacks has the advantage. He was the hunter to avoid being the hunted. If he, or his airplane, could not perform sufficiently well to do this, then neither had any reason to exist. The pilot was trained and the airplane was designed to carry the fight to the enemy. The cavalry had sprouted wings.

We came to attention as the Group Commander arrive. Colonel Dregne had planned and was leading the mission. A congenial and thoughtful man, he'd fly all day and write papers on tactics at night and shoot them up to Fighter Command. He wasn't asking them, he was telling them how it was done. There had been no precedent for strategic escort against the Luftwaffe and we wrote the book, mission-by-mission, as we went along. Dregne had a strong intuition about how to put a fighter group in the right spot to clobber the opposition. The mission was to be a North Sea cruise over 300 miles of water to the coast of Denmark, avoiding land fall and flak to the last minute and then turning southeast to Derben/Stendahl just west of Berlin. The target was 180,000 tons of oil storage. The weather was clear over the target. The 357th was assigned the lead escort position to the 13 Combat Wing of Fortresses which was leading the 3rd Air Division column of B-17s. Within the 13th Combat Wing, the 95th Bomb Group was leading the whole force, followed by the "Bloody" 100th and the 390th. All three of these veteran groups had participated in the Schweinfurt ball bearing plant raids in October 1943 and the 95th had been the first group to bomb Berlin in March, 1944. We were at Berlin too, that day, as the first P-51 group assigned to General Doolittle's 8th Air Force. Now we were to rendezvous again west of Denmark over the North Sea. The intelligence portion of the briefing centered on the massed "company front" attacks by the Luftwaffe Fighter Command that could be expected. We were aware of this from previous missions but the reminder did no harm. In round numbers they would probably attack in groups of 40 to 50 Focke Wulf 190s or Me-109s, spread out in lines 6 or 8 abreast and coming head on to the Forts in wave after wave. There might be a few of the Me-262 jet fightgers which were 80 mph faster than the P-51s. They could be a problem. A general assessment of the air war did not reveal any tendency on the part of the Luftwaffe to ease up on their defenses. On Christmas eve 1944, General Doolittle dispatched 2034 heavy bombers and 1000 plus fighters over Fortress Europe, probably the greatest air armada that history will ever record. While escorting a part of that force into central Germany our group destroyed 31 Luftwaffe fighters for a loss of 3. On Christmas day we went to Kassel, just east of the Ruhr with no opposition in sight ... 5 hours sitting on that rock hard dinghy before pulling up to a government issue plate of turkey and cranberries. Riding the "point" position on escort today, we could expect to meet the first assault of the company front attack. Timing on our part was imperative. We had to be in position at the point of the column of Forts at all times. If they got into the column head on there would be no getting them out ... and they would most certainly be there. The weather was good over Germany and our line of flight was a clear threat to the Berlin area.

At the appointed time 66 airplanes came to life around the perimeter of the field. To anyone standing at the control tower it sounded like as if 2 or 3 new Merlin engines were born every second. The sun cut itself on the edge of a cloud and a shaft of light bled down-onto the field, giving some promise of relief in the weather. There's no chatter on the radio. There's nothing to talk about. The radio was for emergencies, enemy surprises, or if someone had to abort the mission. Otherwise stay off the air. Hotshot Charlie came puttering down the taxi strip and waited for me to pull out ahead of him - I was leading Blue flight so we were the 9th and 10th airplanes in sequence in takeoff position. Getting into the right position in the group gaggle of airplanes was easy. Once you're in the right sequence taxiing out, the chore of getting airborne into the right formation slot was only a matter of throttle and bending.

Once airborne, we settled back for the two hour haul to rendezvous with the Forts. A few of our Mustangs called in to abort and return to base. Landing gear won't retract, engine too rough, coolant hot. Once in a while someone had a slight case of flu that developed into stomach cramps, in that event there's only one thing you can do; abort and hope to hell you make it back before the pressure overcomes you sphincter valve. There are no toilets in fighters. When you get the cramps 2 hours from home base it's a crisis of will power. We did have relief tubes with a plastic funnel on the end to urinate in, but the residue would freeze and plug up the tube. The second time you relieved yourself on a long mission you were stuck with a plastic funnel of cold pee in your left hand while flying with your right. After another crisis of will power you drop it to the floor and hope that you don't have to get inverted in a dog fight any time soon.

We came up on the 3rd Division column of Forts with their red, black and yellow rudders clearly visible. Tooling on up front to th e13th Combat Wing, we found our three bomb groups. Once again we rendezvoused on time as briefed. Our good reputation was maintained; we had never missed a rendezvous. Colonel Dregne, as "Judson Red Leader" put his lead squadron of escort high over the 95th Bomb Group at 30,000 feet, my squadron on the right flank at 26,000 feet and the third squadron on the left flank at the same altitude. The division column of Forts was at 24,000 feet. Now for the wait. Everyone got their eyeballs focused into the distance waiting for those tell-tale specks on the horizon or condensation trail to show. We could see for 50 miles in that air. We turned right and headed southeast to Berlin They were tracking us and now they knew our intent. There was a Jagdgeschwader forming up out there somewhere (literally translated, a "hunting group" consisting of about 120 fighters). We would fight in pairs when they hit. That was a basic article of faith in American fighter training. Our group of 58 planes would break up into 29 pairs (8 had aborted with problems); a leader, who was also the shooter, and a wing man to cover his tail and back him up with another set of guns. After a year in combat we did those things intuitively. We hadn't been in escort position more that 30 minutes when the enemy force was sighted pulling condensation trails and approaching from Brandenburg. They were coming at us out of the sun at about 32,000 feet.

'JUDSON RED LEADER, CON TRAILS AT 11 O'CLOCK HIGH, ABOUT 100 OF 'EM" "JUDSON RED LEADER HERE, ROGER. DOLLAR, CEMENT AND GREENHOUSE DROP YOUR TANKS'

That was understood to be the order for our three squadrons to attack' no need for any other chit-chat. What was there to talk about? The moment of truth had arrived, this was where the propaganda stopped. It was time to clothesline the opposition and put some numbers on the scoreboard for our team.

'JEEZUS, LOOK AT 'EM COMIN'' "SHUT UP AND DROP YOUR GODDAMN TANKS'

Switch to an internal tank, punch the red button on top of the stick and away they drop; 116 wing tanks streamed fuel out the broken connections into the stratosphere as a prelude to the clash. It was a reassuring sight to the crews and gunners in the Forts. below. They knew we were spring-loaded and ready to go. Flick on your gun and camera switches. It all took 5 seconds. The head-on rate of closure was fast. The opposing force was about 60 Me 109s at 32,000 feet flying as top cover for 60 Focke Wulf 190s at 28,000 feet, which was the main attack group. The 190 group was spread in the anticipated "company front", flying 6 or 8 abreast and several lines deep.

Both fighter forces drove home the attack. We had not been pulling contrails at our altitude so they had no idea of our actual strength. The odds were 2:1 in favor of the Luftwaffe. My squadron and the one of the left flank met the FW-190s head on. Col. Dregne met the Me-109s with his high squadron. Our position and timing were perfect but we couldn't completely stop the first assault. Nothing but a brick wall could have.

"Hot Shot Charlie" had kicked his Mustang about four wing spans out to my right where he could see me in his peripheral vision and watch the 190s come in. He was waiting for my first move. We both fired as we met them and just a half second before the first wave passed. I hauled it around at full power in a steep, tight chandelle to reverse course and attack from the rear. At this point our three squadrons broke up into fighting pairs, a leader and a wing man. I closed to about 200 yards on a Focke Wulf and fired a good burst, getting strikes all over the fuselage and closed the range to about 50 yards. No long range gunnery here. Just shove all six guns up his butt, pull the trigger and watch him fly apart. I hit him again and he rolled to the right and peeled down and started a series of rolls which became more and more violent. He was smoking badly and the ship was obviously out of control. I pulled up and watched him fall. The pilot did not get out, in fact he didn't even release his canopy.

Duncan and I pulled back up toward the bombers when we saw another formation of 20 to 30 Focke Wulfs to our rear. Another P-51 joined up so there were three of us. We turned 180 degrees into them, it was all we could do. Pure chance had put us on the spot. We fired head on but got no hits. I popped maneuvering flaps and again with full power did the tightest chandelle with all the "g" force I could stand, probably about 5 or 6 gs. I fired at about 300 yards, getting strikes on the nearest 190 that was turning into me. He headed into me violently but evidently pulled too hard on the stick in the turn and did a couple of high speed snap rolls and wound up on his back with his auxiliary fuselage fuel tank perched upwards against the horizon. While he was poised there I hit him with another burst, pieces came off the ship and he began boiling smoke. He split-essed and headed for the deck. I followed until he hit the sod at a shallow angle, bounced in a shower of dirt and crashed; again, the pilot never left the ship.

I was by myself now, Duncan and the other Mustang having left to take care of their own fortunes. That's the way it was in a massive dog fight such as this; it quickly broke down into 40 or 50 private battlegrounds. I learned later that Duncan was busily engaged in the destruction of two FW-190s in another corner of the sky.

I climbed back up to 14,000 feet when two Me-109s with barber pole stripes on the spinners came by beneath me. The reson for the stripes was that we were up against Jagdgeschwader 300 of the Reich Defense Force located around Berlin. Neither one saw me as I dropped to their rear and fired at the closest one. They dropped partial flaps and broke violently away from my line of fire. I used my excess speed to haul back up and regain my altitude advantage. The two enemy ships pulled into a tight Luftberry circle but I stayed out of it. I made a fast headon pass at their defensive circle but got no hits. The bore of the cannon mounted in the center of the 109 spinner looked as big as a laundry tub in the brief instant that we met. The leader broke out of the circle and headed for the deck. I dropped down to engage tail-end Charlie as he too headed for the deck in a nearly vertical dive. All of a sudden he pulled it up into a climb and shopped his power, losing nearly all his speed. this was the old sucker trap maneuver that would put me in front, and him behind, in firing position. I kept my excessive speed and fire walled the Merlin and stated firing, closing the range down to 40 or 50 yards. I was so close that the 109 virtually blocked my vision through the windshield. I was getting hits all over the fuselage and as I pulled up vertically over him, a maneuver that he could not have followed at his low speed, his engine coolant system blew. Over my left shoulder I could see that he went into a tumbling spiral, out of control. Again, undoubtedly, the pilot was hit.

So ended the engagement for me, two Focke Wulf 190s and one Me-109 destroyed; 1050 rounds of ammo fired. Our group destroyed 57 1/2 enemy aircraft, that's an Air Force record that still stand today. We lost three pilots as the price of the victory. Things were not all that great, however, in the Combat Wing of Fortresses. One entire squadron of B-17s of the 390th did not return. The 390th "C" squadron was attacked by Focke Wulf 190s and all 8 Fortresses were destroyed. In addition one ship from the 390th "A" squadron also went down. The reason that the FW-190s hit the 390th Forts so hard is that they were lagging a few miles behind, because of engine trouble, and could not catch up. When the attack came they lost the benefit of the fighter escort ahead of them or the collective defensive firepower of the 95th and 100th Bomb Groups. The Luftwaffe singled them out as the obvious weak spot in the division column and chewed them up with cannon fire for half an hour. Cut off from the support, nine fortresses and nearly a hundred men disappeared from the sky.

About five hours after takeoff our squadron telephone reports on confirmed victories began trickling into Groups Ops. They couldn't believe it. There were so many claims; maybe the same planes were being reported twice? "What the hell, don'tcha think I can count?" "Well check it again goddammit, somebody's gone ape down there." "Okay, Okay, Quitcher bitchin." Hanging up, wait 30 minutes and reconfirm. No individual was making excessive claims but nearly everyone did something to help the total score.

The report went on to 8th Air Force at High Wycombe. They didn't believe it either and wanted it rechecked. Unusual to say the least. It broke the old record of 38 destroyed in a single engagement by 19 1/2 (one gets a 1/2 victory by sharing it with another pilot who attacks the same enemy ship). Everyone finally became convinced that the reports were correct. However, it was two days later before General Doolittle , assured that he had the correct figures reported the victories at a staff conference. This follow-up report is about 30 years late, General, but we owe it to you anyway. The real reason for our success comes in two parts. First, our position and timing were perfect., We had 58 Mustangs exactly where they were supposed to be when the attack came. When the 100 plus contrails of the Luftwaffe appeared out to the southeast there were no surprises. Secondly, of the 58 Mustang pilots at that spot, 23 of them were aces. The leadership of the flights and squadrons of the 357th and many of the wing men were aces. You had the first team on the line, General; 58 Mustangs with 23 positions manned by aces was one hell of a potent force. Those 23 pilots accounted for 41 of the 57 1/2 destroyed.

That's the report that should have been made but it wasn't, because the facts were buried in the statistics of the pilot's roster for that day and no one thought to look there ... but it's true. The Luftwaffe never attacked in such force again; the war was over 4 months later. General Doolittle sent a message to the pilots of the 357th that reads: "You gave the Hun the most humiliating beating that he has ever taken in the air. Extend my personal admiration and congratulations to each member of you command both ground and air, for a superb victory." Coming from the man that raided Tokyo in an Army B-25 from the deck of a carrier, the message had a special meaning that will never be forgotten.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hc81C...layer_embedded

[bobbysocks]

This is a collection of stories about the same mission flown by the 357th FG on 20 January 1945.

One the Same Day by Will Foard

A day or two after our group of eleven replacement pilots arrived at Leiston Airbase, we were on a tour of the base. It was probably January 25th, 1945.

We were up in the base control tower having a look-see when a flight of P-51s radioed they were coming in. This flight of four were returning after landing in France the day before where they had stopped over for fuel. This was not a common situation to land in France.

The weather was socked in bad. A mortar flare was fired for the flare to appear above the overcast directly over the base. This would give the flight a fixed location. The flight leader brought one wing man down flying on his wing tip through the overcast on an easterly heading to break out under the clouds over the North Sea. With about 100 feet or so of clear space between the water and the clouds, they did a 180 degree turn to find the coast and the little town of Aldeburgh and then the broken down Abbey building.

We at the tower could not see the main runway or across the field due to the low clouds. We could hear an aircraft touch down on the concrete runway and at the same time, the flight leader was gunning his engine to climb back through the clouds. The wingman had landed on the longest runway which has a S. W. heading. The first time we saw the wingman was when he taxied by the tower on the perimeter track. The flight leader had gone back up above the clouds to bring in another wingman and go through the same performance until all were safe on the ground.

YOU CAN IMAGINE WHAT EFFECT THAT EPISODE HAD ON US GREEN REPLACEMENT! You can also understand our adoration of that flight leader. HIS GUTS AND INSTRUMENT FLYING ABILITY. My recollection is that the flight leader was "Pete" Peterson, of the 364th Fighter Squadron of our 357th Fighter Group. Our training in the states hadn't really sunk in to my noggin until that day at Leiston Control Tower and hearing about the English weather.

After our indoctrination of the importance of instrument flying, I took a REAL INTEREST in learning about "NEEDLE-BALL and AIR SPEED!"

DIARY FROM JOE DESHAY 25 January 1945

Cold! 16degrees. Released from combat mission schedule. "Pete" Peterson in C5-T along with V and F and another P-51 come back after landing in France. Finished an engine change on C5-Q. Received package from Ellen and two V-Mail Letters.

Letter from Robert Clark to Joe DeShay 30 Jun 96

The letter from Will Foard prompted me to write because I also was in the tower when Pete Peterson did that outstanding fete of bringing in his flight. I had a great respect for Pete and his flying ability and thought that his effort that day should not be forgotten but I felt that it should be written about by a pilot and not a desk jockey. (As I remember we were called waffleasses). Since I was first assigned and leader attached to the Group for about two years and came to Leiston via Casper, Ainsworth and Raydon perhaps I can add a few words:

I don't recall the replacement pilots but Will was certainly there because he has all the details right. So as I remember it the flight was on a forward strip somewhere in the Low Countries, that the long runway ran NW-SE, and that we saw the aircraft as they crossed the intersection with the E-W runway but I really don't trust my memory after 50 years.

Pete had been able to get through on a field phone that morning to ask about the weather. I told him that the field would be below minimums all day and strongly advised him not to return. As you recall the old timers had, with good reason, great confidence in their ability and they all had a strong homing desire. How many times have I heard "don't worry, that is my home field and I know it like the back of my hand." Pete demonstrated that he did know it like the back of his hand and he was correct in thinking that if a big mission was scheduled for the next day, it was very important to have his flight available.

They headed for the Leiston and the Radio Direction Finding (RDF) guided them in. As they crossed the field they took a reciprocal heading to the runway in use and using dead reckoning set up a holding pattern several miles offshore. RDF positioned them directly off the end of the runway. We could then hear Pete warn his wingman to fly a very tight formation and not to lose sight of him. We then heard "there's the coast, - see that church - see the big tree - there's the runway." Then after a couple of seconds (due to the distance from the tower) we heard the roar of his engine. He did that routine three times without any trouble before he landed. Truly remarkable.

Letter from Pete Peterson to Joe DeShay 30 Jul 96

Thanks for transmitting the letter from Robert Clark. Clark's letter and your Newsletter story about my instrument landing with my two remaining wingmen, Roland Wright and Ernest Tiede, prompts me to write about the same story from my memory of the mission.

On January, 20, 1945, I was Red Flight leader and my wingman was Ernest Tiede. Tiede had transferred to our Squadron from the 363rd. Ed Haydon ( who is credited with taking down Nowotny) was my element lead and his wingman was Roland Wright. Dale Karger was leading White Flight. I have forgotten what the originally scheduled mission was, but about the time that we were to return home, we engaged 2 ME-262s near Brunswick. It appeared that one 262 pilot was checking the other one out in the jet.

They did not run away; it appeared that they wanted to engage in a fight. We were at about 20,000 feet and the two 262s split....one went down to about 18,000 feet and the other stayed at about 22,000. Both flew in a large lazy circle, one opposite the other with me and my flight in the middle. Since it appeared that the upper jet was waiting for me to jump the lower one, I called Karger to turn back as if he were going home and climb back to jump the high jet while we circled. Karger and his flight did just that and the upper jet never saw them return. He was apparently concentrating on me and my flight. Karger got him with out any trouble and then Karger and his flight headed home.

When the upper jet was eliminated, the lower jet headed down for home in a hurry. I rolled over, split "S"ed and poured on the power. In no time, I hit compressibility with no control at speeds in excess of 650 mph. After finally getting control at the lower denser air, I pulled out in a wide sweeping arc just over the treetops and pulled up behind the 262 for a perfect shot at 6 o'clock. Unfortunately, I was out of trim and my tracers went right over the top of his canopy. He left me in a cloud of kerosene exhaust, as if I were standing still. In the meantime, my flight caught up with me and we headed for Lechfeld Airbase which I anticipated to be his home field. Maybe we could catch him on landing. We flew over Lechfeld at about 6,000 which bristled with flak emplacements. There were about 100 jets nose-to-tail parked on the inactive side of the field which meant that they were out of fuel, insufficient pilots, or both. We were not sure of the traffic pattern or which end of the runway the jet would use, Tiede and I cruised toward the south end. Haydon and Wright spotted him on the approach at the north end. Haydon headed for the jet, but Haydon was too high and made an easy target to the flak guns. When they opened up, I swear they put 3 or 4 20mm shells in the same hole...in the engine!!

On the R/T, Haydon said that he was on fire. He pulled up and bailed from about 400 feet and landed on the airbase ending up a POW. Roland Wright, following Haydon, was fence-post high and the flak never caught him. Wright wiped out the 262 on the approach.

The remaining three of us reassembled south of Lechfeld and I called for them to check their fuel. We were briefed before the mission that our minimum gas to get home that day would be 135 gallons because of strong headwinds. I had 135 gallons, and Wright, who was "Tailend Charlie", was down to 85 gallons or less. It was pretty obvious that we were not going to make it home, so it was imperative to find a "friendly" airport.

Flying at about 8,000 feet, deep in Germany in nasty weather, we headed west through a weather front with icing and instrument flying conditions. I was pretty concerned about Wright at about this time because his fuel was getting dangerously low, and being on instruments flying on me, he would not have a prayer if his engine cut out. We finally broke out and spotted a large town near a river and we turned to it. Lo, and behold there was an airport, covered with snow, no tracks from aircraft traffic, but there appeared to be an ME-109 near a hangar. I told Wright to land, tail-first because of the unknown depth of snow, and wave his arms if they were friendly. If they were not., then get the hell out of the way because I would shoot up his airplane. Out came a Citroen full of people to the airplane as I circled with Tiede. Finally, Wright waved his arms; Tiede and I landed. We were southeast of Paris at Auxere, France, and the front lines were 60 km down the road at Dijon. When Wright landed, his engine quit for lack of fuel. The Me-109 I had seen was gutted and abandoned.

Auxerre had a small company of MP's and the town had been recently "liberated". I asked the MP's for help with communications to get fuel so we could get out of there, but in the meantime we got rooms in a hotel and some food. Our fuel would be coming from Patton's tank corp and there was no telling when that would occur. The small contingent of French aviation cadets on the airfield pushed Wright's plane to the hangar area where we waited for fuel.

Finally, after a 5 day wait on January 25th, a truck with a trailer full of 5-gallon Jerry cans arrived and the French cadets filled up our planes. The weather was beautiful in Auxerre and we were anxious to get home...so we took off for England. In Clarks's letter, he thought I had made a phone call to check the weather. I don't recall ever contacting the base since we had no available communication. There must have been confusion between this mission and another. The first knowledge I had of the weather in Leiston was when we were about mid-channel, and I contacted the tower for an altimeter setting so I could have an accurate reading of altitude for an instrument letdown.

The weather at mid-channel was a solid wall of fog from 1500 feet down to the water. It looked like a wall of concrete along a straight vertical line. There was quite a roar on the radio when they heard from us because the last anyone knew was that we were in a dogfight with ME-262s. Major Gates got on the radio and said that there was no way that we could get in because the field was socked in solidly with fog. He thought that we may have to bail. Can you just imagine that one? I thought that I could give an instrument approach a try....even though we had no GCA (Ground Controller Approach) or instrument landing equipment on the field.

At mid-channel, we were flying in a "V" formation, with both wingmen stacked above me as I started a letdown in an attempt to get under the soup. I got down where the altimeter read "0" and one of the guys said, "Pete, you better get up...a wave just went by!" At that point, discretion was a better part of valor so we climbed back up above the fog to about 2,000 feet. When I guesstimated that we were within the general area of the field, I asked the tower to fire a rocket so we could get a fix on our position relative to the field. The rocket came up just above the fog and dropped back and I told the guys to circle the area of the rocket because I was going to try an instrument approach.

Footnote from bobbysocks: i remember my dad telling me that many a pilot returning from mainland europe crashed into the "white" cliffs of cover because the fog was so dense that they couldnt distinguish it from the fog bank above.

Since our longest runway had a bearing of 240 degrees, it gave me a clue that maybe I could apply my high school geometry to an instrument letdown and we could then make it in. So I headed out a little way toward the channel and turned straight North at 0 degrees. As I kept talking on the radio for bearings, they fed me bearings to the field back to me. First, 300 degrees, then 290 degrees, then 280 degrees. When they gave me 270 degrees (making a 90 degree angle with my true north), I clocked the time that it took for the bearing to change to 240 degrees. Twice that time was the time it would take me to reach the field on a heading of 240 degrees which was the alignment with the runway.

The runway 240 degree heading and a heading of 270 degree makes a 30 degree/60 degree right triangle as I flew north. In a 30 degree/60 degree right triangle, the side opposite the 30 degree angle is half the length of the hypotenuse. In this case, the "hypotenuse" would be my line of approach toward the 240 degree bearing, turning toward the landing on the runway. As I descended toward the runway and got to about 50 feet above ground, I could see straight down and spotted the end of the runway! I knew then that we could make it in by just repeating what I had done. I climbed back up on instruments and picked up Roland Wright who flew off my right wing and we went through the same triangulation. As we turned on the approach and started the letdown on instruments, I let down my wheels; Wright lowered his wheels and stayed back just far enough to still keep me in sight and follow my instrument flying. I dropped flaps; he dropped flaps. As I got to about 50 feet, I spotted the runway and called it out to him He picked up the sight of the runway and landed. I did the same thing with Tiede and he landed. I then did a tight 360 degree turn about 50 feet off the ground and landed.

The people in the tower could hear us; could hear the tires squeal on landing; could hear me powering up to go back up, but could not see us. At no time did the Tower see us until we taxied by. The Tower and DF guys did a helluva job or we could not have made it. It was the best flying that I had ever done....or ever since. Without an automatic pilot, instrument landing system, or GCA to assist us, we managed to get in safely without losing airplanes or pilots.

It was really great to see you at the reunion and I deeply appreciate your thoughtfulness in sending me a copy of the letter from Pete about the mission he and I shared on January 20, 1945. The details Pete gave are exactly as I remembered it.

After this mission and because of the interest in the ME-262, I was later sent to London for an interview with the BBC. As you may remember, they used to make radio broadcasts of war experiences during the war and this one was broadcast over the BBC. They also sent a recorded record of it to KSL radio in Salt Lake City and it was broadcast locally and this is how my family heard about it.

KSL also made a 78 RPM record of it and sent it to my family. After your newsletter story about this mission, I found the phonograph record and listened to it again as it was broadcast during the war, and it confirms the facts as Pete related it in his letter. The interview broadcast covered only to the time that I landed out of fuel in France.

Several years later, the Air Force Times did a study on the ME-262 and according to that, the ME-262 which I was credited with on Jan 20, 1945, was the 8th one that had been shot down and the 357th FG was the leader in ME-262 kills when the war ended.

20 January 1945 - Truly a Memorable Day By Robert G. Schimanski

Here is the story of only two pilots of the 357th FG, the 364th FS, that flew with about 58 other pilots on 20 January 1945, escorting bombers over the Ulm/Augsberg, Germany area. The field report of the mission states as follows:

LF 1010 Osterd 20,000 RV 1st 3 Grp 4th force S Charleroi (est) 26,000. Bs 1325 N Luxembourg 27,000. LF out 1415/1435 Overflakkee/Ostend 0/25,000. Grd target straffed vicinity Ulm. One section left Bs at target to investigate Me 262 at 18,000. Jet pulled away in slight dive at speed estimated 500 plus. After about 5 minutes chase plane shot down over Lechfield AD as it attempted to land. Lt Haydon hit by light flak and bailed. Observed at 32,000 2 contrails over Lechfield circling slowly downward. 1 flight climbed to investigate at 15,000 they became apparent as Me 262s. One of them made a head on pass at an element of the section, which turned into him, whereupon the jet headed toward Munich. In vicinity of Munich the 262 turned north which was one turn too many - the element cut him off in the turn and pulled rapidly within firing range, destroying the 262 whose speed in chase was estimated 500 plus.

Rather dull and uninteresting but it does not describe what happened to two of us who got locked in that day.

When we took off in the morning the weather was atrocious, clouds and instrument flying in formation almost all of the way until we arrived in the Angsburg area and then it was sunny, clear and blue skies. Soon ME262 jets were spotted and our group gave chase. Lt. Dale Karger states:

As I try to remember this specific mission it was clear, blue sky, at that time, probably about 50 to 80 miles west of Munich. I remember the snow on the ground when a train was spotted. I don't know what our specific mission was that day or why we were at fairly low altitude. We started a run to strafe the train. I was flying greenhouse white and Lloyd Zacharie was my wing man. The Alps were could be seen south of us. We spread out a little as was proper for this kind of run. I can't remember whether we were abreast as a squadron or went in as individual flights. When I was within range I started firing and one of my guns "ran away" (wouldn't stop firing) when the trigger was released. I turned a few degrees (to keep from hitting anything out ahead of me) and started to climb. I really didn't realize that my wingman (Zach) had stayed with me. I can't recall whether I announced my problem over the RT (Radio Transmission) at the time. As I was climbing at about 6,000 to 7,000 feet at this time with gun still firing, someone called out "Two jets circling above us." Pete" Peterson said he would start up to intercept and I said that I was already climbing and would also continue on up. My runaway gun had expended all its ammo at this time.

These two jets continued to circle and were estimated to be about 30,000 ft., but as I think about it now, they were probably closer to 20,000 feet because it didn't take us long to get up there. When we got within about 1,000 ft. below them they decided to split up and started to descend. The one I latched onto headed east toward Munich in a slow descent. Having a speed advantage he began to slowly pull away from me. He was about 4 or 5 miles ahead of me and I was about ready to turn back, when I saw him start a steep turn to the left. He was over Munich at about 5,000 feet by this time. I did have the idea that maybe he was trying to draw me over Munich to draw anti-aircraft fire. Anyway, when the 262 started his left turn, I turned 90 degrees to the left. Anticipating his high rate of speed, I thought I could cut him off and it worked, except he was crossing in front. I had the diamonds on the gun sight all the way closed and decided to lead him slightly with the pipper. Almost immediately as I fired the pilot bailed out at about 3,000 feet. I am reasonably sure that I saw a hit on or around the cockpit area. Of course, at that distance, it could have been a reflection. One thing for sure, the pilot had some reason for going overboard at that precise time. The ME 262 immediately crossed into a wooded area where I observed smoke but no flame.

You know, when the bloods get pumping with excitement of the "moment" you sometimes do some dumb things that you wouldn't do under normal circumstances, or things you aren't too proud of, like taking a couple of shots at the pilot and a big gold ball on a church steeple at a nearby town. These things you also never forget.

On this particular mission my own plane was in for repairs so I was flying Steve Waslyks's "My Lady Diane." Can't remember the C5 number. He told me it was a real smooth running engine, etc. And to make sure I brought it home in one piece. Well! He was right. That engine was so smooth it was scary, but as fate would have it, I didn't bring it home. As Zack and I started back alone we found the weather had deteriorated to IFR (Instrument Flight Conditions) conditions in eastern France and went IFR into clouds and snow. By this time we were aware of the fact that we were not going to get anywhere near the United Kingdom. We had really chomped up a lot of fuel in the jet chase and it was down to probably the last 50 gallons. I called a fixer station and got a vector but he was 125 miles away so I decided to gingerly let down through the overcast, not having any idea of the elevation or terrain below. Needless to say the good Lord was with us and we broke out at about 500 feet in a snowstorm. No luck in finding a landing strip and Zack reported gauges bouncing on empty. I told him to pick a good snowy field an belly it in while I continued to look for a 9th AF field, anywhere. Zack reported he was down and ok, it seemed like only a few minutes later that I came over an air field and was glad to see P47s instead of ME109s parked there.

After making about three passes on a snow-covered runway and fearing running out of gas, I came in over some wires and seemed to float forever. When I finally touched down, about half way down the runway, on steel mat, with snow, it was like being on a sled. I figured I was home free until I hit the brakes at which time I took a toboggan ride downhill on the runway off the end and into a frozen pile of dirt. That took care of Wasylyk's "My Lady Diane."

After retrieving my gun camera film and being interrogated, by the Lord only knows who, I found out I was close to the town of Rheims (The Champagne center of France). No room for me on the base so I was billeted in a nice hotel in Rheims. Quite a large city park in the middle of town was jammed to the curbs with all kinds of military supplies. They were very lax about blackout and I had no problem doing some pub crawling. I finally stopped at a place with a good dance band and even neon signs in the windows. Very strange, I thought as we were probably within 60 miles of the front lines.

Well, I didn't hear anything about Zach till the next day. He had been pointed to the same base I was by some Frenchies. He had a little problem communicating, as he didn't speak French. We went out that day on a C47 to Paris where we spent a couple of days, then hitched a ride on another C47 to England.

So I guess you could say that the 262 I got cost two P51s. But as least we lived to fly another day.

After Karger landed on the continent he was interrogated by Army Intelligence Officers, who then called our base to advise us of his whereabouts. Karger has not told you all of his combat that day because the intelligence officer wanted to know if we had fed him raw meat for breakfast. Karger had been locked in to a most difficult situation.

1st Lt. Dale Karger was young, even in a war where youth was the norm among fighter Pilots. On the 20th of January 1945, Karger was still about three weeks short of his 20th birthday, and with four victories behind him, was about to become, as far as is known, the youngest ace in U.S. aviation history. One of only three American men to become aces before their twentieth birthdays!

Here is my story of that day. I helped chase the jets and tried to box them in but never could get close enough to fire my guns; instead I used up a lot of fuel and then had to think about getting home through absolutely horrible weather. Some of the squadron elected to return with me rather that setting down on the continent. I flew on instruments in a solid overcast for a long time at about 25,000 feet. Miraculously as I crossed the coastline a single hole appeared through the clouds. I could see the coastline and I elected to descend and cross the channel at an altitude of 200 feet. As I crossed the channel the ceiling got lower and lower and at about 50 feet I went back on instruments and climbed to about 500 feet. I then called into the tower (Dryden) and asked for a heading home, and was told that the base had been closed and that I should return to the continent. I then asked for a heading to any other airfield in England and was told England was socked in and all bases were closed. I was low on gas. I knew I could not return to the continent, and I did not want to ditch in the channel. (Virtually impossible in a P-51) "Locked in" I continued on to England with the other airplanes on my wing and told Dryden that I did not know who closed the field but as leader of Greenhouse Squadron returning I ordered the field to be reopened and all operations would proceed as normal. The flare truck was to be in full operation at the beginning of the runway. Pilots flying with me were advised that we would first try to land under my instructions, and if I could not make it, they were to climb to 1,000 feet, make sure they were over land, and bail out. (I now find it interesting to note that after hearing of my decision to reopen the field, no superior officer on the ground countermanded my orders.)

Dryden gave me a heading and I approached the base at an altitude of about 250 feet on instruments with my wing men tucked in already. The flare truck fired it's flares. I saw the flares and knew I was over the beginning of the runway heading 240 degrees. I then made a single needle width turn of 180 degrees heading into the downwind leg at 60 degrees climbing on instruments to about 400 feet to give me a little breathing room. I then flew an extra long down wind leg in order to have extra time to again line up on the runway. I completed another 180 degree single needle width turn, got another heading from Dryden and discovered I was exactly on course. Lowered partial flaps and dropped the gear, cut the throttle, and started descent from 400 feet very carefully. At 300 and 200 feet I could see nothing but slop all around me. At about 150 feet I couldn't see ahead, but I got the first glimpse of mother earth straight down below me. Full flaps, cut throttle, and saw beginning of runway while looking straight down. I say down on the left side of the runway, with number two man on the right, etc. We landed without mishap, and then had extreme difficulty in taxiing to our revetments, because of rotten visibility. My loyal crew chief, Sgt. Wilbur Reich, was there waiting for me. I had brought our airplane home once more. (Sgt Reich was one of the more experienced crew chiefs, but had already lost two pilots and two P-51s through no fault of his own. He and I got a new P-51 D, C5-O, serial number 414334; and he and I successfully finished my tour of 70 missions without a scratch, bullet hole or flak damage. Later I discovered that my aircraft ended up in a scrap yard in England and was bulldozed flat by a D-8 cat. Seems to me the 8th Air Force should have given it to me and told me to fly it home.)

The commanding officer, who I am sure had closed the field was waiting for me in the pilots ready room. His only question to me was "Where is the rest of the group?" Seems like a lot more should have been said.

And that is how two free spirits got locked in on 20 January 1945, and we were only two of sixty pilots on that mission. I now wonder what happened to the others.

[bobbysocks]

Lt. David G. Elliott's interrogation report

I hit a locomotive and the explosion hit my plane, tore off my tail and set the engine on fire. I tried to climb to bail out, turned over a forest S. of Reims, rolled out of plane in 6 seconds and the plane fell in a forest. The tail of the plane hit me on the thigh and sprained my left ankle. I landed on the edge of the forest near the German flak batteries, a few feet from my plane. My chute caught in a tree --- I got out of my harness and ran for about five miles in different directions but making south towards Vitry. My first aid kit and toilet kit were strapped on my chute and I had to leave them. At 2100 hours I sat down and took out maps and used my mae west as a mattress and my helmet as a pillow and covered my face until dawn. I then buried my goggles, throat mike and everything I didn't need. Then, in the morning of August 11, I headed SW and walked in a forest and spent the night N of Champsfleury. Next day I came to a clearing. I saw a young woman and 2 men cutting wheat. I watched them for several hours. Then at 1100 hours when the girl was near me I stepped out and called to her. She finally came over with one of the men. I used the phrase card to declare myself and asked for water. They told me to hide where I was and after an hour Roger Couteau, about 35 years old, brought civilian clothes and water. He then took me to town to his house. He fed me and hid me in a barn for 4 hours. At 8pm he put me in a room where I stayed for a day or two. A. M. Griselle was very helpful and M. Pinard, the mayor of Champsfleury, gave me cigarettes.

There were German soldiers in town and things were getting hot so Couteau hid me in a barn next door to his house. I got very ill here. I was here until 23 August. Then M. Couteau came and said he was Chief of Resistance and that a Russian woman had told the Germans this and that next day 3,000 Germans were coming into town. At 1500 hours that day he and I went on a bike to Arcis sur Aube, convoyed by Resistance men on bicycles. We went South of Arcis to another small town where there was a Maquis stronghold. Couteau left me with the Maquis chief, who with his wife and aide, took me in a car into a forest NW of Troyes next to the river. There I stayed with the Maquis until 26 August. Saturday the 26th, about 0400 I heard trucks and at dawn a Maquis scout came to say that the Americans were there. So I went out to the road and got into a medical truck. It took me to a headquarters at the front lines. I saw Col. Clarke and Lt. Col. Wodin (4th Armored Division) and I gave him tactical information. We were surrounded by 1,000 Germans and had a skirmish with them. I bivouacked with them and next day was sent back in a POW convoy to Sens to Corps headquarters. There I saw a G-2 major. Then Major Muller, AC, took me to XIX Tac and then I went to Lemans and thence to Laval and Bayeaux Airstrip for a flight back to England.

Lt. Robert B. Hoffman's story

Hoffman, affectionately known as, "Old Dog", because he called others by that name, was flying with Littlefield in Hellcat White flight on the day they were bounced by Me-109s. Both were pulling off a dive bomb run on a bridge at Sens, France, when bounced. Each had dropped a 500 pound bomb and as they pulled up Littlefield heard "Hellcat break!, Hellcat break!" and glanced over his left shoulder to see Hoffman nearby with a 109 sitting on his tail with all guns blazing.

Littlefield yelled, "Dog break right!", as he broke right. During the break Littlefield saw Hoffman in a spin with both engines pouring smoke and flames.

Hoffman bailed out and broke an ankle on landing. He hobbled through the French countryside until he made contact with a Frenchman who turned him over to a member of the French Underground. He lived with the French for three months and was taken to Paris to await transportation south. In Paris he was turned over to a man who spoke excellent English. This man spoke of bars in Los Angeles that Hoffman had also frequented. They became friendly in the short period that he was in Paris.

One day the Frenchman said that it was time for Hoffman to leave and provided him with a car and driver. As they were driving through Paris, the driver stopped the car and motioned that he had to make a phone call. When he returned, they drove only a short distance when they came to a German roadblock. Hoffman was taken into custody and placed in Frenze Prison in Paris. While in the prison, he talked to a P-51 pilot who had exactly the same experiences in Paris! They came to the conclusion that the French Underground was unwittingly funnelling airmen into Paris where this Gestapo agent spent a few days with them and then packed them off to prison. Apparently, too, when the Gestapo undercover agent had called for a roadblock, those responsible were a bit slow in responding.

Hoffman was taken to Buchenwald, where the infamous Ilse Koch, noted for making lamp shades out of human hide, was on the staff. There were about eighty-three Americans and the same number of RAF and other Allied Air Force members. A good number of the Allied airmen had been turned over to the SS or Gestapo by French who did not want to become involved.

Allied airmen were eventually sent to Stalag Luft III when Reichsmarshall Goering heard of their imprisonment at Buchenwald. These men were later sent to Stalag Luft VII A at Moosburg via Nuremberg prison when the Russians were approaching Stalag Luft III. During one of these prison transfers Hoffman described a forced march in which he was threatened with being shot if he did not keep up with the rest of the prisoners. He had rebroken his ankle and was marching with a makeshift crutch. He was liberated at Stalag Luft VII A by Patton's Army.

Robert Bruce Hoffman was born in 1921 and was from Baltimore, Maryland. He was a survivor.

Lt. Julius M. Hummel relates his experiences

Julius "Joe" Hummel, the only pilot of the 55th Fighter Group to escape from German captivity relates his experiences:

I was shot down while strafing a German airfield near Halberstadt, Germany. I received head and knee injuries after crash landing and had difficulty walking so was captured almost immediately. I was sent to Stalag Luft III, near Sagan. In January 1945, we were sent to an old Italian POW camp near Nuremberg. About the 2nd of April 1945, the Germans decided to march us to Munich. Bill Laubner, also a pilot in the 38th squadron and I were shot down on the same mission and were together as POWs. Bill could speak German and we along with Jack Sturm, a P-47 pilot from the 355th Fighter Group, plotted our escape from the line of march. Bill's leg started giving him trouble so he had to abandon the escape attempt with us. But he distracted the nearby German guards so successfully during a rain storm that Jack and I made our break and got away cleanly. The weather was cold with rain and sleet and quite miserable for the next 4 or 5 days.

We took refuge in barns, in villages, and dense trees. The first few days we moved only at night, finding it fairly safe to move through towns and villages after nine p.m., but holed up during the day. We had to depend on road signs, we had made crude drawings from an old German map and an occasional glimpse of the stars to navigate at night. When the weather improved it became much easier. We moved from 25 to 30 kilometers south of Nuremberg to the north west towards Wurtzburg. We were not making good progress so started moving during the day as well, avoiding towns during the day. Running low on food we liberated potatoes, chickens, bread, eggs and milk from milk cans set out along railroad tracks for the milk train. We were eating a lot higher on the hog than in POW camp. But our feet were paying the price.

We were close to capture several times but bluffed our way out by claiming to be Polish or Spanish workers and once by claiming to be German soldiers. About midnight we were hurrying through a town and blundered into the town square filled with German troops taking a break. Probably around 800 to 1,000 of them. Fortunately it was a fairly dark night and we told the German colonel who stopped and questioned us that we were German soldiers hurrying to catch up with our unit that was about 5 kms. ahead. We snowed him good and it worked. One bright sunny morning while following a railroad track we stopped to fill our water bottles at a spring. Two Germans in uniform stopped and questioned us. So we said we were Polish workers and were going to work on a farm ahead of us, just beyond the next town. They told us to go ahead of them. They were in uniforms with overcoats that we had not seen before. We had just decided that they were not armed when a third one showed up and he was armed. We walked further on and then found out they were slave labor guards in charge of between 25 and 30 young 16 to 20 year old Polish and French boys and girls who were repairing bomb damage to the tracks. They had a Polish boy question us so I distracted the guards attention and Jack told the boy in German who we really were. The boy pretended that he could not understand us fully so the guards called a Frenchman out and we did the same with him. In the meantime all the other kids found out who we really were and started to offer us bread, cheese and sausage. Then the guards really smelled a rat and the big wheel with the gun said he was going into town and get the army officer to come and deal with us. As soon as he was out of sight Jack and I took off for the woods. The two guards told us to stop and tried to get the kids to stop us but the kids just laughed and waved goodbye to us.

After about 12 days and the Lord only knows how many miles we walked, very nearly being bombed by our own bombers near Roth and being strafed by a German night fighter near some burning German tanks, we finally made contact with armored units spearheading the 4th Infantry Division of Patch's 7th Army south of Wurtzburg. It was pretty darn hairy, we were told that U.S. soldiers had been watching us since about 2 a.m. with the aid of night vision enhancement equipment when we were looking for food in the lockers of the burned out tanks. They said the only reason they did not fire at us was that our clothes did not look like German uniforms. So they decided to wait until daylight and see if we came out of the shell hole and then challenge us, which they did. We stayed with the 4th until they had transport going to Ludwigshaven a couple days later. From there to Arras, France and in a C-46 where the C.O. of the C-46 outfit flew us to Camp Lucky Strike. Within a week we were on a ship bound for home.