In their own words...

[Rambo Rich 360]

Wow! Great stuff there Bobbysocks. Thank you for posting.

[winny]

Yeah, good stuff as usual Dale..

Is the guy in your avatar pic your Father? Just noticed it.

[bobbysocks]

thanks, i find the stuff facinating and hope others do. i even found some russian stuff...

yeah...that's me dad. my favorite pic of him from back then.

[winny]

Originally Posted by bobbysocks

thanks, i find the stuff facinating and hope others do. i even found some russian stuff...

yeah...that's me dad. my favorite pic of him from back then.

What's your dads name?

The russian stuff would go down well on here

[bobbysocks]

Dale E. Karger 357th fighter group 364th squadron. yeah i figured there is enough russian fans here. but found a lot of brit, aussie, and nz stuff from early in the war. what i like about these stories is the humanity aspect. you read where they laughed, cried, were scared as hell, and felt sorry....things we tend to over look.

[bobbysocks]

ok one more for the soviet boys here.

A 9th AF Group, identified as the 357th Fighter Group, was located at an airbase designated R-85 near Neubilburg, on the outskirts of Munich, Germany. This Group had been transferred out of the 8th AF into the 9th, to serve as a part of the Occupational Forces. The move from Leiston, England to Germany was made shortly after the surrender of The Third Reich in mid-1945. The 357th was equipped with P-51 planes.

On afternoon, without announcement, a strange aircraft approached R-85 to land. Capt. (Earl Duke) Botti, the control tower operator, attempted radio contact with it's pilot, but to no avail. As the plane passed the control tower, Earl Duke saw the Red Star on its fuselage and he realized that he had a problem on his hands. He immediately contacted Major Hunt for advice. The plane, a Yak 9, stopped down near the hanger area and a Jeep and an emergency vehicle closed off its escape. The battery was removed from the Russian plane and the pilot was placed under Base Arrest until Higher Headquarters could be contacted from instructions. The pilot may have been lost, low on fuel, or in an act of desertion or sent there for intelligence purposes by Russian Higher Command. There were many questions awaiting answers.

Each day one of our pilots were assigned to accompany the Russian pilot and to closely watch on his behavior and to prevent him from entering areas important to Base Operations.

An interpreter was located so some communication could be carried on with the Russian. Many questions were asked but little information was learned.

I was not on Base at the time of this excitement. I departed early the next morning on another duty assignment for the A-4 section. Most of my information had to come from others who were more directly involved in the events of the next few weeks. Lt. Lawrence Westphal of the 364th FS related to me the following, "We had a brief encounter with several replacement pilots who had recently transferred into the 357th from the ATC and had been flying C-47s. They were to be checked out in P-51s. Late one afternoon three or four of these ATC boys were watching a pilot above wring-out a P-51, I think the pilot doing the wringing was Major Bockay. Soon the replacement pilot and his escort joined the crowd. One of the replacement pilots, remarked, 'That looks to me like a good way to bust ones butt.' Immediately, thru an interpreter, the Russian Pilot replied, "What's the matter, you afraid to die?"

Lt. G. A. Robinson of the 362nd FS told me that he had two tours with the Russian. He learned that the Russian claimed to have a total of forty flying hours and only nine of actual combat. One time just at Retreat time, they were walking across the drill field and heard the Bugler blowing Taps; the Russian began to smile and finally broke out into a laugh at the sound of the Bugle. Lt. Robinson asked the interpreter, "Why such a strange reaction?" The Russian pilot only shook his head but gave no reply. This made Lt. Robinson wonder if the Russian Pilot had lost his marbles.

Finally word came down from Higher Headquarters to release the Russian. In refueling his plane and checking it over, it was discovered that most of the air, held in a compression tank in the fuselage, had leaked out. This was necessary to raise and lower the two main landing wheels. Capt Robert Lynch of the 469th Squadron and two of his men were called in to correct the problem. However, they found that their tools and fittings would not function with the metric connections of the Yak and no repair could be made.

Lt. Westphal asked me if I was on the flight line when the Russian took-off? I replied that I was away from the base at the time, he said, "You missed a good show, when the Yak left the runway one wheel was dangling and the other was only three quarters of the way up. He did a 180 and came back very low and did three rolls very low on the deck. I'm sure I would not attempt such a trick with one wheel hanging down like that."

The Yak turned toward the east and soon faded out of sight. That was the last known about the Russian Pilot however, many of our boys wondered what kind of a reception he received when he reached his home base.

[Davedog74]

this is a great thread,words from people who done it for real

raf combat reports seem to have no emotion
this is part of eric lock's report from september 14th 1940 ,flying from raf hornchurch ON HIS OWN on a spotter patrol.at 32.000 ft eric observes 12 109s below him at 25.000ft, allways the hunter .......

i attacked the last section of the formation,which were flying in a diamond shape.i was just about to close in,when i was attacked from above by some 109s .they pealed off from about 3,000 feet above and carried out a head on attack on me.i waited till one of them was in range,and gave him a long burst of fire.he passed a few feet above me i carried out a sharp turn to the right and saw him in flames.just then i was attacked again from head on.i waited till he was at point blank range.i saw my bullets go into the enemy aircraft ,and as he was about to go beneath me i gave me him another burst .
i then saw more enemy aircraft coming down on me ,so i half rolled and dived through the clouds.i had just passed through the clouds when i saw someone who had bailed out,i followed him down to the ground. i saw some of our troops rush up to him,and he appeared to be holding up his arms.i flew low over the field and he waved back.this was afterwards confirmed by the police.

i wonder how many 109s eric actually tangled with that day?

[bobbysocks]

combat reports were very ...as Jack Webb used to say in the series Dragnet "just the facts, Mam." its their reminiscings ( sp ) from interviews or books where they let their hair down and convey feelings. it always amazed me how these guys would jump a numerically superior enemy without hesitation.

[bobbysocks]

desert rescue

This incident happened on 21 December 1942, 150 miles south of Cirte, while Bobby Gibbes was leading six Kittyhawks on a reconnaissance over Hun, an Italian aerodrome.



Sergeant "Stuka" Bee's aircraft was set on fire by the aerodrome defence gunfire and at the same time, Pilot Officer Rex Bayly called up to say that his motor had been hit and that he was carrying out a forced landing. As Sergeant Bee had a lot of speed from his dive and was flaming badly, I advised him to climb up and bail out instead of trying to belly land his aircraft at high speed. He mightn't have heard me, or perhaps was badly wounded or even dead, as his speed had not decreased when he hit the ground. His aircraft rolled up into a ball, an inferno of flames. He didn't have a chance.

I circled and watched the Italians, showing great courage, send out an ambulance in an attempt to save him, but the outcome was obvious. It was later confirmed that he had been killed.

In the meantime, Rex Bayly crash landed his aircraft nearly a mile from the aerodrome, and on coming to a stop, called up on his radio to say that he was O.K. His aircraft did not burn. I asked him what the area was like for a landing to pick him up, and ordered the other three aircraft to keep me covered and to stop any ground forces coming out after him. He told me that the area was impossible, and asked me to leave him, but I flew down to look for myself. I found a suitable area about 3 miles further out and advised Bayly that I was landing, and to get weaving out to me.

I was nervous about this landing, in case shrapnel might have damaged my tyres, as on my first run through the aerodrome, my initial burst set an aircraft on fire. I had then flown across the aerodrome and fired from low level and at close range at a Savoia 79. It must have been loaded with ammunition as it blew up, hurling debris 500 feet into the air. I was too close to it to do anything about avoiding the blast and flew straight through the centre of the explosion at nought feet. On passing through, my aircraft dropped its nose, despite pulling my stick back, and for a terrifying moment, I thought that my tail plane had been blown off. On clearing the concussion area, I regained control, missing the ground by a matter of only a few feet. Quite a number of small holes had been punched right through my wings from below, but my aircraft appeared to be quite serviceable.

I touched down rather carefully in order to check that my tyres had not been punctured, and then taxied by a devious route for about a mile or more until I was stopped from getting closer to Bayly by a deep wadi. Realizing that I would have a long wait, and being in a state of sheer funk, I proceeded to take off my belly tank to lighten the aircraft. The weight of the partially full tank created great difficulty, and I needed all my strength in pulling it from below the aircraft and dragging it clear. I was not sure that I would be able to find my way back to the area where I had landed, so I stepped out the maximum run into wind from my present position. In all, I had just 300 yards before the ground dipped away into a wadi. I tied my handkerchief onto a small camel's thorn bush to mark the point of aim, and the limit of my available take off-run, and then returned to my aircraft, CV-V, and waited.

My aircraft continued to circle overhead, carrying out an occasional dive towards the town in order to discourage any attempt to pick us up. After what seemed like an age, sitting within gun range of Hun, Bayly at last appeared, puffing, and sweating profusely. He still managed a smile and a greeting.

I tossed away my parachute and Bayly climbed into the cockpit. I climbed in after him and using him as my seat, I proceeded to start my motor. It was with great relief that we heard the engine fire, and opening my throttle beyond all normal limits, I stood on the brakes until I had obtained full power, and then released them, and, as we surged forward, I extended a little flap. My handkerchief rushed up at an alarming rate, and we had not reached flying speed as we passed over it and down the slope of the wadi. Hauling the stick back a small fraction, I managed to ease the aircraft into the air, but we hit the other side of the wadi with a terrific thud. We were flung back into the air, still not really flying, and to my horror, I saw my port wheel rolling back below the trailing edge of the wing, in the dust stream. The next ridge loomed up and it looked as if it was to be curtains for us, as I could never clear it. I deliberately dropped my starboard wing to take the bounce on my remaining wheel, and eased the stick back just enough to avoid flicking. To my great relief we cleared the ridge and were flying.

Retracting my undercart and the small amount of take off flap, we climbed up. I was shaking like a leaf and tried to talk to Bayly but noise would not permit. The remaining three aircraft formed up alongside me and we hared for home, praying the while that we would not be intercepted by enemy fighters, who should by now, have been alerted. Luck remained with us, and we didn't see any enemy aircraft.

On nearing Marble Arch, I asked Squadron Leader Watt to fly beneath my aircraft to confirm that I had really lost a wheel and had not imagined it. He confirmed that my wheel had gone, but that the starboard wheel and undercart appeared to be intact. I then had to make up my mind as to whether to carry out a belly landing, thus damaging my aircraft further, or to try to attempt a one wheel landing, which I thought I could do. We were at the time very short of aircraft and every machine counted.

The latter, of course, could be dangerous, so before making a final decision, I wrote a message on my map asking Bayly if he minded if I carried out a one wheel landing. He read my message and nodded his agreement.

Calling up our ground control, I asked them to have an ambulance standing by, and told them that I intended coming in cross wind with my port wing up wind. Control queried my decision but accepted it.

I made a landing on my starboard wheel, keeping my wing up with aileron and, as I lost speed, I turned the aircraft slowly to the left throwing the weight out. When I neared a complete wing stall, I kicked on hard port rudder and the aircraft turned further to port. Luck was with me and the aircraft remained balanced until it lost almost all speed. The port oleo leg suddenly touched the ground, and the machine completed a ground loop. The port flap was slightly damaged as was the wingtip. The propeller and the rest of the aircraft sustained no further damage. The port undercart was changed, the flap repaired, the holes patched up and the aircraft was flying again on the 27th of the month, only six days after Hun.

Every enemy aircraft on Hun was either destroyed or damaged. Six aircraft and one glider were burnt, and five other aircraft were badly damaged. The bag included two JU52s, two Savoia 795, one JU88, one Messerschmitt 110, one CR42, one HS126 and two gliders. I was later to be awarded the DSO and this operation was mentioned as having a bearing on the award.

From Manston:

Johnny Kent, CO 92 Squadron, which was on "soul-destroying convoy patrol work"
from Manston, Kent from January-February 1941:

"On one of these patrols the formation leader was startled to see one of the ships explode; his first thought was that it must have struck a mine but then, to his amazement, he saw one lone Stuka low on the water heading for France. He and the other three dived to the attack and the German pilot, seeing the Spitfires after him, turned and made for Manston - presumably to give himself up, as he had no hope of survival in a fight.

The night before this episode some of the officers had been saying that if they brought down a German in one piece the thing to do would be to take him to the Mess and entertain him before bundling him off to a POW camp. I did not feel that there was any place for the chivalry displayed in the First World War and I gave the boys a little lecture on the reasons they were there, this boiled down to first defending the country and secondly to killing as many of the enemy as possible - and they had better get that firmly into their heads. They learned their lesson very well.

Having been on the first patrol of the morning, I had been back to the Mess for breakfast and was just returning to Dispersal when I heard gunfire. I stopped the car and got out to stare in amazement at the sight of one lone Stuka weaving madly in an attempt to avoid the attentions of four Spitfires. All five were coming straight towards me and it occurred to me that I was in the line of fire so I hid behind a vehicle that was handy. Then I saw a notice on it reading '100 Octane' - it was one of the refuelling bowsers. So I darted back to my car! Just as I reached it the Stuka reached the edge of the airfield almost directly above me at about a hundred feet. Here he was headed off by one of the Spitfires and I could clearly see both gunner and pilot in their cockpits with the De Wilde ammunition bursting around them.

The Spitfire overshot and pulled away and the German made another desperate attempt to land and turned violently to port but at this instant Pilot Officer Folkes, in my aeroplane, flashed past me and gave a short burst with the cannons. I can still hear the 'thump-thump-thump' of them followed by the terrific 'whoosh' as the Stuka blew up and crashed just outside the boundary of the airfield.

My words had been taken rather too literally as it would have been better to let him land; at that time we did not possess an intact Stuka and it would have been very useful, particularly in setting at rest the minds of those vociferous Members of Parliament who complained so long and so loudly about the fact that the RAF had no comparable dive-bomber and in so doing gave the Stuka an importance it did not deserve - certainly not in attacks on England.

The German crew, both of whom were killed, were a very brave, if foolhardy, pair. They had come over alone from their base in Belgium, bombed and sunk the ship right under the noses of the fighters while they must have known that their chances of getting home were practically non-existent."

From Johnny Kent, "One of the Few", Tempus Press 2000.

Tony Bartley, an officer in 92 Squadron, gives another view of the same incident:

"A week later [than January 10th] two sections of our team shot up a Ju87 who had been attacking one of our ships, a fishing trawler off Ramsgate. The pilot knew that his only escape route was to force land on our airfield and made a desperate attempt to do so. Sammy Saunders called off his section when he realised the scenario but suddenly a Spitfire zeroed in and shot the Junkers' wing off with a burst of cannon fire. We were horrified to see the enemy dive into the ground and burst into flames. Outraged that anyone could have shot a practically sitting bird. Not cricket. The culprit, a sergeant pilot, was less sympathetic. The Adjutant told us later that his wife and child had been killed in an air raid, the previous month."

From: Tony Bartley, "Smoke Trails in the Sky", Crecy Publishing 1997.

[bobbysocks]

James MacLachlan, 261 Squadron, diary for 16 February 1941, on Malta:

"At about 9.15 we were ordered to scramble, and climbed to 20,000 feet. We were still climbing over Luqa when six Me 109s screamed down on us out of the sun. We immediately broke away and formed a rather wide circle. Just as I took my place in the circle I saw four more Messerschmitts coming down out of the sun. I turned back under them and they all overshot me. I looked round very carefully, but could see nothing, so turned back on to the tail of the nearest Hun who was chasing some Hurricanes in front of him. We were all turning gently to port, so I cut the corner and was slowly closing in on the Hun. I was determined to get him, and must have been concentrating so intently on his movements that, like a fool, I forgot to look in the mirror until it was too late. Suddenly there was a crash in my cockpit - bits and pieces seemed to fly everywhere.

Instinctively I went into a steep spiral dive, furiously angry that I had been beaten at my own game. My left arm was dripping with blood, and when I tried to raise it only the top part moved, the rest hung limply by my side. Everything happened so quickly that I have no very clear recollection of what actually took place. I remember opening my hood, disconnecting my oxygen and R/T connections and standing up in the cockpit. The next thing I saw was my kite diving away from me, the roar of its engine gradually fading as it plunged earthwards. It was a marvellous feeling to be safely out of it; everything seemed so quiet and peaceful. I could hear the roar of engines above me and distinctly heard one burst of cannon fire. I could not see what was happening as I was falling upside down and my legs obscured all view of the aircraft above me. My arm was beginning to hurt pretty badly, so I decided to pull my chute right away in case I fainted from loss of blood. I reached round for my ripcord but could not find it. For some unknown reason I thought my chute must have been torn off me while I was getting out of my kite and almost gave up making any further efforts to save myself. I remember thinking that the whole process of being shot down, and being killed, seemed very much simpler and less horrible than I had always imagined. There was just going to be a big thud when I hit the deck and all would be over - my arm would stop hurting and no more 109s could make dirty passes at me behind my back.

I think I must have been gradually going off into a faint when suddenly I thought of Mother reading the telegram saying that I had been killed in action. I made one last effort to see if my parachute was still there and to my amazement and relief found that it had not been torn off after all. With anoter suprheme effort I reached round and pulled the rip cord. There was a sickening lurch as my chute opened and my harness tightened round me so that I could hardly breathe. I felt horribly ill and faint. Blood from my arm came streaming back into my face, in spite of the fact that I was holding the stump as tightly as I could. I could only breathe with the utmost difficulty and my arm hurt like Hell. I could see Malta spread out like a map 15,000 ft below me and I longed to be down there - just to lie still and die peacefully. I was woken from this stupor by the roar of an engine and naturally thought some bloodthirsty Gerry had come to finish me off. I don't think I really minded what happened; certainly the thought of a few more cannon shells flying past me didn't exactly cheer me up. To my joy, however, I saw that my escort was a Hurricane piloted, as I learned later, by Eric Taylor.He ahd quite rightly decided that he could do no good by playing with the Huns at 20,000 ft, so came down to see that none of them got me.

For what seemed like hours I hung there, apparently motionless, with Malta still as far away as ever. Once or twice I started swinging very badly, but as I was using my only hand to stop myself bleeding to death, I was unable to do anything about it. At about 1,500 ft I opened my eyes again, and to my joy saw that I was very much lower down. For a little while I was afraid I was going to land in the middle of a town, but I mercifully drifted to the edge of this. For the last 100 ft I seemed to drop out of the sky - the flat roof of a house came rushing up at me, and just as I was about to land on it, it dodged to one side and I ended up in a little patch of green wheat. I hit the ground with a terrific thud, rolled over once or twice, and then lay back intending to die quietly. This, however, was not to be.

Scarcely had I got myself comfortable and closed my eyes, when I heard the sound of people running. I hurriedly tried to think up some famous last words to give my public but never had a chance to utter them. I was surrounded by a crowd of shouting, gesticulating Malts, who pulled at my parachute, lifted my head and drove me so furious that I had to give up the dying idea in order to concentrate completely on kicking every Malt who came within range. From what the pongos [army] told me after I believe I registered some rather effective shots.

Eventually two very dim army stretcher-bearers arrived with a first-aid outfit. I told them to put a tourniquet on my arm and give me some morphia, whereupon one of them started to bandage my wrist and the other went off to ask what morphia was. In the end I got them to give me the first-aid outfit and fixed myself up. At last a doctor arrived who actually knew what to do. He put me on a stretcher, had me carried about half a mile across fields to an ambulance, which in turn took me down to the local advanced field dressing station. Here they filled me with morphia, gave me ether, and put my arm in a rough splint. When I came round they gave me a large tot of whisky, another injection of morphia and sent me off to Imtarfa as drunk as a lord. When I eventually arrived at the hospital I was feeling in the best of spirits and apparently shook the sisters by asking them to have a drink with me."

[quoted in Antony Rogers, "Battle over Malta: Aircraft Losses and Crash Sites 1940-42", Sutton Publishing 2000]

prologue:

"James Archibald Findlay MacLachlan - known as "Jay" to his family, "Mac" to his friends and tagged "One-Armed Mac" by the press - is a true hero of World War II. Having lost his arm following combat over Malta, he was fitted with an artificial limb and continued to fight - way beyond the call of duty. It was perhaps inevitable that he would lose his life in action but along the way this modest man inspired other amputees who wanted to get back into the war. Mac flew Fairey Battle light bombers during the Battle of France, winning his first DFC. He then retrained on fighters and flew Hurricanes towards the end of the Battle of Britain. Having volunteered to go overseas, he led a formation of six Hurricanes from the deck of the aircraft carrier HMS Argus to the besieged island of Malta. Here, following several weeks of intense air combat during which he accounted for eight Italian and German aircraft, he was shot down by one of the Luftwaffe's top fighter aces, Oblt Joachim Muncheberg. Severely wounded in the left arm, he nonetheless parachuted over the island and was rushed to hospital. The arm could not be saved. However, within 16 days of the amputation, he persuaded his CO to allow him to fly a Magister two-seater, initially accompanied by another pilot, before going solo! On his return to England, where he was fitted with an artificial arm, Mac was soon given command of No1 Squadron equipped with Hurricane IICs for night intruder operations. By the end of 1942 he had accounted for five German night bombers and had been awarded the DSO and a Bar to his DFC, plus the Czech Military Cross. Following a six-month goodwill trip to the United States, where he was feted as a fighter pilot hero wherever he went, he returned to operations with the Air Fighting Development Unit. In company with Geoffrey Page, he participated in the destruction of six Luftwaffe training aircraft in one single sortie; but, on his next mission, his Mustang was hit by ground fire when crossing the French coast and crash-landed, with Mac critically injured. Taken prisoner, he died in captivity on 31 July 1943. Based on his diaries and letters, this is Mac's story, mainly told in his own words."

Dont visit the prisoners:

"When we shot the Germans and Italians down, we used to go and see them in hospital at Imtarfa - but one day I stopped the squadron from doing it. It was at the beginning of July [1942] and I was nearing the end of my time with the squadron. There was a raid and Woodhall was controlling it. He'd talked this raid through, giving us a brilliant running commentary. There were three Italian bombers in a tight V formation, with a great beehive of fighter escorts - about 80 plus Me109s and Macchi 202s - and the whole idea was that the bombers were decoys. There were ten of us - I had a four, Raoul Daddo-Langlois had a four and the New Zealander, Jack Rae, was leading his pair of two. We were flying in line-abreast, as we always did. Woodhall had got us into this marvellous position, up-sun, and at about 26,000 feet. I had pushed the thing up another 2000 because you never lost anything by having excess height. Bader always had this piece of doggerel that he used to recite, "He who has the sun creates surprise. He who has the height controls the battle. He who gets in close shoots them down."

We were now about 5,000 or 6,000 feet above these fellows, so I said to my guys, "Look we've got bags of height - we've got the sun but there are a lot of 109s about, so we'll go straight through the lot of them and have a go at the three bombers. After that, we go straight down to the deck." We went steaming into these bloody things. I had a go at the bomber on the left and saw it disintegrate, going down in flames. I saw Raoul's go falling away, and then Jack came through and knocked out the bomber in the middle. All three of them went down in flames, then I said, "Now roll on to your backs, fellers, and go down to the deck. There are far too many 109s about to stay and mix it." So we went down and landed at Takali.

The next day, I took two or three of the fellows who had been flying that day, plus one of the chaps from Headquarters who could speak Italian, to the hospital where all the Italians who had baled out were in bed. I walked across to the bed on the left of the ward and there was this good-looking young Italian with his arm all bandaged up. The interpreter said to him, "This is the CO of the squadron which shot your aeroplanes down, and these are some of the rest of the squadron." And this young Italian, who couldn't speak English, held up his hand and said, through the interpreter, "I have lost my hand." It made me feel terrible. Then the interpreter asked him, "What did you do in peacetime?" and the boy just said, "I was a professional violinist." I said to the chaps, "I'm going out now", and I waited for them until they had finished talking to the Italians. Then I said to them, "Look here, we are never going to visit these wounded prisoners in hospital again when there is an emotive injury or wound. It is so terrible and bad for morale. I can't stand it." For weeks after, long after I'd come back from Malta, I used to wake up in the middle of the night, thinking about it. It was a dreadful thing, because I had no feeling of hate for these people."

Squadron Leader "Laddie" Lucas, 249 Squadron (Later Wing Commander, CBE, DSO, DFC), quoted in "Forgotten Voices of the Second World War", Random House/Imperial War Museum 2004.

The young wounded Italian was the only survivor of his crew.