In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

The Saga of "Sweet Pea"

The 2nd Bomb Group
B-17 # 38078 on Mission 279
to Debrecen, Hungary
Marshalling Yards on
Sept. 21 1944

The Flight Crew Story

This raid produced one of the great flying fortress survival stories of the war. 2nd Lt Guy M Miller and crew of "Sweet Pea" were approaching the target when an 88mm anti-aircraft shell slammed into the plane's mid-section exploded, and nearly tore the Fortress in two. Huge sections of the waist on both sides instantly disappeared, control cables were cut, electrical and communications systems went powerless and silent. Half of the bombs fell out of the bomb bay, the lower turret was jammed with the gunner inside, and the explosion blew deadly debris in all directions. The left waist gunner, Elmer H Buss was killed instantly. The right waist gunner, James F. Maguire had multiple wounds but was saved by his back pack parachute serving as a flak suit, saving his life. The tail gunner, S/Sgt James E Totty was mortally wounded and died on the airplane. The radio operator, S/Sgt Anthony Ferrara was peppered like buckshot with shrapnel fragments in the chest.

The stunned crew started its battle for survival. Lt Miller and his copilot, Lt Thomas M. Rybovich struggled for control of the airplane and begin assessing what they had left to do it with. Most of the control cables were cut and his major control was through use of the engines which miraculously, were undamaged.

Lt. Miller thought about ordering bail out but decided against that when he learned he had one dead, three wounded, and one stuck in the ball turret. The wounded were gathered in the radio room for first aid. The bombardier/gunner, S/Sgt Robert R Mullen came back from the nose section and helped Sgt Gerald McGuire, upper turret gunner, bring the mortally wounded S/Sgt Totty from the tail to the radio room. McGuire did finally succeed in freeing Cpl William F Steuck from the ball turret. Later it was learned that turret was resting on only three safety fingers which were all that kept the turret from falling out of the airplane with Steuck inside. There were still six bombs hung up in the racks and Mullen climbed into the bomb bay and released them one by one with a screw driver.

Against seemingly impossible odds, Lts Miller and Rybovich now faced the reality of trying to nurse their mangled airplane and its battered crew across several hundred miles of enemy territory and almost 600 miles back to base. Navigator, 2nd Lt. Theodore Davich plotted a course and the pilots very gingerly set what was left of "Sweet Pea" on the long trek homeward. (This account is set out in the book "Defenders of Liberty" but I thought it such an outstanding achievement for this crew I would repeat it here.)


A First Hand Account of the Landing from Someone on the Ground

The story as told by Jack Botts, Ex-Radio Operator, 414th Sqdn, 97th BG, Amendola, Italy.

I was with the 97th BG, and we also had bombed the Debreczen target that day. I was standing on top of our plane, swabbing out the top turret barrels, when somebody pointed off to the south. There was this plane, making wide swings about 5 miles away, obviously trying to line up with our runways. We couldn't see damage from that distance, but were curious because of the odd maneuvering and the distress flares being fired.

The plane passed us about 100 yards away as it landed, and we all yelled in surprise at the big hole through its waist. Four of us jumped into a jeep and drove over to where it stopped. The tail wheel had collapsed about half way down the dirt runway (between a steel mat and an asphalt strip), causing the plane to ride to a stop on the ball turret.

We arrived at the plane with several other jeeps just as the crew was getting out. Somebody yelled that the ball gunner was still in the ball, so a couple other guys and I opened the turret and pulled out the gu;nner, who was in bad shape emotionally. He had not been able to move the ball nor communicate with the rest of the crew. One photo shows the turret hatch laying on the ground where it fell when we opened it.

Another account that I read reported that the ball gunner had been freed from the ball on the way back from the target. It's a small matter, but it still stands out in my mind after nearly 65 years. My wife and I revisited Amendola in 1990 and the Italian air base that is there now was laid out much as it was way back then.

That was one of the finest flying feats I had ever witnessed, since there were no tail controls in that plane. We in the 97th always had a good relationship with those in the 2nd BG, and I wish all its surviving members well. Best wishes to you.

The Ground Crew Story

The story as told by S/Sgt James Reiman in an email received July 7, 2003


"A tough old bird flew again! I was inducted into the service in Saginaw, Michigan March 1943. After basic training it was off to sheet metal school 555 and then shipped overseas to Casablanca, North Africa for more training. Several months later several of us from the 339th Air Service Squadron were sent to Amendola Air Field near Foggia, Italy. We were immediately attached to the 2nd Bomb Group. I was in sheet metal work repairing many B-17s. On this day, September 21, 1944 the mission left our field early morning and after the mission was complete the main body of crews returned to our base on schedule as usual. We could tell that certain planes did not make it back. It had to have been about 2 hours later when we heard this lone B-17 with what sounded like engine trouble coming into our base. We were working in our repair area near the third runway, a dirt runway which was built for emergency landings. As I looked up at the B-17, the fuselage physically appeared to be swinging from side to side. I couldn't help but think that the pilot and co-pilot were doing one heck of a job bringing her in. They held her tail up off the ground as long as they could and the tail had not snapped off yet. It came to a stop just a short distance from our work area. Little did I know of the condition of the crew until later. I walked over to look at the damage which was a lot of sheet metal work and said to myself, "God, you could drive a army jeep through the hole of the waist of that B-17". It was resting on the ball turret under the B-17 as it collapsed from lack of stability in the center area. I examined the damage and realized that the only thing holding the plane together was the four metal struts on top and bottom of the fuselage. They had to have been very weak from the trip and the explosion of the shell.

It was standard procedure that we work in pairs to complete our work as it would speed up completion time. After we salvaged the parts, my partner, Emmett Shearer, of then Oakland, California, and myself repaired the plane. Sweet Pea went back into service shortly after but only as a transport plane. She had seen the last of combat by now. I cannot remember how many days and hours we put into the repair, but the area of repair was a vital part of the aircraft and everything had to be done just right. I do remember that Boeing considered it the most damaged B-17 that ever came back after being hit while on a mission. Emmett said he saw a picture of it in Washington DC at the museum and also in the Boeing Museum of Flight in Seattle, Washington.

To this day, I vividly remember the sight of Sweet Pea coming into the runway and what pride Emmett and I shared in completing what was told to us as an impossible task. Today E. A. lives in Washington State and I still live in Michigan. We can still recall those days and our comradeship throughout the war."

[bobbysocks]

What was it like to fly a combat mission as part of a B-24 crew in WW II
by Chet Humeniuk 14 May 1992

"Every afternoon we checked the Squadron bulletin Board to see if our crew was scheduled to fly. If our crew was listed we usually spent a quiet evening. Maybe wrote a letter home. Basically it was a time to do some soul searching and to think of home and family.

The whistle blower came around mighty early in the longer days of summer. 0130 AM being the earliest. We had the choice of getting up then and going to breakfast or staying In the sack a while longer. Most of us opted not to eat breakfast. It gave us a few minutes of "twilight zone". The war sometimes seemed unreal and far away. It didn't seem logical that in about 6 to 8 hours the Germans were going to be doing their best to blow us out of the sky.

I don't know how all the Bomb Group's operated, but in ours the entire crew went to briefing. A curtain hung over our flight path map until briefing started. The big if - what target. When a "biggie" like Viener Neustadt, Austria or Ploesti, Romania came up you could sense the mood change. Less wise cracks, less talking. I remember looking around at the crews and wondering whether they or we would be absent from next briefing.

Next came a stop at the parachute bldg. Early on we kept on gear in our tents until someone discovered that chutes could collect moisture and wouldn't function at high/cold altitudes. Our chutes were our life lines. We treated them like babies. Always made sure the release pins were not bent, etc.

On to the flight line, engine run up, a check of what ever position you had that day. While I was at one time or another in every gun position/turret on the plane I generally flew the left waist position. Sometimes we had an extra camera crew member along. His job was to ready and operate the camera during target strike. We generally did not relish this. It further crowded an already crowded area.

A flare was fired signaling time to start the engines and taxi out. As our turn came up those of us in the rear of plane usually got up against a bulkhead. I felt we all "died a little" on take off. A full fuel and bomb load. Getting off the ground I felt was almost half the danger of the mission. It took awhile to get a few hundred feet of altitude.

After we gained some respectable altitude we began a circular pattern usually near our base and our B-24s began to cue up into formation. Once that was completed we normally headed out over the Adriatic Sea. Over water we gunners loaded and tested fired a few bursts to check out turrets and guns.

Then started the "long haul". It took several hours to climb up to altitude. Most targets we hit around 25 thou mark. Anything less like 22 or 23 thou we felt exposed. Maybe it was psychological, but we wanted all the altitude we could have. Actually the B-24 was only capable of getting up around 26 or 26.5 thou with loads we carried.

Eventually the formations got stretched out in one long line. At times one could see the sun glistening off of planes as far ahead and behind as one could see.

The 1st pilot was on the radio net with other planes in the formation. The rest of us were on intercom. We spent a lot of time just talking. Occasionally we would even sing a few songs to break the monotony. When I look back I am amazed at the length of time we were in the air. While the average time for our over all missions averaged 7 hrs some missions were more like 8 hrs.

On a few missions the Germans had hauled in some anti aircraft guns on rail cars and caught us with some pretty accurate fire about half way to target. Those incidents were quite a shock coming out of the blue so to speak. Our nose gunner got a chunk of shrapnel in his knee on one such incident. He was back with us in a week or so.

We had fighter action from time to time, but toward the end of our tour of duty these attacks became less frequent.

By the time we reached the target area our adrenaline was up. A small cloud of blackish smoke would be visible ahead. This smoke accumulated from rounds fired earlier on previous formations. Final heading for target was made at I. P., Initial Point, I think it stood for. We were then about 5 minutes or so from target. Anti aircraft fire we faced was field artillery turned skyward. The ususal fire was 88 MM rounds fused to explode at our altitude or on contact. Some big targets also had 105 MM guns, the "wham" from those I felt I could feel to the core of my body. The target area was where we took the largest percentage of our losses. A few planes took direct hits - usually there were not any survivors in those cases. Finally came the upward lurch as the bomb load left the bomb bay. Next the formation would make a big left or right turn to get out of target area and we started the long haul back.

Once far enough away from the target to not be receiving anymore rounds there would be a certain amount of chatter on how it went. A few other times when we lost a plane right along side ours over target there was more like a stunned silence.

The trip back was filled with various concerns. How our fuel was doing? Any engines that took damage? Would they keep on running? Occasionally an engine had to be shut off and prop "feathered". When we had a target to the East or Northeast our first goal was to at least make it back to the Yugoslav Mtns. If the situation was such that the plane couldn't be brought all the way back to base these area had friendly underground that would help bring crews out. Fortunately we never faced this fate. Our crew never had to bail out or ditch.

Once back over the Adriatic the let down was fairly swift. It was good to see Italy and home base. Flares were used by planes to indicate they had wounded aboard. Our 1st pilot was the only other crew member we had wounded. He took a piece of shrapnel in his lower leg. A good deal of the time we got back with a number of holes in our planes. In fact one of our "D" model 24's was named "Patches".

Some of the other names I remember also mainly from older "D" models, were Professor D and Flame McGoon. It was always encouraging to come off a target and see the older planes still coming thru. A good deal of the "Ds" had desert camouflage coloring from North Africa campaign. Actually they had a higher cruising speed than the new G and H models. Mainly they had less turrets.

After unloading from plane we were taken to debriefing. When we first arrived we had an oz of whiskey credited to us after each mission. After we had accumulated enough for a bottle each we threw a big party. Later we got the ounce right after debriefing. One time one of the other crew members didn't want his and I had a double. Going back to our tent I had the feeling I was walking about 2 feet off the ground. It was probably too big a belt after being on oxygen for hours, little to eat, etc.

Our tent, one of 3, sat in a small vineyard. It was very much like "the swamp" in Mash. It was home to six of us enlisted men from our crew. The Officers had barrack like qtrs. Many a bull session was had over the months. We eventually got closer to the other crew members than even our own families.

Finally came the day when I had my missions in and I got to stand down while our crew made one last mission to finish their req'd missions. A day of mixed emotions for me.

My last mission with crew had been on 15 July 1944. Our target that day was Ploesti, Roumania. It was one of the 5 missions our crew flew over Ploesti.

My mission record is dated 29 July, 1944. We were flown to Naples later to wait out a troop ship convoy back to the States. Our crew began to split up at the "Repel Depot" as it was called. Only one of our crew members was assigned to the same tent as I was. We heard daily rumors about the convoy due in "that day". It did finally arrive. About 12 days later we saw the Statue of Liberty as we pulled in to New York Harbor.

In looking back I felt we had a better than average combat crew. We had the only Eskimo flight crew member we knew of. He was our Flight Engineer. I drew 2nd Flight Engineer/Gunner. Our ground crews were some of the best in the world. The crew chiefs and other personnel worked their hearts out to make our planes combat ready.

We didn't win the war because we were that much better than the Germans. Mainly it was a war of attrition. USA and Allies just wore down the opposition.

We weren't all that brave either. Coming off of one of our missions to Ploesti one of our 24's slid back along side and below us after taking a mortal hit. A few minutes later our navigator said, "If I could have surrendered to the Germans back there they would have had another POW".

Did being in combat make me a better person? I don't know. Maybe a little more humble.

For better or worse we toughed it out and lucked out. The Good Lord was with us."

C.T. Humeniuk/Flight Eng./Gunner 515 Sqdn, 376th Bombardment Group H AAF

[bobbysocks]

The Frascati Mission on May 23, 1944
By T.Sgt. Raymond Roemer, Flight Engineer, 515th Squadron

"We slept later that day because the target was not a long one. Briefing promised that it would be an easy one. That should have been a warning to us . We were loaded with 1000 pounders and the Target was the Supreme Headquarters, German Forces. North of the Anzio Beach Head.

San Pancrazio was a neat place to fly from. The weather was warm that spring and on one occasion we went swimming in sight of Roman watchtowers on a sandy beach. The next day we would be at 20,000 feet and 30 degrees below zero, thinking about the warm weather.

We were flying on the left side of the lead ship in our element and we approached the target area from the water (the Bay of Naples). We started the run and then at the last second aborted. When the bomb load is released the lightened ship lifts up and away. This time for whatever reason we turned, did not drop and started a climb.

The weight of the full load made us slow and in the turn the ship on the right side of our element took a hit. It tore out a section of the fuselage from the trailing edge of the wings back on the waist windows. Someone remarked on inter-com "You could drive a Jeep through that hole".

The B24 is constructed with a main spar that begins at the rear of the flight deck then forms the catwalk continuing on to the waist section dividing at the Ball-turret and main hatch and ending at the tail turret. When I looked at that hole, the only thing holding the tail empennage to the rest of the ship was the main spar sections. Their radio was out and several of the crew was in wounded in the waist. The control cables run through the main spar in a channel then straddle the main hatch and Ball then continuing on to the tail section. The hole had severed these cables. They were in rough shape. No time to salvo and be sure not to hit friendly troops. So the entire element broke off from the rest of the formations and headed out to the water. Mitch and the other lead ship pilot opted to fly wing and contact Naples for an emergency landing.

The Pilot of the severely damaged ship with dead and wounded aboard salvoes over the water then started a controlled descent turning slowly, now leading the element. Mt Vesuvius was on our right with a plume of smoke rising above us. Suddenly the spar could not hold any longer and the ship dived in to the green slope of the huge mountain. By the time we made a 180 only a black mark on the ground marked the spot.

There were 11 men on board that fateful ship. The usual 10 man crew and 1 photographer. Mitch writes in his notes for the mission.They dove straight down and burst into flames. No survivors. Gallagher and Fuller, two swell fellows. The worst was watching them clean out them tent that night and try to not remember. Other accounts of this crew who all received the Silver Star are in Walker's book. I will always remember them and the brave men that showed the fondness and fellowship for their crew. It is something that only a crewmember understands."

[bobbysocks]

Strawberry Bitch

By Daniel P. Rice- Pilot- 512th Squadron, 376th Bomb Group

The airplane which became named the Strawberry Bitch and later was placed on exhibit at the United States Air Force Museum was assigned to our crew at Herington Air Force Base, Kansas, in late August, 1943. I signed an issue ticket for it there. At that point it was merely one of many B-24Ds off the assembly line at San Diego, distinguished from all the rest of its model only by its serial number — at least until it had received its coat of camouflage pink paint. At that point it became one of a much smaller 'group.

We took the airplane up to check it out and found everything to our satisfaction except for one thing. As we put it through its various trial maneuvers, I noticed that the air speed indicator registered consistently about seven or eight miles per hour slower than it should. (Climbing speed, cruising speed, stalling speed, landing speed, etc.) I recall commenting to the crew after landing that "It looks like we have a real dog".

But I was not willing to let it rest that way. I sought out the maintenance officer on the flight line, explained my observations to him and asked him to check the airspeed meter for accuracy. Clearly, he didn't want to do it. I'm sure he felt that it would be an exercise in futility. But I persisted, and with all good grace, in spite of his reluctance, he agreed to make the test. When I checked back with him later, he told me with some wonderment that his men had replaced the instrument. Their test procedure had shown that it registered seven miles per hour too slow.

As the various necessary procedures preliminary to our departure were being completed,
Someone on the crew was thinking that the airplane should have a name. I had not given that any thought, so when our engineer, Sergeant Haberman, came to me asking if they could name it, I agreed. When he told me the name they had in mind, I was a little taken aback. It would not be completely accurate to say that I "approved" their suggested name but I did accept it, and overnight through the talent of someone, there on the flight line, one pink B-24D number 42-72843 became the Strawberry Bitch. That is, the name was painted on there.

The picture of the red haired Vargas girl was not added until after we had been in the 512th Squadron for a while. I don't remember for sure just where that was done. It could have been at Enfidaville, Tunisia, but I believe it more likely that the picture was added after we moved up to San Pancrazio, Italy. We left Herington on the morning of August 28, 1943, bound for Dow Field at Bangor, Maine. On that flight, after much close observation, I concluded that our artificial horizon was just slightly out of level, and wrote it up on the proper form. Again, the flight line maintenance people promptly installed a replacement instrument.

The next morning we were off again, bound for Gander, Newfoundland. We carried a large brown sealed envelope with instructions to not open it until after we were airborne. After we had gotten lined out on course, I opened it and found Operations Orders Number 398 directing crew number 34-4, whose pilot I was, to proceed by air in B-24D number 42-72843 to Cairo, Egypt, and report to the Ninth Air Force for further assignment and duty. Two other crews from the Bridges Provisional Group were included in the same order, those of Lieutenant John M. Repp and Lieutenant William Metzger, Jr. I paid close attention to the new artificial horizon on that flight and found it satisfactory.


At about 08:45 PM local time on August 30, we left Gander for the flight across the North Atlantic to Prestwick, Scotland.

Most of that ten hours and twenty minutes was about as dull and boring as it can get. For the most part we were between cloud layers, so we could not have seen the ocean even if there had been something down there to look at or any light to see it.

Our navigator couldn't see the stars to check our position by celestial observations, so we just sat there and kept the compass on his dead reckoning headings. It was almost like spending ten hours straight in a Link Trainer. I did have one small diversion though. After a little while I had the feeling that we were flying in a shallow bank to the left. Our instruments said we were OK, but I couldn't help remembering that just two days ago I had an artificial horizon, which was not quite accurate. Could I trust this one? Should I?

That question was answered in favor of training over "feeling" and it turned out that instruments were indeed a more reliable indicator of attitude than the "seat of the pants". We made landfall just where we were supposed to, or at least within reasonable distance, and all was well.

I suppose that we would have been moved on out on the next leg of our trip the next day except for the weather. As the day began, a solid overcast hung low over the field, and nothing was moving. I think it would be accurate to say that the field was closed except for emergencies. We kept an ear tuned and an eye peeled for another pink B-24D, serial number 42-72844, with Bill Metzger and his crew who were traveling with us but who had been held over at Gander. We watched in vain as his expected ETA came and went. The only airplane that came in was a C-54, which rolled to a dead stop on the runway and stayed there. It was rumored that he didn't have enough fuel left to taxi in, and also that two very high-ranking Air Force generals were aboard. I can neither confirm nor deny the rumor.

It turned out later that Metzger and his crew had been up there somewhere in that soup but were not allowed to land. He was diverted to a small grass field somewhere in the general area, where the airplane was lightened so he could get it back in the air to come on to Prestwick when the weather would permit landing there. Of course the things removed from the airplane had to be brought on to Prestwick by some other means so it could all be reassembled for the continuation of their journey.

The next morning, September 2, we were off to St Mawgen, in Cornwall, which would be the jumping off place for the second long over-water leg on our way to Africa. Here there was another hitch. It was discovered that gasoline been dribbling down over the exhaust pipe of our number one engine, so it was determined that we should be sent to a B-24 repair depot at Watton, northeast of London to get it fixed. There they found a fuel leak in the auxiliary wing tip tank system, and corrected it. Then on September 6, we went back to St Mawgen. Another bug had to be worked out.

That same day we took off for Africa a little while before midnight, and landed at Marrakech about ten hours later. For some reason we were allowed only a very short rest and then were told to move on, even though we had been in the air about 12.5 hours out of the last 24. We chose a fairly short hop (4:40) to Algiers, and rested there a couple of days.

We made one more stop, at Tripoli, before arriving at Cairo on September 11. There we received new orders, to report to Devesoir, which was located on the west bank of the Great Bitter Lake, for the airplane to be made ready for combat and then on (or back) to Berka Two at Benghazi, Libya. There we would join the 376th Bomb Group. We checked in there on September 16, and were further assigned to the 512th Squadron. The Strawberry Bitch was now poised to begin to fulfill its purpose, that of combat operations against the enemy.

My crew did not have the Bitch on any of the airplane’s first three missions. It was assigned to different squadron "old- timers" who had the privilege of breaking in new airplanes, and I was sent out as co-pilot with others who had the dubious honor of breaking in new pilots. Others of the crew were also given temporary "one-mission assignments during this break-in period. We finally were put back together for my fourth mission but with a different airplane.

It was the Bitch's fourth mission — my fifth — before we were all back together again in "our" airplane. We took off from Benina Plain at Benghazi to bomb Tatoi Airdrome near Athens which was being used by the Germans in their fight with the British over some islands in the eastern Mediterranean. We landed back at Berka Two.

I think we caught them by surprise, for there was no fighter opposition at all and no effective antiaircraft fire. I don't remember any at all. The next day we were back in the Athens area again for the same purpose, this time at Eleusis Airdrome. The German fighters were ready for us. The "tail end Charlie" element at the extreme right rear corner of the formation took quite a beating as the fighters came at us from the rear. We were in the left wing position of that element and saw both the right wing and the lead ships catch fire and go down. We took a lot of hits ourselves, including 20mm cannon shell bursts in our main wing fuel tanks, but did not catch fire. Our top gunner (engineer) was injured about the left side of his face and head by fragments from the shell burst and holed Plexiglas, but fortunately the wounds were not deep nor life threatening. After a short healing period he was back in the harness and pulling his share of the load again. I don't suppose I ever did know the full extent of the damage absorbed by the airplane that day. Most of those details have long since dissolved in the mists of time anyway. But I do remember the three or four — possibly more — holes in the top of our wing and fuel tanks through which I could look in and see the gasoline gently sloshing back and forth as the airplane was slightly rocked by our movement on it. If I had a coffee cup, I could have reached in through the holes and dipped out the fuel. In retrospect, it seems to me that as I was watching both of my element mates go down in flames, that was the quintessential time and place for the expression: "There but for the grace of God go I." I certainly am at a loss for any other explanation of why they went down and we did not.

I remember too the good sized jagged hole in the left vertical stabilizer at or just above its attachment point to the horizontal tail surface where other explosive shells had found us. And at least one non-explosive one found us too. Curiously, it had entered the trailing edge of our left wing exactly in the center of the seam created by the riveting of two sheets of aluminum skin together. It had traveled forward through the wing and out through the de-icing boot on the leading edge. Then, there was a pronounced dimple in the center of one of our propeller blades, which it had hit after exiting the wing.

As we had approached the base, we could not establish contact with the tower, and once on the ground it was easy to understand why. All of our antennas had been shot away. That in itself was no big deal, but I think it serves to indicate the amount of bullets and shell fragments which had been, flying about the airplane.

So the Strawberry Bitch's fifth mission was sort of a rough one for it. That was more damage than our squadron ground crews were prepared to handle, so the airplane was transferred to a maintenance squadron for repair. It did not return to duty until November when my crew had it on the 10th and 11th for its 6th and 7th missions. We had it again for its 11th mission on November 29th, and Its 14th on December 15th.

The December 15th mission was my last flight in the Strawberry Bitch. Our target was the Avisio viaduct just south of Bolzano in northern Italy, but the airplane couldn't quite make it. Just about the time we crossed the northern coast of the Adriatic Sea, our number four engine started trailing a streamer of dense black smoke, so we feathered the propeller, dropped out of formation, and brought our bomb load back home. My recollection is that we had blown a cylinder.

Thus did my own personal association with the Strawberry Bitch come to an end after about 150 hours as its pilot. About 40 of these were combat hours, about 40 were in non-combat flights in the Mediterranean area, about 63 were in transit from Herrington to Benghazi, and about seven were in check-out flights at Herington.

The association ended, that is, until I found it again at the Air Force Museum in the spring of 1975. With the gracious permission of museum personnel I have enjoyed the privilege of revisiting its cockpit on four different occasions with different members of my family. I am deeply appreciative.

I am afraid that this brief "overview" has long since lost the quality of brevity. Perhaps I can ration-alize this by claiming to have added some bit of information about the airplane that is not contained in the Museum's files on it.

[bobbysocks]

An Account of My Experience Leading Mission #206
By Ralph "Red" Thompson, 515th Squadron Commander

"This is an account of my experience in leading Mission #206 of the 376th Bombardment Group (H). The date was 28 December 1943, the target was the railroad repair facility at Vicenza, Italy about 500 miles northwest of our base at San Pancrazio, in the "heel" of Italy. I was in the pilot's (left) seat and Lt. Colonel Ted Graff, the Group commander was in the right seat. Colonel Graff and I were friends; I was the 515th Squadron commander, so he was also my boss.

The conduct of the mission was hampered by cloud decks and haze. We opted to climb to cruise altitude over our base, since there was a hole in the 9 to 10 thousand ft. overcast. This delayed us, but we knew the 98th Group would also be delayed. Arriving about 8 minutes late at our rendezvous, we did not see the 98th. From then until we arrived in the target area we felt that the 98th was ahead of us. Later at the 82nd Fighter Group (P-38's) rendezvous we failed to see them. Again we felt that the other groups were ahead of us. The 98th had been designated the lead group. En route we saw a formation of aircraft to our left. We turned toward them but soon determined that they were B-17's, so resumed our heading to our target. We saw no other aircraft, heard no radio comments. We flew between decks at about 11 thousand feet and were in the clear at the head of the Adriatic, as briefed. As we approached the initial point we saw a formation ahead of us. We thought that they were the 98th Group until we quickly realized they were enemy fighters.

By that time Jerry was attacking and destroying the 512th Squadron. We dropped our bombs on the target and turned toward base. We had lost 10 of the 17 B-24's that had started the mission.

Clifford Wendell wrote eloquently of his misfortune of being shot down, losing members of his crew, being a prison of war. He wrote further that I broke radio silence to try to find the 98th and the 82nd, that other A/C commanders tried to persuade us to abort the mission, that "ordinarily" we had instructions to abort if a rendezvous was missed, all inaccurate. I did not know that it was my "last mission" and I wonder how Wendell knew it. The furor after the mission resulted in me being "stood down" and thus my tour ended. Wendell erroneously assumed that my thought processes regarding turn-backs, finishing my tour, etc., co-incided with his. Not true. We had different perspectives, it appears.

We were not used to having fighter cover; we had confidence in the weather forecast. Colonel Graff was on his 13th mission, I on my 39th. We discussed the weather, the inability to rendezvous with either the 98th or 82nd so we agreed to proceed, still thinking the other 2 groups were ahead. What else? We were fighting a war, we had orders to bomb a target, we had 17 bombers and crews. We were combat crews doing our thing. It would have been a dereliction to turn back. The mission was conducted professionally. We got clobbered."

[bobbysocks]

The Raid on Vicenza, Italy, December 28, 1943
Cliff Wendell


The weather was rather bad on that day and most of southern Italy was covered by a heavy layer of clouds. There was some question at briefing whether or not we'd take-off because of the bad weather, so we waited at the planes for the final word that the mission was on. I was flying #65 "RED WING'', the ship we flew overseas. This was to be my 25th combat mission and the rest of the crew had about the same number except Jack O'hara, the right waist gunner, who was flying his 50th that day and expected to complete his tour of duty. He was not a regular member of my crew, but was substituting for one of my men who was sick.

As we stood around the plane waiting for the signal to start up, we all congratulated Jack and told him how lucky it was that his last mission was to be a milk run to Vicenza. We had bombed the same town 3 days before on Christmas Day and had seen no flak and no fighters, so we really expected it to be easy. We finally got the green flare signifying the mission was on, so we taxied out and took off. The leader circled the field at about 1,000 ft. and gradually every plane fell into its proper place in the formation. The 515th was leading that day with six ships, the 512th with six ships was low and to the left, and our squadron, the 514th, had five ships flying high and to the right of the leader. "Red Wing's" position in the formation was on the right wing of the high squadron leader. As one of the 514th ships was forced to turn back right after take-off, we had five ships in our squadron so there was no right wing plane in our second element, There-fore, our plane was farthest to the right and in an extremely vulnerable position.

At briefing we had been told that we would rendezvous with the 98th Bomb group and with a P.38 fighter group at an altitude of 3000 feet over a certain point on the Adriatic Coast. However, as there was a hole in the clouds just over our field, our leader decided to climb above the clouds and attempt to rendezvous with the other groups above the overcast. Consequently we continued circling the field and climbed to an altitude of about 14,000 feet before we were above the clouds and set our course for the rendezvous point, it took us about 35 minutes to climb to this altitude and as a result, we were 35 minutes late to the rendezvous point. Here we circled two or three times and Capt. Thompson attempted to contact the other groups by radio. By this time, they had apparently gone on ahead without us because there was no answer. At this point we probably should have turned back as we were instruct to do, ordinarily, if the rendezvous is missed.

The decision was up to Capt. Thompson and Col. Graff in the lead ship, and they decided to attempt to complete the mission unescorted. It is easy enough now to second guess their judgment in this case, but I believe they were influenced by the fact that this was Capt. Thompson's last mission, and he was naturally anxious to finish up so he could so home, if we had turned back then, we would not have been credited with a mission so he would have had to fly another one some other day, · Also the fact that Vicenza had been an easy target before probably affected the decision. At any rate, we turned north and started ftying up the Adriatic. At this point, a number of the pilots in the formation chose to break the rule of radio silence and started a conversation with the lead ship questioning the wisdom of continuing and suggesting that: we ought to turn back. Of course, this was pure folly, because if the Germans were listening, the fact was being advertised that we were unescorted. The mission continued uneventfully, and we crossed the coast line south of Venice at about 11:30. We were then at about 21,000 feet and slowly climbing to our bombing altitude of 22,500. We flew inland for about 40 miles and then turned North toward our target, the railroad roundhouse and engine repair shops at Vicenza less than 50 miles away. It was then that fighters were first reported, and we saw a whole swarm of them, like little dots in the sky, climbing up to meet us. It was later reported that there were over one hundred of them against our little handful of 17 bombers. They were all FW 190's and Mg 109's, single-engined German air craft armed with 20 mm cannon. The attack started almost immediately and our ship became the primary target because of our vulnerable position. The group was flying in very close formation for maximum protection, and it was comforting to see all the 50 cal. machineguns on the neighboring ships which would help drive off the attack. I was especially thankful for the nose turret on our squadron's lead ship, the first time we had had such protection as all our other ships were B-24 D's which didn't have nose turrets. Four fighters attacked from the rear and the tail gunner "Red" Sansone was just triumphantly announcing the destruction of the first one when six others turned toward us from the front and attacked at one o'clock in a string formation.

As they went flashing by a hail of bullets passed diagonally across in front of me, and I was afraid for the welfare of the boys in the nose. Charlie Borger, our bombardier, was firing the machine gun in the nose, but it wouldn't work properly and only discharged one bullet at a time and would not fire continuously. As the fighters went by they raked us from stem to stern and the noise of the bullets striking the ship was the most fearful sound I had heard in combat. Everything was happening very quickly now. The radioman, Arex Mikaitis, in the upper turret and Jack O'Hara at the right waist gun teamed up to shoot down two of the attackers and "Red" Sansone got another one at the tail for a score of four shot down. But the damage had already been done. I was intent on flying as close to the lead ship as possible and hoping we had weathered the attack with no casualties, when Don Jefferies, the engineer, clapped me on the shoulder. My first thought was that he had been hit, but as I turned to look I saw him pointing toward the bomb bay. His microphone had become disconnected in the excitement so he could not talk to me but the look in his eye told me what had happened. Through the small window in the bomb bay door I saw a blazing inferno. All our gasoline and oxygen was burning around 8000 lbs. of bombs we had there. As Jefferies pulled the red handle to salvo the bombs, I banked the plane to the right and left the formation, at the same time giving the order on interphone to the crew to bail out, and ringing the alarm bell. There was another fire under the co-pilot and one in the nose wheel cornpartnent and the cock pit was fast filling with smoke. The number three engine was smashed and there was another fire in the rear of the ship forward of the ball turret. During the attack Jack O'Hara had been hit and knocked down by shell fragments in the arm, but he had gotten back to his gun in time to help shoot down the fourth plane and then had been sprayed by burning hot oil when #3 engine was hit. Barely able to see, he was assisted to the escape hatch by Angleton and Young, the other two gunners who also had been burned about the face and neck. "Red" Sansone stuck by his guns in the tail turret until he had shot down his second ship, and then looking around he saw the others had bailed out so he grabbed his parachute and quickly left the ship.

Bill Lovaas, the navigator, and Charlie Borger, the bombardier up in the nose had survived the attack unscathed. Upon hearing the order to bail out, Bill pulled the two handles to open the nose wheel doors, but nothing happened. Something had gone wrong with the mechanism, probably having been hit by a shell. Bill went back to get his oxygen mask on again and Charlie came out to the nose wheel compartment. When Bill returned he found that Charlie had succeeded in opening one of the doors and had apparently slipped into the opening and was stuck there, effectively locking the other door shut. He was hanging with his head, arms, and feet out in the slip stream and struggling to free himself. Bill tried to pull him back in, and tried to push him on through, but was unable to budge him. Charlie soon ceased his struggling as he became unconscious through lack of oxygen and Bill followed suit shortly after when the oxygen in his walk around bottle gave out. Later they were both thrown free as the ship broke up. Bill woke up hanging in his parachute, which had miraculously opened, and found himself about 2000 feet above the ground. Charlie never regained consciousness and fell to the ground.

To return to the flight deck, Mikaitis climbed down out of the top turret, and he and Jefferies proceeded to open the door into the bomb bay, however, the fire immediatey advanced onto the flight deck so they closed the door again. My good friend and co-pilot Jim Parsons was sitting in his seat calmly donning his parachute and waiting to help me in whatever way possible. I caught his eye and gave him the signal to leave as I was setting the ship up on the automatic pilot. He went back and helped Jeff and Mike put out the fire on the flight deck and then led the way out the upper escape hatch, a little door in the ceiling just behind the pilot's seat. About this time I had the plane flying by automatic pilot so I left my seat end grabbed my parachute thinking everybody must have already bailed out. However, Jimmy was just pulling his feet through the hatch and Jeff and Mike were standing below waiting to follow him out, It had taken them more time, of course, to put out the fire and to make the difficult climb through the upper hatch, than it would have taken if they could have bailed out through the bomb bay which was the normal escape procedure. So I returned to my seat, put on my parachute, and connected my oxygen mask again. The ship had started into a slow spiral to the left so I adjusted the auto-pilot controls to try to bring it back to a straight glide. Just as I was about to leave my seat again, for the legs of the last man were disappearing through the hatch, the right wing weakened by the intense fire gave way, and the plane fell off to the right into a violent spin. I was thrown out of my seat and was pinned back against the control pedestal and windshield by the force of the spin, I tried with all my might, but couldn't move a limb or a muscle. I prayed for deliverance, but I thought I was done for, and I thought what a blow it would be to my father and mother and sisters when they received the news. It seemed as though I had been in the burning ship for an awfully long time and now it must be approaching the ground, All of a sudden the ship must have broken apart because I was thrown away from the window and was standing between the pilot's and co-pilot's seats, I was completely disoriented and didn't know whether I was standing on the ceiling or the floor. There was so much smoke I couldn't get located and was unable to find the escape hatch which evidently slammed shut when the plane went into the spin, However, I spotted a small patch of daylight which seemed to revolve in front of me, As soon as it seemed below me I took a dive for it. This hole must have been back of the bomb bay somewhere and seemed about 20 feet away. The force of my dive carried me through all the broken and twisted wires until my arms and head were through the hole when the wires caught on my flying suit and held my legs inside the ship. Once again I thought I must be too close to the ground to escape now and I thought the force of the spin would tear me apart in the middle but after about one revolution my clothes ripped and I was thrown clear.


As soon as I was thrown clear of the ship, I was surrounded by an intense silence, such as I had never experienced before, and I was also filled with a great feeling of relief to be free of the burning ship at last. As soon as I could get my bearings I found I was falling head first toward the ground and I still had about six thousand feet of altitude. I knew then I'd be safe and wasn't even worried that the parachute might not open. When falling at such a height, one doesn't really feel like he's falling, but it's more like floating in the air and the silence is really remarkable. I could see and think very clearly. A couple of days before this mission I attended a lecture on parachute jumping, and the instructions I received there came back to me now. I tried to maneuver my body around so that I'd be falling feet first before I pulled the rip chord, but as soon as I got my feet straight down I'd do a flip and be falling head first again , so I compromised and got my feet lower than my head and pulled the rip chord. The chute opened much quicker than I thought it would, giving me a terrific jolt. I had my harness adjusted loosely for comfort in flying, and for that reason the chest buckle hit me in the chest and knocked the wind out of me and probably fractured my breast bone. At any rate, I couldn't draw a deep breath until two months later. While I was recovering my breath I started swinging like a pendulum. At first I disregarded this and just hung in my harness and panted, but when I started to swing so far the chute started to fold under I began to work against the swing and succeeded in slowing it down somewhat. At first it seemed as though I was just hanging in the air, but as the ground came closer the sense of falling increased, and the last three or four hundred feet the ground came up very fast. I was on the up swing when I landed which helped cushion my fall somewhat. I fell forward on my left side and immediately collapsed my chute. I knew that speed was now essential if I were to escape, but as I could see no one about, and I was still struggling for breath, I sat down on the lovely silk cloth of my parachute and gloried in the fact that I was still alive. I looked up and saw a group of parachutes high above me and drifting to the northeast. They were most likely my crew members and I noted their direction so that I could join up with them if possible. Just then a B-24 came into view diving down and being chased by a couple of fighters. As I watched, it burst into flames and about five parachutes trailed out behind it when it exploded and the pieces came fluttering down to earth to land only a mile or two away.

I had landed in a plowed field on the side of the hill. As I descended the hill a couple of farmers came up to meet me. We tried to converse but somehow I had forgotten even the few Italian words I had learned back at the base. We came to a secluded spot and I sat down to examine my knee which I had sprained slightly on landing, All of a sudden a whole crowd of curious people began to appear out of nowhere and I had to leave because any Germans around would be sure to investigate a crowd. One of the fellows in the crowd who seemed to be a leader and was friendly to me indicated I should follow him. I hoped he was a partisan and followed along. We walked three or four hundred yards along the path, turned a corner, and walked right into two armed Italian soldiers. They held their rifles on us and one of them searched me for any weapons, and that was it. I was a prisoner.

They escorted me back across the field where the wreckage of "Red Wing" was strewn, and they allowed me to look over the wreckage for any sign of my crew. It was then I saw the sad sight of a body lying in the middle of the field, and I knew it must be one of my crew. I hurried over wondering who it would be. There was a crowd of people gathered around him, and as I worked my way through I found that it was Charlie Borger, the bombardier, the one who had become stuck in the escape hatch. You can't imagine what a blow it was to see that my friend was dead. We had worked and played and shared danger together for a long time and such experiences bring crew members into a very close relationship. Somebody in the crowd had removed his parachute, and so we pulled the rip chord and spread the chute over Charlie's body.

Then the soldiers and the crowd escorted me to the small village of Lozzo, about a half mile away, and I was placed in a small dark cell in the village jail. The commandant was a fat and haughty fascist decked out in fancy uniform, but he wasn't too proud to steal my pen and pencil set, and my billfold giving a squeal of delight when he discovered it contained about $100 worth of invasion money.

All afternoon i was this commandant's prize exhibit as he brought in his influential friends and proudly displayed his American prisoner. They all tried to talk to me in Italian, German, or French, but none could speak English. I was hungry and tired and sore in body and spirit and trying to overcome the terrific shock of the day's experiences, so I did not much care about being such an exhibit.

Finally at about five o'clock in the afternoon the cell door opened again and there stood two German enlisted men in Luft waffe uniforms. It was a shock to see them because I believe this was the first time the thought entered my mind that I would probably be brought into Germany to one of their notorious camps where the chance of escape would be so slim. They took me outside where they had a motorcycle and side car. The square in front of the jail was crowded with curious onlookers, but whether they were friendly or unfriendly I could not tell. I got into the side car, and the two Germans got on the motor cycle, and we proceeded to the town of Abano-Terme near Padua. It was a long cold ride as somebody had stolen my leather flying jacket, and I had only my flying suit and a pair of khakis to protect me from the wintery winds.

At Abano I was taken before an officer who asked me a few questions, he did not press me, but merely took my name and then had the interpreter bring me over to the officer's mess to get something to eat. He brought me to a table where two boys from the 515th were sitting, both of them bandaged up from burns they had received. I didn't know the fellows, and they didn't know me so our conversation was rather guarded for a time until we were sure of each other's identity as we each feared the others might be Germans trying to obtain some information through such a subterfuge.

I was served a large platter of boiled potatoes covered with a very good meat gravy and coffee. I was famished by this time so it tasted very good to me.

The mess hall was filled with Germans, but our table was near the back of the room, and we were left pretty much alone. We sat there for an hour or two and then they brought in about eight more fellows from the group to eat. When they served them, the waiters also brought the three of us who were there originally, another big helping of the same potatoes and gravy which we accepted with pleasure.

After eating we were loaded on a bus and rode almost all night to Verona. We were each placed in a separate cell, and after being searched and examined by a doctor we were allowed to go to sleep. When I awoke I heard a lot of talking out in the hall. The place had been filled up with survivors of the massacre so they did not have enough cells for everybody, but had to leave a dozen or more men together in a large room at the end of the hall. When the guards left the room, one of the fellows unlocked my door, and I joined the larger group. Here I found three members of my crew, and we were able to piece together the story of what had happened. They knew of three other crew members who were in another part of the building, and were fairly certain that everybody had gotten out of the ship.

During that day I had a chance to talk to every surviving member of my crew. Jack O'Hara was most seriously injured, having been badly burned, and he was taken to the hospital where he was to remain for three months.

At this time none of us knew that Jimmy Parsons, our Co-pilot, had also been killed. When he didn't show up at Verona, we were all anxious for his welfare, but we hoped that he had been able to evade. Probably the full story of what happened to him will never be known. Shortly after the war was over, he was declared "Killed in Action" when his grave was found in a military cemetery near the place where we were shot down. About a year later Jimmy's folks had a letter from an Italian Priest who found Jimmy's body. From his description of the circumstances, it would seem that he had been shot by some German pilot as he was hanging helpless in his parachute. What a tragedy it is that such a fine fellow as Jimmy, who had so much to live for, should be the victim of such unfair play.

During the afternoon and evening, we were all interrogated by a German Sgt. who could speak excellent English. I don't'believe he obtained very much information from anybody. He talked to me for about 15 minutes asking me questions about the group such as, how many airplanes we had, where we were based, how I came overseas, etc. When I told him I wasn't required to tell him any more than my name, rank, and serial number, he said he would turn me over to the Gestapo, and they could make me talk. However, he wasn't very insistent, but seemed anxious to tell me how much they already knew.

They had obtained one of the information sheets we had been given at briefing, stating each pilot's name, squadron, airplane number, and position in the formation. Besides this, he had some other records which he showed me, which listed the names of all the important officers in the 514th Sqdn. giving their positions. The information was all essentially correct except it was about two months old and didn't list the changes that had taken place. To one of the men from the 512th, he showed some pictures of his Squadron Area at San Pan, and he knew who lived in each tent in the area. So the German Intelligence was very efficient and was able to gain a great deal of information about us, though through what source it is hard to tell.

The next morning, December 30th, a small group of us were assembled and taken to the depot. They had taken away our flying boots and flying coveralls, so some of us had khaki uniforms and others had only their baby blue bunting electrically heated suits and what a comical sight they were.

I and three other fellows were placed in one compartment with two German guards, who were evidently on their way home on leave. Each one of us was given a half a loaf of bread and a lb. of butter as our day's rations. It took us all day to go from Verona through the Brenner Pass and then to Munich. To amuse ourselves, we talked about our German guards who could not understand a word of English. You would be surprised at the horrible insults that passed complctely over their heads, and might sometimes even be acknowledged by a sort of a friendly smile.

At Munich we walked into the crowded station, but the people did not seem to notice us. By this time we didn't look anything like the pride of the American Army with our black beards and makeshift uniforms.

After a long wait, we got on another train and traveled all night to Frankfurt. We walked from the depot through the streets of the City and here the people were openly very antagonistic as they had already been bombed a few times. Some spat at us and others made as if they would throw stones at us, and they all looked like enemies indeed.

After a long walk through the cold, wet snow, we arrived at the infamous "Hotel" on the outskirts of Frankfurt, the German Interrogation Center. We were all placed in Solitary Confinement here.

A person who hasn't experienced it, probably can never realize what a terrible ordeal such imprisonment is. My cell was a small room about 5 feet wide and 12 feet long. Its only furnishings were a table, chair, and a hard bed. There were two small windows at the end covered with frosted glass. The room was heated by an electric radiator which was controlled by some diabolical fiend who kept the room either unbearably hot or freezing cold. Here I existed for 4 eternally long days.

My mind was full of thoughts of the terrific experience of the last few days and of doubts about my future fate, and it was impossible to drive these thoughts out of my mind. The first 24 hours I slept a good deal, but after that I was all slept out and couldn't sleep any more. The nights especially, were interminably long.

In the morning we got 2 slices of bread and a cup of ersatz coffee; at noon a bowl of cabbage soup; and at night, 2 slices of bread and a cup of ersatz tea. Truly a starvation diet. I was so hungry that when the meal came, I would wolf it down in a minute and still be ravenously hungry.

There was a church bell someplace in the neighborhood which tolled off every quarter of an hour. I'd listen for the time so I could count the minutes until the next meal.

Many of the prisoners were interrogated here, but for some reason they never got to me. One evening a German Officer came in and told me I was leaving. I followed him down the hall and there I met Bill Lovaas and Don Jefferies. One of them had managed to get a cigarette someplace and the three of us shared it, our first smoke for a week.

We spent the next three days in a small camp in Frankfurt and had our first taste of Red Cross food. What life savers those food parcels were to be, I doubt if many of us would have survived a year and a half of prison life if it hadn't been for the International Red Cross.

From this camp we journeyed to Stalag Luft I at Barth, Germany. My navigator and I were still together while the rest of our crew was sent to a camp near Vienna.

We travelled in one of the small European box cars. Fifty four of us crowded in together and a good share of the 54 were survivors of the 376th Group. When we got together and compared notes, we found that of the 100 men involved, about 50 were killed and about 50 became prisoners.

It took four days to make the journey. We were so crowded we had to take turns sleeping. One night we were stalled in the marshalling yards at Berlin, and this was at the time when the RAF was making almost nightly raids on that City. Fortunately, they visited some other target that night.

We stayed in Stalag Luft I for 16 1/2 months, but as that story has been told so many times before, I will not elaborate on it.

On May 1st, 1945, we were liberated by the Russians, and on May 14, the 8th Air Force flew in and brought us to France.

[bobbysocks]

Dogfight ends in an unlikely bond

Barrie Davis has long wanted to look into the eyes of the pilot who nearly blasted his P-51 Mustang out of the sky over a field in Romania during World War II. After 65 years, he'll finally get his chance.

In a rendezvous arranged by a magazine writer and his filmmaker son, Davis and his wartime nemesis, Ion Dobran, will meet face to face for the first time later this month.

It will be different now, of course. Davis, who flew for the U.S. Army Air Corps, and Dobran, a Romanian Air Force pilot, both went on to become aces during the war. Just months after their dogfight, Romania changed sides, fighting with Allied forces to defeat Hitler.

After the war, both men went home and resumed their civilian lives. Davis went into newspapers and printing, running Gold Leaf Publishers. Dobran worked a series of trades before becoming a pilot in civil aviation. A world apart, they worked until they could retire. But each held on to the memories of military service and wondered, at times, about the fellow in that other plane.

"I'm just eager to see him," Davis said of Dobran. "I never saw him or his airplane the day he shot me up."

Davis had been an eager recruit.

A 1940 graduate of the former Wakelon High School in Zebulon, Davis enrolled in early 1941 at Wake Forest University. That fall, he dropped out to enlist in service just as America was about to enter the war.

The way he remembers it, the Air Corps sorted men this way:

"If you were smart, they made you a navigator. If you were steady, they made you a bombardier. All the rest of us, they made pilots."

Davis was trained as a fighter pilot and assigned to the 15th Air Force in the U.S. Mediterranean operations, based in southern Italy. He was 20 years old.

His primary job was to escort bombers on raids. The one-man fighter planes protected the slow-moving bombers and their crews.

But from Italy, the planes sometimes had to travel three hours in one direction just to reach a target. After some delicate negotiations, the Soviet government agreed to let Allied forces put temporary bases in what is now Ukraine from which to launch bombing runs.

Davis and his P-51 Mustang arrived on June 2 at a base so remote that some of his fellow "Checkertails" -- named for the tail design on their planes -- feared they would run out of fuel before they found it.

On June 6, they were assigned to escort a fleet of B-17 bombers attacking a Romanian railroad yard, a nerve center in the network that sent war supplies to Germany.

He didn't see it coming

Three squadrons of P-51s and the bombers left around 7:30 a.m., with Davis in his trusty Mayfair 24. Right over the target, they were met by the Romanian air force. Almost instantly, it seemed as if there were 100 planes in the air. Then all at once, they were gone.

In fact, Davis could seeonly one other plane, that of fellow pilot Wayne Lowry. They fell in side by side and started back to the base.

Lowry spotted the plane that came from behind Davis. He later told Davis he had thought it was one of their own.

At first glance, historians say, the German-made Messerschmitt Bf-109G looked a lot like a P-51.

This one came in fast, firing its cannon and machine guns. The first cannon round blew the canopy off the Mustang and knocked Davis unconscious. Lowry went after the Messerschmitt, firing, and saw the pilot head for the ground.

When Davis came to, all he knew was that he was cold.

"The dew on my shoes from where I had walked through the grass that morning was frozen," he says. The plane was still flying along at 20,000 feet, where it was 4 degrees below zero.

He took the controls and surveyed the damage.

"He had just mutilated the right wing," Davis says of his attacker. "He was a pretty good shot."

He flew it back to the base, where he later learned there was an unexploded shell in the gas tank. It should have blown the thing up.

A surgeon and his assistant picked metal and plastic bits out of Davis for half an hour, wrapped him in gauze and sent him to his tent. There was no hospital.

That night, he says, the bandages started falling off, so he unwrapped them and went back to work. A few days later, he was back in Italy, minus Mayfair 24, which, as far as Davis knows, never flew again.

The Air Corps lost two other P-51s and their pilots on that mission.

First enemies, now pals

By October 1945, Davis had flown the 70 missions he needed to get sent back to the U.S. He chalked up six in-air "kills" and six more on the ground, more than enough to qualify for the title of ace.

He also gathered stories to last a lifetime.

Dan Dimancescu wanted to hear them. Dimancescu is a retired management consultant and sometime adventurer who has written about several expeditions for National Geographic magazine. He and his son started a film company in Romania, where Dimancescu's parents were born.

They learned of Davis and Dobran a couple of years ago from an amateur historian in Romania who has spent hours studying World War II records and Romania's role in the war.

Records show that Dobran claimed a victory over Davis that day, but that Dobran had to land his own damaged plane on its belly, and it likely never flew again.

About a year ago, Davis and Dobran exchanged letters.

He seemed relieved, as Davis was, that there were no hard feelings.

"In wartime," he explained, "my permanent motivation had been to put down planes, not to kill people. I was always content and thankful when seeing a parachute opening up out of the plane I had hit, because I thought that, somewhere, far away, a mother or a girlfriend were ... waiting and hoping."

Now two old men who have come to hate war - Davis, 86, and Dobran, 90 - are waiting and hoping. Davis, along with one of his sons, and Dimancescu and his son will fly to Bucharest toward the end of January to meet Dobran. During the trip, they will stop at the graves of some of the American aviators who died during the war.

"You have given me much joy," Dobran wrote to Davis. "I have got a new friend and I have received confirmation of a victory, fortunately not over Barrie Davis, but only over Mayfair 24."

http://vimeo.com/9245684

video of the meeting ( takes a while to load )
Two World War II fighter pilot 'aces' who faced one another in a dogfight over Romania met in Bucharest on January 23rd, 2010. The was the first time they met face to face in 66 years. Dobran would tell Davis: "I always wanted to destroy the plane, not the pilot." In response, Davis said: "I'm definitely the lucky one as a shell was found unexploded in my P-51 Mustang's fuel tank." Dobran shot Davis' fighter from his own Romanian Air Force Bf109 Messerschmitt only to be later by Davis' squad leader.

[bobbysocks]

two more former foes meet...

Back in 1990 I met two former fighter pilots who last saw each other in 1944;one was German,the other a Texan of the A.A.C..
The place was Dobbins Air Force Base,Marietta,Georgia.
The German was Oblt.Gunther Schack (R.K.holder) andthe American was Bud Nowlin. Herr Schack spoke very little English so I translated for them.
Here's some of what Schack said: "I owe my life to a good man!
I was stationed in the third group of Fighter Wing Molders in Lyck,E.Prussia on the 6 Aug.,1944. We were astounded that a hundred American "furniture vans" (4 motor aircraft) were flying from Danzig eastwards. Every available plane was ordered to intercept-ALL NINE OF US!
The group commander was elsewhere (Hptm.Diethelm Eichelstreiber) and so I had to take command. We met the "big herd" at the (for us) unusual height of 18,000 feet....very close to the Russian front lines.
It was reported to us that no fighter escort was present and it took a seemingly long time for us to overtake the bombers, which flew at many different heights, and to attack from the front head-on.
But before we could attack Mustangs suddenly appeared out of the sun. My old patched up ME 109 took a hit in the cooler and I had no more thoughts than to continue west and make a belly landing in German territory.
As I was concentrating on a place to land and diving somewhat to cool the engine, suddenly a Mustang pulled alongside me and our eyes met. Then,he waved and continued east...After I was on the ground I received artillery fire and was hustled to cover by some German infantrymen into a bunker. Almost on the frontline I had landed in a small salient surrounded on three sides by the Russians!
Again and again I've asked myself: "Why didn't the American fighter pilot continue to shoot? Did he have jammed guns or not?"

And the Texans (Bud Nowlin) view: "I hit him twice and knocked out his engine, but didn't kill him. Before he went down I flew up alongside him and was so close I could see the differences in our oxygen masks. I gave him a wave and kept going."

It tooK 46 years before these two men met again.
Bill Graham,a New York businessman, German speaker and aviation buff, was the man responsible for Schack's efforts over the years to locate the chivalrous American pilot.
Pouring over old military records and flight logs Graham at last had his man and the two began communicating. Bud lives in Texas.
Then, at Dobbins A.F.B.-these two old eagles met in person.
I felt it an honor to act as a conduit between these two interesting men.
Following a long visit I escorted Herr Schack to a local Civil War battlefield park (Kennesaw Mountain) and conversed in German about this long ago action.
Herr Schack further stated that, "on that day in 1944 I became a pacifist and remain so today."
Maybe there is hope for mankind yet...J.v.Canon

hollis "bud" nowlin hosted gunther schack's visit to the 357th reunion in georgia years ago. the two remained good friends to the end.

[bobbysocks]

Combat Experience of Dean O. Holman


Our third mission was a target in Germany . The plane we were flying had been on over 50 missions. The engines were not running right, but our pilot did not want to turn back. We flew into a snow storm over the Alps in formation, but came out of the storm with no other planes around. We did turn back because we could not keep up with the formation. We got back and was ready to land. But we were about four miles from the air field. I was in the back of the plane and had checked to see that the landing gear was down and locked. I called the pilot on the intercom and verified that the gear was down and locked. The three other men in the back of the plane were also preparing to land. We heard a noise in the bomb bay like a cable snapping. I checked on it but saw nothing wrong. We still had the twelve 500 pound bombs on board. I sat down on a box of ammunition to take off the electric flight boots and put my shoes on.

Suddenly we hit the ground. As we did an ammunition belt fell out of a box that was mounted high on the outside wall of the plane and hit me on the head. The plane hit some rocks and stopped suddenly. The next thing I knew I landed in the laps of the other three who were sitting with their backs against the bulkheads--their usual position during landings. My first thought was that the landing gear was not locked and had given way. But when the pilot and copilot seen that we were going to land in a field they pulled the gear up to make a belly landing on the cultivated field. I thought that we were landing on the runway. We were about four miles short of making it back to the air base.

My head wound bled a lot. By the time several hours later that the medics got to me they thought I was hurt pretty bad. I hadn't shaved for a couple of days. I looked pretty rough with blood running down the sides of my head into my beard. They gave me my first purple heart for that injury. By the time I actually got it my head was all healed up.

When the plane stopped moving we tried to open the waist windows to get out, but they were jammed and would not open. Through the small glass in the center of the window we could see one engine smoking. The floor of the plane was about twelve to eighteen inches off the ground at the belly gun mount. There was some glass in that section. The tail gunner, Sergeant Nustad, picked up a fifty caliber machine gun and broke out a hole large enough for us to crawl through. This plane was built before they started putting a ball turret in them. So there was an opening in the bottom where the ball turret was installed on later planes that was covered with plexi-glass and had bars across as machine gun mounts. The machine gun was the only thing we had heavy enough to break the glass and knock the gun mount out so we could get out.

We used a fire extinguisher and threw dirt on the engine that was smoking to put out the fire. The pilot and copilot made a very good belly landing, but we slid into a large pile of rocks which brought us to a sudden stop. Those in the front of the plane got out through a broken window in the cockpit.

As the navigator, Lieutenant McKay, was going out he heard Sergeant Philip Dickey say his feet were caught, and he couldn't get out. The bombs had come forward and bent the bulkhead against his feet. A gas line was broken, and high-test gasoline was dripping on Dickey's lower legs and feet. Lieutenant McKay went back in the plane and stayed with Philip, and gave him some morphine for pain. A young boy rode a horse to where we were but left before we could get the horse to go for help.

A short time later the base sent a plane to look for us. We fired several flares so they could see us. We also laid down in the field so they would know someone was injured. They had trouble finding an opening in the rock wall large enough to get the medical and rescue equipment to us. Before they arrived I crawled around the bombs to see if I could get to Philip's feet, but I couldn't get to them.

One doctor thought they would have to cut his feet off to get him out. They had to be especially careful because of the leaking gasoline. But they started tearing the airplane apart. While they were working we heard a hissing sound that we thought was a bomb about to go off. We all started to run. The pilot had an injured leg but he still ran over me. Turned out it was a leaking oxigen tank. Around 10:00 PM they made the rest of us return to the base. They got him out about two hours later, about eight hours after we crashed. They saved Philip's feet, but he had a lot of trouble and pain the rest of his life. Years later, while visiting Philip and his wife, Sally, he told us that back home the morning after the crash their 3-year-old daughter woke up and told her mother, "Daddy went boom."

A short time after that crash the nine of us--all of our crew except Dickey, who was in the hospital--was to go to the Isle of Capri for a week of rest leave. They put about twenty men on a B-24 to fly us to Naples , Italy . The plane only got about 500 feet off the ground and wouldn't go any higher, so we landed and got on another plane. We all enjoyed the week of leave. But even after the leave our tail gunner, Art Nustad, was still afraid to fly. He quit flying and was assigned other duties.

After returning from rest leave we flew ten more missions. I think they were mostly over Yugoslavia . I had not flown over Germany until February 22, 1944 , when we went to Regensburg , Germany . We returned without much trouble. The heater in the cockpit quit working and our pilot, Lieutenant Thurman's feet were frostbitten. So our crew was not supposed to fly the next day.

At 4:00 the next morning they woke me and said I was to fly with another crew. One of their crew was sick (drank too much the night before). The pilot of that crew was Captain Henry B. Gibbons from Ft. Worth , Texas , and the copilot was Second Lieutenant Michael J. Solow from Grand Rapids , Michigan . Keith Denton, our other (right) waist gunner, flew with another crew that day, too.

We were going to Styer, Austria , to bomb a ball bearing factory. Before we got there we encountered a lot of German fighter planes, Messerschmidt 109s. All the fighters I saw were Goring Yellow Noses. I was hit in the left ankle, which was broken, and had several shrapnel wounds. Whenever we encountered enemy fire we had flack vests we put on. They snapped at each shoulder. The snaps were so high on the shoulder that we couldn't snap them ourselves. The other waist gunner couldn't get one of mine snapped. So my flack vest must have fallen off in the fracas. I don't remember ever taking it off. I wouldn't have gotten as many shrapnel wounds in my chest and back if it had been in place.

Two of the other gunners were also hit. It was customary for the pilot to give the order to bail out, but the intercom was out to the front of the plane. The pilot and copilot may not have been able to give us the order to bail out even if the intercom had been working. After we got home we found out that the pilot and copilot were the only ones killed in our crew that day. It seems they died from enemy fire while the plane was still in the air.

When we saw the plane was on fire we made the decision on our own that it was time to bail out. The place to bail out of a B-24 was a hole in the floor, not an opening in the wall like we often picture. We were trained to sit at the hole with our feet hanging, then jump out feet first. The first guy was sitting at the hole hesitating to jump. But the second guy was ready and anxious to get out of the burning plane. So he shoved the first guy out.

I had trouble getting my parachute on, so I was the last one of the four men at the back of the plane to get out. The first aid kit that was on the parachute harness had slipped down and was in the way to snap the parachute on my chest. I finally got it. I didn't take the time to unhook my oxygen mask and intercom. My injured left ankle hurt enough that I was hopping around on one leg. I didn't want to try to maneuver around to sit down at the hole to bail out, so I just dove through the hole head first.

We attached our parachute to a harness on our chest. So we were trained to lean back when we pulled the rip cord. Otherwise the shroud lines could cut your face all up as they were yanked out by the parachute. Apparently I did that okay. I didn't have any trouble with the shroud lines.

A lot of planes were shot down and a lot a parachutes were in the air. A German fighter flew by me and the pilot waved at me. I waved back. It was no time not to be sociable. Glad he didn't shoot.

We were trained to bend our legs when we landed. I was especially careful to bend my left leg. I sure didn't want to land on it. I made a pretty good landing. I landed several yards from a farmhouse. Four older men picked me up and took me to the farm house. Later a German soldier came to the house and they gave me first aid. The navigator of the crew I was with was in the same farm house. They put us in a bobsled pulled by two horses and took us to an ambulance waiting on a road. There was several inches of snow on the ground.

That is the last I remember until I woke up the next morning in a hospital room in Wels, Austria, with a cast on my leg and several bandages. I got gangrene in my leg and a week later an Austrian doctor, Dr. Mussman (pronounced MOOSE muhn), amputated my leg below the knee. In the bed next to me was Morris Ruttenburg, the tail gunner of the crew I was flying with. He had been shot in the right ankle. Two other Americans were in the room--Joe Fritsche from Sacramento , California , and Lieutenant Kendall Mork from North Dakota . We spent the next three months in those beds in that room, and the following eight months in a prisoner of war hospital.

[bobbysocks]

in honor of the anniversary of the doolittle raid...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlFAk...eature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgt8PMoRGG8&featur