In their own words...

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eyewitness...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ken Blakebrough Lutzkendorf


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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p 40 stories....

The P-40 first saw combat in the skies above the North African desert. Squadrons such as No. 112, who painted ferocious shark mouths on the front air intake of their P-40's and inspired other squadrons to do likewise, flew Tomahawks. They strafing and bombed German tanks, trucks troops, and regularly mixed it up with bombers and the famed Messerschmitt Bf-109 fighters. The Warhawk held its own against its German enemies and was considered by both the British and Germans to be superior to the Hawker Hurricane. In fact, in an effort to reduce losses for No. 33 squadron, obsolescent Hurricanes were replaced with P-40s.

North Africa was the first place the Hawks and Eagles met, but it was not their last confrontation. On the Russian front Soviet P-40s faced the Luftwaffe's 109s and Focke Wulf 190s with considerable success. In Italy the 325 Fighter Group, known as the "Checker-Tailed Clan" because of the yellow and black checkerboards painted on their tails, scored two impressive victories over German 109s.

On 1 July 1943, 22 P-40s made a fighter sweep over southern Italy. Forty Bf-109s surprised the checker-tails, engaging them at moderate altitude where the P-40 performed best. After an intense dogfight the Germans lost half their force while only one P-40 failed to come back.

A similar event took place on the 30th of the same month in which 20 P-40s were bounced by thirty-five 109s. The Germans limped home after losing 21 of their own while the checker-tails came through with only one loss. The Germans lost 135 aircraft (ninety-six of which were 109s) to the pilots of the checkered-tail P-40s while shooting down only seventeen of the 325th.

Back in North Africa, the most successful engagement by Tomahawks was what has come to be known as the Palm Sunday Massacre. Just before sundown on Palm Sunday, 18 April 1943, P-40s on anti-transport patrol spotted over 60 Ju-52s escorted by 21 fighters off of Cape Bon, making their way to Sicily. Elements of the 57th and 324th as well as the British 92 Squadron intercepted. 11 Spitfires covered 46 P-40Fs as they pounced on the Axis formations, ripping them to shreds. The carnage ended with 59 Ju-52s and 16 fighters crashing into the sea or Tunisian soil for the loss of only 6 P-40s. While the P-40's debut was not as spectacular as the A6M's it was very favorable, and just a preview to the P-40's later success.

On 7 December 1941 .... Most of the 180 P-40 fighters on Oahu were destroyed on the ground; the three airfields lay in shambles.

A few American fighters got off the ground. Two P-40s piloted by George Welch (a friend of Chuck Hawks' father) and Kenneth Taylor managed to get airborne and score some of the first American victories of the war. By a stroke of luck their planes had been reassigned to a remote field in an effort to disperse forces in the event of an air strike. After witnessing the first minutes of the attack they phoned the ground crews to arm and fuel their aircraft. The two pilots jumped into a car and raced to their aircraft. They were strafed by a dive-bomber on the way but escaped unharmed. Upon reaching the field they found their planes intact and ready to go. Welch and Taylor took off and quickly engaged the Japanese. Before the attack was over they scored 7 victories between them, including a few Zeros, while taking only minor damage, although Taylor sustained an injury to his right arm.


The tactics of The Flying Tigers were the key to its astounding record.... On sighting the Japanese they would dive on them at high speed and slash through their formation, guns blazing. After the attack the Tigers would use the speed from the dive to exit the combat zone and climb for another pass. It was essentially a drive-by shooting.

Saburo Sakai, Japan's leading ace to survive WW II, recounted an incident over Port Moresby, New Guinea where a P-40 piloted by Les Jackson used this tactic with deadly efficiency. This is Sakai's account of that encounter.

"We passed Moresby and the bursting flak fell behind. I sighed with relief. Too soon! Nearly a mile above us, a single P-40 fighter dove with incredible speed. He came down so fast I could not move a muscle; one second he was above us, the next the lone plane plummeted like lightning into the bombers. Six hundred yards in front of me, I watched the fighter- he was going to ram! How that plane ever got through the few yards' clearance between the third and fourth bombers of the left echelon, I shall never know. It seemed impossible, but it happened. With all guns blazing, the P-40 ripped through the bomber formation and poured a river of lead into Miyazaki's plane. Instantly the Zero burst into flames. With tremendous speed the P-40 disappeared far below."


...a few units managed to hold their own against the advancing Japanese.

One such group was the Australian 75th squadron stationed in Port Moresby. This group faced long odds, much like the AVG. With only a handful of planes and a trickle of resources, they were the only serious aerial defense against Japanese attacks coming from Rabaul and Lae. The men of the 75th had a great responsibility; they had to stop the Japanese or leave Australia open to invasion.

The Australian pilots displayed an immense amount of courage against daunting odds. It was not uncommon for only one plane to challenge twenty or more Japanese. After 44 grueling days of combat the 75th destroyed 35 planes with another 15 probables and roughly 50 damaged. Their loss was 11 pilots and 16 P-40s lost to combat and 6 to accidents. Though theirs were not an outright victory, the brave souls of the 75th saved Port Moresby and held off the enemy until more squadrons could be formed.

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talk about a "clingy B!TC#!!

Margaret Horton

Christmas 1944 was my fifth Christmas as a W.A.A.F......
When I went to Kirton, it was a Fighter Command Station, much used to rest crews from active service during and after the Battle of Britain, but also a fighter station in its own right. As the war in the air changed, Kirton’s use as an operational fighter station decreased and it turned increasingly to house a training function. From 1942, it was a training base for the R.A.F. Regiment, of which my friend, Mac was an Instructor. He had already seen service in the Middle East. In May 1943 it became the home of 53 OTU (Operational Training Unit). They used some of the older Spitfires as well as basic training aircraft. At that time, the Station Commander was Group Captain Hawtrey, a cousin of Charles Hawtrey, of ‘Carry On’ fame. He was remembered as being eccentric!

But there was another incident about flying training. As I mentioned, Kirton had a satellite airfield at nearby Hibaldstow. This was in April 1945, not long I had been posted from Kirton and was in Brussels. It involved a W.A.A.F. flight mechanic, ACW Margaret Horton, and a veteran Spitfire. When an aircraft engine had been serviced, the practice was for the training instructors to run the engine and do a particular test. Margaret had finished work on the Spitfire, when the pilot began this test. It was necessary, if it was windy, for a mechanic to sit on the tail of the aircraft while it taxied to the end of the runway ready for take-off. The mechanics were given the order, ‘Tails’. Having got to the runway, the aircraft would pause for the mechanic to drop off. This time the pilot did not pause. Whether he was unaware that the order to ‘tail’ had been given, nobody knows. He just carried on with Margaret Horton hanging on for grim death, and him unaware that he had a ‘passenger’ on the tail. ‘I thought the aircraft was tail-heavy’, he said later. The Spitfire had risen to 800 feet or more when the strange shape of the tailplane was noticed from the ground. The emergency services were called out and the pilot talked back in without being told what had happened. The aircraft landed safely with Margaret Horton still in one piece. Just how daft the machinery of the R.A.F. could be was shown when she was reprimanded for her unofficial flight and charged for the loss of her beret! She was posted later to West Raynham and, despite her ordeal, survived into her eighties.

taken from 'WW2 People's War is an online archive of wartime memories contributed by members of the public and gathered by the BBC. The archive can be found at bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar'

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life and death aboard a b17

"I'm sorry, sir, I've been hit..."

Joseph Hallock was a twenty-two-year-old first lieutenant serving as the bombardier aboard "Ginger" a B-17 flying out of its base north of London. Hallock dropped out of college to enlist in the Army Air Force in June 1942. After training as a bombardier, he arrived in England in November 1943 and began his combat career on the last day of the year:

"My first raid was on December thirty-first, over Ludwigshaven. Naturally, not knowing what it was going to be like, I didn't feel scared. A little sick, maybe, but not scared. That comes later, when you begin to understand what your chances of survival are. Once we'd crossed into Germany, we spotted some flak, but it was a good long distance below us and looked pretty and not dangerous: different-colored puffs making a soft, cushiony-looking pattern under our plane. A bombardier sits right in the plexiglas nose of a Fort, so he sees everything neatly laid out in front of him, like a living-room rug. It seemed to me at first that I'd simply moved in on a wonderful show.' I got over feeling sick, there was so much to watch.

We made our run over the target, got our bombs away, and apparently did a good job. Maybe it was the auto-pilot and bomb sight that saw to that, but I'm sure I was cool enough on that first raid to do my job without thinking too much about it. Then, on the way home, some Focke-Wulfs showed up, armed with rockets, and I saw three B-I7s in the different groups around us suddenly blow up and drop through the sky. Just simply blow up and drop through the sky. Nowadays, if you come across something awful happening, you always think, 'My God, it's just like a movie,' and that's what I thought. I had a feeling that the planes weren't really falling and burning, the men inside them weren't really dying, and everything would turn out happily in the end. Then, very quietly through the interphone, our tail gunner said, 'I'm sorry, sir, I've been hit.'

I crawled back to him and found that he'd been wounded in the side of the head - not deeply but enough so he was bleeding pretty bad. Also, he'd got a lot of the plexiglas dust from his shattered turret in his eyes, so he was, at least for the time being, blind.Though he was blind, he was still able to use his hands, and I ordered him to fire his guns whenever he heard from me. I figured that a few bursts every so often from his fifties would keep the Germans off our tail, and I also figured that it would give the kid something to think about besides the fact that he'd been hit. When I got back to the nose, the pilot told me that our No. 4 engine had been shot out. Gradually we lost our place in the formation and flew nearly alone over France. That's about the most dangerous thing that can happen to a lame Fort, but the German fighters had luckily given up and we skimmed over the top of the flak all the way to the Channel."

"They came so close that I could see the pilots' faces..."

In early 1944 the number of missions required to complete his tour of duty was extended from 25 to 30. This meant that Lt. Hallock and his buddies, each of whom had been counting down each mission, now had five additional to fly. We pick up his story as he begins his 27th (and worst) mission:

"We had a feeling, though, that this Augsburg show was bound to be tough, and it was. We made our runs and got off our bombs in the midst of one hell of a dogfight. Our group leader was shot down and about a hundred and fifty or two hundred German fighters swarmed over us as we headed for home. Then, screaming in from someplace, a twenty millimeter cannon shell exploded in the nose of our Fort. It shattered the plexiglas, broke my interphone and oxygen connections, and a fragment of it cut through my heated suit and flak suit. I could feel it burning into my right shoulder and arm. My first reaction was to disconnect my heated suit. I had some idea that I might get electrocuted if I didn't.

I crawled back in the plane, wondering if anyone else needed first aid. I couldn't communicate with them, you see, with my phone dead. I found that two shells had hit in the waist of the plane, exploding the cartridge belts stored there, and that one waist gunner had been hit in the forehead and the other in the jugular vein. I thought, 'I'm wounded, but I'm the only man on the ship who can do this job right.' I placed my finger against the gunner's jugular vein, applied pressure bandages, and injected morphine into him. Then I sprinkled the other man's wound with sulfa powder. We had no plasma aboard, so there wasn't much of anything else I could do. When I told the pilot that my head set had been blown off, the tail gunner thought he'd heard someone say that my head had been blown off, and he yelled that he wanted to jump. The pilot assured him that I was only wounded. Then I crawled back to the nose of the ship to handle my gun, fussing with my wounds when I could and making use of an emergency bottle of oxygen.

The German fighters chased us for about forty-five minutes. They came so close that I could see the pilots' faces, and I fired so fast that my gun jammed. I went back to the left nose gun and fired that gun till it jammed. By that time we'd fallen behind the rest of the group, but the Germans were beginning to slack off. It was turning into a question of whether we could sneak home without having to bailout. The plane was pretty well shot up and the whole oxygen system had been cut to pieces. The pilot told us we had the choice of trying to get back to England, which would be next to impossible, or of flying to Switzerland and being interned, which would be fairly easy. He asked us what we wanted to do. I would have voted for Switzerland, but I was so busy handing out bottles of oxygen that before I had a chance to say anything the other men said, 'What the hell, let's try for England.' After a while, with the emergency oxygen running out, we had to come down to ten thousand feet, which is dangerously low. We saw four fighters dead ahead of us, somewhere over France, and we thought we were licked. After a minute or two we discovered that they were P-47s, more beautiful than any woman who ever lived. I said, 'I think now's the time for a short prayer, men. Thanks, God, for what you've done for us.'"

Last Mission: "One more, one more, one more."

The twenty-eighth [mission]was on Berlin, and I was scared damn near to death. It was getting close to the end and my luck was bound to be running out faster and faster. The raid wasn't too bad, though, and we got back safe. The twenty-ninth mission was to Thionville, in France, and all I thought about on that mission was 'One more, one more, one more.' My last mission was to Saarbriicken. One of the waist gunners was new, a young kid like the kid I'd been six months before. He wasn't a bit scared - just cocky and excited. Over Saarbriicken he was wounded in the foot by a shell, and I had to give him first aid. He acted more surprised than hurt. He had a look on his face like a child who's been cheated by grownups.

That was only the beginning for him, but it was the end for me."

How To Cite This Article:
"Life and Death Aboard a B-17, 1944," EyeWitness to History, www.eyewitnesstohistory.com (2005).

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shot down over france.

On the morning of March 5, 1944, Flight Officer Charles Yeager strapped himself into his P-51 fighter and joined a mission to attack targets in the Bordeaux area of France. The twenty-one-year-old Yeager occupied the "tail end Charlie" position of his four-plane flight - the most vulnerable place to be. However, Yeager was no novice. He had three months' experience in combat and had already shot down two German aircraft. On this day his luck was to change.

As the flight neared its objective, three German FW 190 fighters suddenly attacked from the rear, targeting Yeager's P-51. Caught by surprise, the young pilot tried to evade his attackers but to no avail. The enemy's gunfire slammed into his aircraft, severing his control cables and forcing Yeager to jump for his life.

Successfully escaping his plane, his parachute open, Yeager was still not out of trouble. As he floated to earth, one of the FW-190s turned and dove on the vulnerable pilot with the intent of finishing him off. The enemy fighter grew larger and larger in his vision but Yeager could do nothing but hang helplessly suspended from his silk canopy. Suddenly, the German plane burst into a fireball - its pilot so intent on his deadly mission that he had not seen the P-51 on his tail.

Within minutes after his landing, Yeager was surrounded by French Resistance fighters and beginning his escape journey that would take him to Spain, Gibraltar and back to England. Three and a half years later, the young pilot would make his mark in history as the first to break the sound barrier.

Parachuting Into the Unknown

After Yeager successfully made his way to Gibraltar he filed a written report of his experience and was debriefed by a British intelligence officer. The following is excerpted from these reports:

"Three FW 190s came in from the rear and cut my elevator cables. I snap-rolled with the rudder and jumped at 18,000 feet. I took off my dinghy-pack, oxygen mask, and helmet in the air; and then, as I was whirling on my back and began to feel dizzy, I pulled the ripcord at 8,000 feet. An FW 190 dove at me, but when he was about 2,000 yards from me a P51 came in on his tail and blew him to pieces.

I landed into a forest-clearing in which there was a solitary sapling about twenty feet tall. I grabbed the top of the sapling as I passed it and swung gently to the ground. My chute was hung up in the tree, however, I hid my mae west and started off to the south-east, for I thought that I was in the forbidden zone. Before I had gone 200 feet half a dozen Frenchmen ran up to me. Some of them got my chute down, and one of the men took me by the arm and led me to a house some 200 yards away. There I was given food and civilian clothes. A gendarme was seen approaching the house at this moment, and so I was quickly hidden in the barn. When the gendarme left I was brought back into the house where one of the men who had left the group now returned and gave me a note in English telling me to trust the people in whose hands I was. I was then taken to another house about a kilometer away, and from there my journey was arranged."

Escape

The house to which Yeager was taken was actually a hotel run by an English-speaking French woman and her daughter. The next morning the man who took Yeager to the hotel returned and took the pilot to the home of a ""fleshy, white-haired man and his family" where Yeager spent one night. The British debriefing officer continues the report whose content masks the life-threatening danger each of Yeager's benefactors places himself into.

The next morning the same guide returned and took him by bicycle to a young couple of 35 years with a son, Jean, five years old who live in a farmhouse off RN133 near the lake at Font Guillem au Pujo between Pompogne and Houeilles. Here Yeager lived for seven days. Then a farmer from Houeilles took him to a house half a km. from Nerac. This is the house of the regional maquis (French Resistance) chief, Gabriel; and here Dr. Henri -, the doctor of all the maquis in this part of the country, lives when he is in the vicinity. After Yeager had been here a few days, Dr. Henri arrived in the Franbel (the name of a local pencil company) lorry and went after Nahl and the six sergeants with him whom he then brought to the maquis near Nerac. He then went back to Castel Jaloux and from there brought Seidel to the maquis.

On 25 March the Franbel lorry brought Nall, Seidel, and the six sergeants from the maquis, picked up Yeager, Dr. Henri and a Belgian lieutenant and drove to a farmhouse 4 kms. S. of Nerac. From this point Yeager's journey was the same as that of Seidel and Nall."

How To Cite This Article:
"Shot Down Over France, 1944," EyeWitness to History, www.eyewitnesstohistory.com (199.

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Charles Lindbergh in Combat, 1944

In 1944 Charles Lindbergh took part in over 50 combat missions in the South Pacific. He participated in numerous bombing and strafing attacks and shot down one Japanese aircraft. The question arises: how was Lindbergh, a private citizen, able to strap himself into the cockpit of a fighter aircraft and take part in combat missions? The search for an answer to this question starts 17 years earlier.
Charles Lindbergh had captured the hearts of the American people in 1927 by becoming the first to fly solo across the Atlantic (see Lindbergh Flies the Atlantic, 1927). His new-found fame was a double-edged sword that gave him access to the halls of American power while simultaneously engulfing him in a notoriety that would lead to heartbreak and self-imposed exile.

On the night of March 21, 1932 the Lindbergh's 20-month-old son was kidnapped from their isolated New Jersey home. The child's body was discovered in a nearby wooded area two months later.

This tragedy and the subsequent trial of the only suspect apprehended in the case only increased the press's interest in the "Lone Eagle." Teams of reporters and photographers hounded his every move. To escape this incessant pressure, the Lindbergh's fled America and sailed for England in December 1935.

Lindbergh returned to the United States in the spring of 1939 as war clouds began to envelop Europe. He had visited Nazi Germany and was convinced that America should stay out of any impending conflict because it was no match for Germany's military might. Lindbergh became a spokesman for the America First Committee that advocated US neutrality in the event of a war in Europe. His position had political consequences. President Roosevelt publicly attacked America's former hero and in response, Lindbergh resigned as a colonel in the Air Corps Reserve.

After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941 Lindbergh offered to reactivate his Colonel's commission but the Roosevelt administration refused. Rebuffed, Lindbergh turned to the private sector but only Henry Ford would offer Lindbergh an advisory position to help in the transition of Ford Motor Company's production lines to outputting bombers rather than cars.

By 1944 Lindbergh had became a consultant with the United Aircraft Company helping them with field testing of their F4U Corsair fighter. The spring of 1944 found Lindbergh in the South Pacific teaching Corsair pilots how to dramatically decrease their plane's fuel consumption and increase the range of their missions. His task required that he join the Corsair pilots on their missions in order to better understand and change their flying techniques. This is how Lindbergh, a private citizen, managed to make his way into the cockpit of a combat fighter, take part in over 50 missions and shoot down one Japanese plane.

"My tracers and my 20's spatter on his plane."

Lindbergh kept a diary describing the day he shot down his only enemy fighter. We join his story as he flies with a squadron of four P-38 "Lightning" fighters to attack a Japanese airfield on an island near New Guinea. Below them they see two enemy aircraft and prepare to attack:

"July 28

We jettison our drop tanks, switch on our guns, and nose down to the attack. One Jap plane banks sharply toward the airstrip and the protection of the antiaircraft guns. The second heads off into the haze and clouds. Colonel MacDonald gets a full deflection shot on the first, starts him smoking, and forces him to reverse his bank.

We are spaced 1,000 feet apart. Captain [Danforth] Miller gets in a short deflection burst with no noticeable effect. I start firing as the plane is completing its turn in my direction. I see the tracers and the 20's [20mm. cannon] find their mark, a hail of shells directly on the target. But he straightens out and flies directly toward me.

I hold the trigger down and my sight on his engine as we approach head on. My tracers and my 20's spatter on his plane. We are close - too close - hurtling at each other at more than 500 miles an hour. I pull back on the controls. His plane zooms suddenly upward with extraordinary sharpness.

I pull back with all the strength I have. Will we hit? His plane, before a slender toy in my sight, looms huge in size. A second passes - two three - I can see the finning on his engine cylinders. There is a rough jolt of air as he shoots past behind me.

By how much did we miss? Ten feet? Probably less than that. There is no time to consider or feel afraid. I am climbing steeply. I bank to the left. No, that will take me into the ack-ack fire above Amahai strip. I reverse to the right. It all has taken seconds.

My eyes sweep the sky for aircraft. Those are only P-38's and the plane I have just shot down. He is starting down in a wing over - out of control. The nose goes down. The plane turns slightly as it picks up speed-down-down-down toward the sea. A fountain of spray-white foam on the water-waves circling outward as from a stone tossed in a pool-the waves merge into those of the sea-the foam disappears - the surface is as it was before.

My wingman is with me, but I have broken from my flight. There are six P-38's circling the area where the enemy plane went down. But all six planes turn out to be from another squadron. I call 'Possum 1,' and get a reply which I think says they are above the cloud layer. It is thin, and I climb up through on instruments. But there are no planes in sight, and I have lost my wingman. I dive back down but all planes below have disappeared, too. Radio reception is so poor that I can get no further contact. I climb back into the clouds and take up course for home, cutting through the tops and keeping a sharp lookout for enemy planes above. Finally make radio contact with 'Possum' flight and tell them I will join them over our original rendezvous point (the Pisang Islands).

The heavies are bombing as I sight the Boela strips; I turn in that direction to get a better view. They have started a large fire in the oil-well area of Boela - a great column of black smoke rising higher and higher in the air. The bombers are out of range, so the ack-ack concentrates on me-black puffs of smoke all around, but none nearby. I weave out of range and take up course for the Pisang Islands again. I arrive about five minutes ahead of my flight. We join and take up course for Biak Island. Landed at Mokmer strip at 1555.

(Lieutenant Miller, my wingman, reported seeing the tracers of the Jap plane shooting at me. I was so concentrated on my own firing that I did not see the flashes of his guns. Miller said the plane rolled over out of control right after he passed me. Apparently my bullets had either severed the controls or killed the pilot.)"

How To Cite This Article:
"Charles Lindbergh in Combat, 1944," EyeWitness to History, www.eyewitnesstohistory.com (2006).

[Davedog74]

top notch stuff dale,best thread on this forum

[bobbysocks]

special thanks to McQ59 for the translation of these stories...

these are about the norway boys in the 331 and 332 sq.

December 1944

Tally Ho, Tally Ho! 25 Me 109 slightly above. The squadron leaders shows experience and skill and gets the whole squadron into a good position for an attack on the Me109’s without being seen. The squadron is now experienced and knows how to turn a bad situation into a good one. The Germans on the other hand are inexperienced and have still not seen the attacking formation of Spitfires. In a matter of minutes 12 German ME109 are blown out of the sky, another 2 damaged with the rest of the German formation running for the nearest cloud.
In the last part of 44 and 45 the Germans are less to be seen in the sky. 331 and 332 continues their crusade towards victory, mainly now by focusing on ground targets such as flak batteries, German vehicles and basically whatever German things that still move on the ground. It’s however a risky business and many fine pilots are killed by flak or low flying. The occasional dogfight still happens, but the Germans are cautious and often escapes before the Norwegians can get a hold of them.

[bobbysocks]

again thanks to McQ


Mascots

The two norwegian spitsquadrons both had their little mascots. 331 had a dog called Varg who followed them through thick and thin. If his caretaker was shot down, Varg would be given to another, but he was everyone’s mascot and they all took care of him. 332’s mascot was not so popular. A goat called Mads. He was said to be a real pain in the ass and often found himself in places he shouldn’t have been, for example being the showman when Crown Prince of Norway, Olav visited the squadrons. Mads ended his life when he was shot dead by a guard after one of his little trips out in English countryside by night. According to the guard he did not answer to his call of identity.

It was quite normal to have mascots. On a norweigian minesweeper they had a St. Bernhard called Bamse. Someone rose a statue of it after the war. It was raised in Scotland.

Bamse (Norwegian for "teddy bear") (1937 - 22 July 1944) was a St. Bernard that became the heroic mascot of the Free Norwegian Forces during the Second World War. He became a symbol of Norwegian freedom during the war.
Bamse was bought in Oslo in Norway by Captain Erling Hafto, the master of the Norwegian whale catcher Thorodd, and he was taken to sea from an early age.
Military service At the onset of the Second World War, Thorodd was drafted into the Royal Norwegian Navy as a coastal patrol vessel, based in Hammerfest, and Bamse was enrolled as an official crew member on 9 February 1940. After the Nazi invasion of Norway on 9 April 1940 the Thorodd was part of the naval opposition to the Germans and had as one of its uses POW transport. Shortly before the 10 June 1940 capitulation of mainland Norway, Thorodd was one of 13 Norwegian naval vessels to escape to the UK, arriving 17 June 1940. She was converted to a minesweeper in Rosyth from June 30, 1940 and stationed in Montrose and Dundee in Scotland, where she remained for the rest of the war.


Bamse and his crew Bamse lifted the morale of the ship's crew, and became well known to the local civilian population. In battle, he would stand on the front gun tower of the boat, and the crew made him a special metal helmet. His acts of heroism included saving a young lieutenant commander who had been attacked by a man wielding a knife by pushing the assailant into the sea, and dragging back to shore a sailor who had fallen overboard. He was also known for breaking up fights amongst his crewmates by putting his paws on their shoulders, calming them down and then leading them back to the ship. One of Bamse's tasks in Scotland was to round up his crew and escort them back to the ship in time for duty or curfew. To do this, he travelled on the local buses unaccompanied, and the crew bought him a bus pass which was attached to his collar. Bamse would wander down to the bus stop at Broughty Ferry Road and take the bus down to Dundee. He would get off at the bus stop near his crew's favourite watering hole, the Bodega Bar and go in to fetch them. If he could not locate his friends he would take the bus back to base.

From his ship's mascot, Bamse became mascot of the Royal Norwegian Navy, and then of all the Free Norwegian Forces. An iconic photograph of him wearing a Norwegian sailor's cap was used on patriotic Easter cards and Christmas cards during the war. The PDSA made him an official Allied Forces Mascot.

Suffering from heart failure, Bamse died on the dockside at Montrose on 22 July 1944. He was buried with full military honours, and his funeral was attended by hundreds of Norwegian sailors, Allied servicemen, schoolchildren and townsfolk from Montrose and Dundee. His grave site in the sand dunes has been looked after by local people and by the GlaxoSmithKline factory. The Royal Norwegian Navy holds a commemorative ceremony every ten years.

Post-war honours. Bamse was posthumously awarded the Norges Hundeorden on 30 September 1984 for his war service. In 2006, he was also awarded the PDSA Gold Medal (sometimes known as the "animals' George Cross") for gallantry and devotion to duty, the only WWII animal to have received this honour.

A larger than life sized bronze statue of Bamse, made by Scottish sculptor Alan Herriot, was unveiled by HRH Prince Andrew at Wharf Street in Montrose on 17 October 2006. On the Norwegian side the Norwegian consul in Edinburgh, Bjørn Eilertsen, was present bringing greetings from the Norwegian king, Harald V. Also in attendance were Lathallan School Pipe Band, representatives of the Royal Norwegian Navy, Hans Petter Oset, director of the Royal Norwegian Navy Museum, and the daughter of Bamse's owner, Vigdis Hafto. A smaller bronze version of the statue has been purchased by the Royal Norwegian Navy Museum (Marinemuseet) at Horten in Norway.
His epitaph on the grave in Scotland :

BAMSE 22-7-1944. Faithful friend of all onboard the «Thorodd». Largest dog of the allied naval forces