In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bobbysocks]

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

One the Same Day by Will Foard

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

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

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

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

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

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

DIARY FROM JOE DESHAY 25 January 1945

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

Letter from Robert Clark to Joe DeShay 30 Jun 96

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

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

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

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

Letter from Pete Peterson to Joe DeShay 30 Jul 96

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bobbysocks]

Lt. David G. Elliott's interrogation report

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

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

Lt. Robert B. Hoffman's story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lt. Julius M. Hummel relates his experiences

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

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

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

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

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

[bobbysocks]

Lt. Walter C. Klank tells his story

December 24th, 1944, Captain Howard and I were on our way back from a raid. I was flying wingman and we were at 15,000 feet. We spotted four Me-109s at approximately 10,000 feet. Howard shouted lets get 'em and started down still carrying his wing tanks. I yelled back, "Get rid of your tanks." He jettisoned his tanks and I had one hung up. It finally shook loose, but by this time Howard was already tangling with the 109s. I shot down one and then Howard said he got two and was going home. I yelled at him to wait for me - I had been heading east back into Germany and he was becoming a distant speck going west.

My crew chief had mounted a P-38 mirror over my canopy and as I made a swinging turn west I spotted four 109s coming down on my tail. We ended up in a tight turn to the left. My "G" suit allowed me to easily out turn them and soon I was on the tail of number 4, so I decided to add another 109 to the days record. I loosened up on my turn and saw strikes over the engine/cockpit area, the 109 rolled over and pilot bailed out.

About that time I saw holes appearing in my left wing - as the 109 behind me corrected his aim the nose cannon made slashes through the left wing and slugs from his wing guns must have come over the left shoulder of my armor plate - the instrument panel exploded. The slugs must then have dropped down and took out the controls - the 51 flipped over on its back - nose down - no control response - no trim tab response. Reduced throttle and decided to get out. I was hanging upside down with my head almost touching the canopy. I jettisoned the canopy and my arms were sucked out over my head - finally got my right arm back down and flipped safety belt open - I was immediately sucked out of the cockpit.

I apparently struck the vertical stabilizer and was knocked unconscious. My next recollection was falling feet first toward the ground, admiring the brown and white patchwork effect of plowed fields and snow. A small voice said pull the cord - I did - nothing happened - I pulled it again and threw it away. The chute cracked open - the risers jerked me up straight and my feet hit the ground. That's close enough for one lifetime!

Two young soldiers (I recall they were SS) had witnessed the fight and were waiting for me. They immediately went for my shoulder holster and 45 and were very disappointed that I wasn't carrying a gun. My face was bleeding profusely, I assume cut by the exploding instrument panel. My Mae West was soaked in blood and my right arm was useless. I was becoming weak and the two soldiers helped me unbuckle my chute harness and supported me as we made our way toward a narrow road.

I later surmised when I hit the tail my right arm must have scraped along the leading edge of the tail. Days later when I finally was able to remove my clothes I discovered the skin had been stripped from the outer portion of my arm and the arm was firmly attached to the shirt sleeve with dried blood. In a week or so I regained full use of the arm. The facial cuts, particularly above the left eye concerned me and for a while I though I had lost the use of the eye. Once I was able to wash the dried blood out of the eye I was able to see OK.

I had landed in a plowed field and for some reason the two soldiers left my chute there. By this time a group of people from a small village were approaching and in a rather ugly mood. I suspect but for my two captors I might not be writing this. As we reached the road - everyone suddenly dived into the ditches on each side of the road and I was left standing alone. Considering discretion the better part of valor I dove into a ditch also and just in time - a B-17 returning from the raid cut loose three 500 pounders that apparently had hung up. They landed in the plowed field straddling my chute. What a Christmas Eve - shot down and bombed all in one day!

On to the village and into the house of the Burgomaster. The house was crowded with villagers - some seemed "friendly" and emptied my pockets of candy, chewing gum, soap, etc. We had planned to land in Brussels and spend Christmas there, so I had brought along some trading goodies. They were puzzled about my "G" suit hose and kept pulling on it. I finally removed my A-2 jacket and flying suit and gave them the damn thing. I'll never forget the look on their faces, they had no idea what it was. The Burgomaster however, put it away as one of his personal treasures.

I was next loaded into a side car of a motorcycle and taken by a soldier to an MP jail in Frankfurt am Main where I spent Christmas and the next couple of days. No medial attention and boiled potatoes for Christmas dinner. Several days later, a German Lt. and his girl friend took me by staff car with a driver to Dulag Luft. The car appeared to burn wood to produce the fuel or steam for the engine. The roof was piled high with split wood.

I felt stronger at this point and seriously considered escaping by stabbing the Lt. and then the driver. I had not been well searched at the jail and had been able to conceal my boot knife. However, I realized I didn't know how to operate the car, doubtful if the girl did, it was below zero and I really didn't know where I was, so I decided to see it through to the next stop.

We arrived at the Dulag, Dec. 30, 1944, and I was the only one in the room with a German sergeant when I was told to strip. The sergeant paid no attention to me and continued to read a comic book. I thought well one last laugh - I threw my boot knife so that it stuck in the bench next to the sergeant. You have never seen such big eyes or heard such foul language - he spoke English fluently.

Then into solitary in an old 6 ft. x 8 ft. x 10 ft. cell with a blanket too short to cover my feet and shoulders at the same time. I believe I was there about 10 days with frequent interrogations and "role playing" in the cell next to mine. The hauptman that interrogated me spoke fluent English and said he had been raised in Chicago.

Finally off to the train station and on to Stalag Luft I, near Barth, Germany on the Baltic Sea. No one talked for the first day. We all looked at each other with suspicion. Several times the train stopped when fighters flew overhead, the guards got out, but locked us in. Fortunately we were never strafed. The food was meager and greasy, we all had the G.I.'s. What a trip.

Next stop Berlin, and a march through the city and then onto another train. I never understood this transfer but was glad we were surrounded by soldiers. The civilians were ugly and we saw what appeared to be Allied soldiers hanging from lamp posts. Not a pretty sight! The next part of the journey from Berlin to Stalag Luft I, I have no recollection of for some reason.

At Stalag I, we separated, went through a records section, were given blankets and mattress cover, later to be filled with straw, and my A-2, leather jacket was taken and I was given a GI overcoat one size too small. At least it was warmer. I was then taken to the compound that would serve as my home for the next 6 - 7 months, barracks 307, room 2.

Those months were spent in one room with 20 other American flyers. We became good friends, but never got together for the planned reunion in New Orleans. This was a boring time, nothing to do, the library was small so it didn't take long to ready everything. Cold and hungry, we went through the Kriegie trick of cutting up the barracks for firewood, etc. and constantly worked on the drawings and poems in our Kriegie books.

One night our barracks "goon guard" reported the Germans had not locked us in and said they would be gone in the morning because the Russians will be here tomorrow. Liberation at last! I believe it was May 21, 1945. The next morning we were all out early, the guard towers were now manned by GIs and were in effect an Allied camp in German territory.

My buddy Don and I climbed on the roof of our barracks from where we could see Barth's city square in the distance. As I recall around noon a horse drawn caravan arrived led by a horse drawn hansom cab. As the cab reached the center of the square it stopped. The driver slumped forward over the cab, the caravan stopped and the soldiers continued what must have been one long party since they had their women and booze with them.

Finally, after what seemed like hours the door of the cab opened, the colonel (we later learned) stepped out - missed the step and fell flat on his face in the square. No one rushed to his aid, he finally struggled to his feet and apparently barked out orders whereupon the caravan began to act like a military organization. It turned out this was a "unit" of Cossacks. They were dressed in the typical costume with bandoliers of ammo slung across each shoulder. However, they carried stubby machine guns instead of rifles.

Later, we learned through the "grape vine" that the Russian colonel was very upset with us for sitting there in an orderly manner. We should have torn down the fences, raped the women, etc. The Russians threatened to march us down through their lines to the Baltic Sea. Colonel Gabreski, a senior American officer took a firm stand that that was not going to take place. He did however order the fences torn down and a "joint" feast for the next night. The feast went well and we were back in the good graces of the Russians.

The German airfield, close by, contained a concentration camp which we subsequently learned about. That was a gruesome tale, too long to recount here. It also contained booby trapped German planes and an underground buzz bomb factory.

Several days later a caravan of GI trucks picked us up and drove us to an airfield where B-17s loaded with "bug" powder were waiting to take us to decontamination camp. The flight on the 17, my first, in the converted bomb bays, plywood over the bomb doors, is a story in itself. The hydraulic system on the flaps or gear or both failed and we all though - "Oh boy"! Made it through prison camp and now we die in a 17. But we made it.

After decontamination and new clothes we were flown (in my case) by a "hot" pilot in a C-47 to Le Havre, France and settled in Camp Lucky Strike. That's another story in itself. We ate the camp out of food in three days. Almost two weeks had gone by when we discovered our contingent had been "misplaced" by the transportation officer loading Liberty ships with POWs. Under the "stress" of never seeing home again, three of us took off for Paris. After ten days of the sights and sounds of Paris we headed back to Lucky Strike, right up the gang plank of a Liberty ship and a miserable rough trip back to the States. Victor Mature, a movie star, was the Chief Petty Officer in charge of food, and he did his best to make us at home.

German J 2805 reported Lt. Klank captured and aircraft 99% destroyed.

Lt. Klank's postwar statement claimed two Me-109s prior to being shot down and bailing out. On this mission he had been flying with the 3rd Scouting Force, a weather reconnaissance unit stationed at Wormingford which the 55th Fighter Group supported. The 3rd SF did target weather reconnaissance in advance of the bombers.

[bobbysocks]

Lt. William Laubner

I was shot down near Rhune, Germany, while on the first all fighter sweep scheduled by the 8th Air Force. Our target was an airfield southwest of Berlin. My flight was supposed to provide top cover but Wyche (flight leader), took us down to join in the fun. On the way out on the deck, we passed a flight of FW-190s going in the opposite direction, but they did not bother with us. I strafed a locomotive, power lines and a dry dock facility on the Rhine River which was surrounded by flak towers. My left engine was shot out and my left fuel tank was set on fire. I crash landed near a German anti-aircraft camp and taken prisoner. I hit the gunsight and broke my nose. I cut my knees getting out of the burning ship. My left shoulder felt as if it had been hit with a hammer. After I was put in jail, I took my flight jacket off and noticed a right angle tear on the side of the left shoulder. Evidently a round must have penetrated the armor (the planes armor plate, behind the pilot), and backpack (parachute), and sliced a hole in the jacket. I did not require hospitalization. Lady luck was with me on that mission!

After my capture, I could still understand enough German to make out the rivalry that existed between the two anti-aircraft officers trying to claim credit for my being shot down. One was CO of an 88 mm crew and the other had the flak towers. When a German major walked in everyone snapped to attention. I was sitting with my right leg resting on the top of my left knee. The officer nearest to me kicked my leg off of my knee and made me get up. I left with the two officers still arguing over who was going to claim me. It was hard to keep from smiling. I sat between the major and another officer on the way to the local lockup. We passed an airfield with 109s parked under netting. They remarked to each other that I would have liked to report the location to our air force if I could. That bought another smile to my face. I went through the interrogation center at Frankfurt and from there to Stalag Luft III. My interrogator at Frankfurt spoke perfect English. He told me that he had lived in Hackettstown, N.J. As I was sticking to the name, rank and serial number routine, he told me more about our outfit than I knew myself. He named our CO, Jolly Jack Jenkins, our base name and location, wing number, wing commander, Red Cross girl's names, etc, etc. I finally asked him if he thought he was going to win the war? He said if he didn't think so he would not be sitting across the desk from me. He also told me that they were waiting for Bob Rosenburgh. This told me that he knew I was in A flight, as Bob was also in A flight. I was really too small a fish to waste much time on.

I was at Stalag Luft III until the early part of 1945. I received permission from our barracks commander to converse with the guards. We called them ferrets. Since the barracks were built with a crawl space, the ferrets would crawl under them in order to pick up bits of information. They could speak and understand English. The floors had cracks between the flooring and when we heard them underneath we would get water buckets and brooms to clean the floor. We could hear them scramble out and of course that tickled hell out of us. They could not chastise us because keeping our room clean was S.O.P.

Another humorous diversion was trying to find the camp radio. Time and again a block was singled out and made to wait outside while the guards searched the building for the ever elusive radio. They never did find it. This always brought smiles to our faces. I was not mistreated because I was captured by the military. I did see some POWs that were man-handled by civilians before being turned over to the authorities. I also saw the Gestapo come into camp and take out three POWs. We heard that their gun cameras showed they were shooting civilians and other non-military targets. We never saw them again. We received soup, potatoes, black bread and occasional horse meat. We also received Red Cross parcels periodically. These parcels were used to augment the German rations and were eagerly received. Another bit of humor. We used to comment on our rib showing physiques when we were taken for an occasional shower.

At the end the Germans marched us out, for three days, to Spremburg. Around March of 1945 we were marched to Moosburg. Joe Hummel, who went through flying school with me, was shot down on the same day and we were in prison camp together. Joe and I and another pilot named Sturm, who flew P-47s, plotted our escape on the march to Moosburg. I developed blisters on my feet so gave them half of my rations and they took off during the night. They made it back but I had to wait to be liberated by Patton.

Needless to say we were hungry all the time and the movement from camp to camp in the dead of winter with snow on the ground in just a pair of leather shoes was not too comfortable. We were literally liberated by General Patton on 29 April 1945, pearl handled six gun, polished boots and helmet. His tank rammed through the front gate and he got out and said, "Did any of these bastards mistreat you?" I believe he would have shot them on the spot. We'd heard that he'd given one of his pearl handled six guns to one of his paramours. Don't know how much truth there is in that story, but when he came into camp I had to see for myself. Sure enough he only had one strapped to his waist.

Lt. Robert M. Littlefield "The Bridge at Barentin"

It was a bright, clear, and beautiful Sunday afternoon. Our squadron was top cover for the other units while they worked over a German airfield outside Paris. It was to be a milk run and as we circled above our attacking planes, I unhooked my oxygen mask and had a cigarette. After completion of the attack and on the way out, I spotted a train approaching a large multi-spanned brick bridge at the village of Barentin and called it in to Captain Buck Earls, my flight leader. We were Hellcat White flight, which meant Buck was leading the squadron and I was his element leader. Lt. Francis Matney was my wingman and Lt. Francis Waice was Buck's wingman.

The attack on the train was made by White flight only. Buck gave us the signal to spread out and go into trail in preparation for the attack. He and Waice went in first and I could see their strikes all over the locomotive. Great billowing clouds of steam shot skyward from the locomotive as they pulled off. I made a right diving turn and put my pipper (gunsight) on the car behind the locomotive. Matney was on the outside of the turn and behind me.

I squeezed the trigger and saw strikes from my six fifty caliber machine guns as I raked the box cars. By this time the locomotive and box cars had stopped on the bridge. I gave it another burst, saw more strikes on the cars but as I pulled up I heard a loud explosion and my P-51 lurched. My stomach tensed with a burning sensation because I had previously experienced that same sound over Germany, which resulted in my shot-up P-38 being totaled in a crash landing at Old Buckenham, England. I realized that I had taken an explosive shell hit on the leading edge of my right wing at the inboard 50 caliber machine gun. The wing was burning fiercely and close to a gas tank. I decided to bail.

I made a quick call to my flight, informing them of my situation. I was doing about 350 miles an hour so I pulled up and delayed a bit before I pulled the emergency canopy release handle. After leaving the plan, falling head first, I pulled my rip cord, the chute opened and at about the count of three I gently hit the ground. As I was examining light wounds on my neck and chin I heard gunfire and immediately hit the dirt and started looking about to establish the direction of fire. It was the ammo in my crashed plane cooking off about 150 yards away!

I gathered my chute, hid it in some bushes, and walked to a farmhouse nearby. A lad of about 16 was watching as I approached and I identified myself as an American pilot and asked where "le Boche" were. He motioned that they were all around. He obviously was of no help. An older man walked up and asked, "le parachute?", and I pointed to where I'd hidden it. When he returned he signaled for me to get the hell out.

I had walked only a few dozen yards when a man, walking a bicycle, with a big smile on his face, motioned to follow him. We soon passed a lady who gave me the V for victory sign. We stopped for a moment to talk to another lady who told me to take off my flight suit, which I did. A moment later she began shoving me down the road and talking excitedly. As I followed Rene, riding his bike, I glanced back and saw two German soldiers walking up to my crashed plane with rifles at the ready.

We were at a sharp bend on a direct road so were out of sight of the Germans within a few steps but I ran like hell for as long as I could until I was running so slowly that Rene became alarmed and got off the bike and ran while I rode. He took me to his parent's farm and hid me in a hayloft. I was beginning to think I was living a class B movie. Shortly, Rene brought me into the house. Years later he told me his father was furious with him for bringing me home; the Germans would have shot them all if we were caught. At the farm there were five members of the family all trying to ask questions by sign language.

A short time later three men, one with an arm in a sling, called me out of the hay and told me were taking me to an English speaking lady. Two bicycles were provided for Marcel and myself and we set off down a dirt road until we arrived at a main cement highway. In about 20 minutes we arrived at Chateau le Matra, a large 150 year old, three story building. I was taken into a darkened room where a lady about five feet two inches tall, buxom and plump, proffered her hand and said in a very heavy French accent, "I am Madame Angele Greux." She was the wife of Armand. She motioned me to a chair along side hers and opened a map of northern France. "You are here", she said, pointing to the small town of Barentin in Normandy. she then began speaking rapidly and I could not understand her. I became alarmed because I feared that if everyone thought she spoke perfect English and I did not understand her they would be suspicious of me. I knew the French Underground had executed German agents attempting to penetrate their organisation. She must have sensed my dismay for she said very slowly, "Pardon my English, I have not spoken it since 1936 when I worked in England for two years. You will be living here."

Henri and Armand arrived and I was introduced to the eleven who lived here. The chateau was owned by a wealthy French farmer, Monsieur Douillet, who, with his wife and family, lived in a small home nearby. The chateau had been requisitioned by the Germans for people who had been bombed out of their homes in Rouen. The others who lived there were: a very old lady whose name I never knew, a young boy of 7, named Pierre, not related to any of the household; Henri's sons, Daniel Couture, age 22, and Andre Couture, age 18, Micheline Guilloux, age 12 on that very day, niece of Angele; Madame Glasson, age 47, and her daughter Janine, age 22 (Janine was engaged to Daniel). And Huguette Greux, age 19, sister of Armand. No one worked except to help local farmers in exchange for food and they were living on their savings. In addition to the food received from local farmers, there were rabbits and chickens in hutches in the back yard. We never had wine but drank cider, a very weak hard cider made from local Normandy apples. The children drank it too. Henri and I drank it with baking soda because it gave us heartburn.

I was also provided with an identification card with my picture, the photo provided by me courtesy of the US Army, a food ration card and a paper that stated I was deaf and dumb so that hopefully, I wouldn't be sent to Germany for forced labor.

Local people who had seen me were told that I was Angele's deaf and dumb cousin from Dieppe. My French identification card stated that I was Robert Joseph, address in Dieppe. All records in Dieppe had been destroyed in a bombing raid so this could not be disproved.

One day as Armand and I sat quietly watching Angele knit, we were startled by the roar of an airplane, firing its guns, right over our roof top. We all dropped to the floor. I peeked out the window to see two British Typhoon fighters who had caught five German soldiers in a small civilian panel truck in front of the chateau. "Feld-grau", (field gray), which was what the German soldier was called, after the color of his uniform, were running in every direction. When the planes left, the soldiers got back in and drove the truck into an apple orchard next to the chateau. The Typhoons had riddled the truck but hadn't hit one vital part and the Germans had escaped without a scratch! Needless to say, I was very disgusted with their marksmanship and told the French my fighter unit would have destroyed the truck.

It was rumored that the Americans were nearby. Paris had already been liberated. So Henri, Angele, Daniel, Andre, Janine and myself started walking toward the seine. Armand still hadn't returned. We had gone only a short distance when we encountered two young Frenchmen, one with a 25 caliber automatic pistol and the other with a single hand grenade. There was automatic gunfire coming from a short distance north and they were going to help the French Resistance who had a small group of Germans "cornered".

About an hour later we ran into Scottish commandos advancing with guns at the ready. The officer in charge apologized for not having transportation to take me to Duclair, on the Seine River, so we continued until we arrived at an almost totally destroyed Duclair. I gave Angele my GI watch and my escape kit, which was always issued prior to each combat flight, and which contained 2,000 francs ($40.), silk maps and language phrase sheets of which I had made good use. After long teary goodbyes and many hugs and kisses, I left my dear friends who had made me one of the family for three weeks. The British interrogated me and flew me back to London on September 3, 1944. There I was interrogated at 63 Brook St., by the American military. My interrogator said there were 40 men a day, like myself, coming through enemy lines.

Lt. Howard W. Rhodes

On July 28, 1944 I was on an escort mission in a P-51, shortly after the group switched from P-38s. The target was Merseburg, Germany. We observed two B-17s falling in flames. We assumed that they were under fighter attack as no flak bursts could be seen. The squadron leader radioed, "Drop tanks and let's go" and turned towards the bombers.

I dropped the exterior tanks after switching to the interior 90 gallon fuselage tank. Unfortunately my engine quit. I was unable to get the engine going. The only action I was able to get out of the engine was occasional burps from using the primer. I had agreed with some buddies, that if we ever did go down we would try to do it in style. So I told the guys not to take the new Wellington boots I had just gotten from Peal's, but my voice was sufficiently projecting my anxiety that it wasn't funny.

At about 3,000 feet indicated, (being blissfully unaware that the ground was not at sea level), I determined to bail out. I found myself facing upwards, being caressed by a gentle breeze. It was a delightful sensation; there was nothing to do but open the parachute, no more struggling to get power. After enjoying for a second or so, I pulled the rip cord rather halfheartedly and nothing happened so I pulled it hard. No sooner had the parachute opened than I hit the ground. I was sure I was dead because everything was black and there was a kind of warm, flooding, pleasant sensation, Nirvana. I actually thought at the moment that the Hindus were right, it seemed to me precisely as I had understood the Hindu notion of the afterlife to be.

Very shortly thereafter consciousness began to return, and I could begin to see that I was on a hard packed dirt farm road. I unbuckled the parachute harness and, taking stock, observed that my wallet was still in my back pocket. I should have left it in the ready room, since it contained, of course, my identification and sources of information to the enemy.

There was a ditch about twenty yards away. I tried to walk there but I couldn't walk because of an injury to my back and foot so I crawled over to a big bush on the top of this ditch bank. I left the parachute there with my wallet which I tried to hide under the litter. Then I crawled out into the corn field because there was a hill beyond it. About fifty yards into the corn field, still crawling, I looked up and about a foot away were two shoe topes and above them this red haired and mustached farm worker with a tiny pistol pointed at me. He first words were, "Me Polska." I understood him to mean that he was a Polish farm worker, not a German, and that he was sympathetic with my situation. In any event he assisted me up and helped me stagger over to the edge of the field where there was a fat old German farmer with a hunting rifle.

We went down the road to his home and into his little study, a tiny room with a desk in it. He let me sit in the corner. After fifteen or twenty minutes, a car came and a blond man about forty years of age dressed in a grey suit with a Nazi arm band on his left sleeve got out. He greeted the farmer with a Hitler salute, then shook his hand, then repeated the same greeting to the farmer's wife and their several children in descending order of age. He then drew himself up, turned to me and with a torrent of abuse, in German, which I could not understand except the part about being a North American Air Gangster, then he slapped me on both cheeks, grabbed me by the shoulders and made me face the corner of the room. Then he tried to interrogate me in English, asking me where I had come from. I was so unaware of the Big Picture that I didn't even know that I could have come from Italy, instead of England, so I said America.

A policeman arrived in a three wheeled car, one wheel in the front and two in the back. He put me in the back seat. Around the same time my parachute appeared along with the wallet which I had attempted to bury. The policeman took me and my effects to his home in the town, apparently so that he could show me off. He left me in the car and went inside.

We then drove down to the city jail which consisted of one cell. He gave me some bread, but I wasn't really interested in that. I really hurt. I had strained my back. I think I had a compression fracture but I never had any medical treatment so I don't really know. My left foot was so far extended over my low quarter shoe on impact that it was bleeding around the upper line of the shoe.

After joining up with some B-17 crews, we were taken through Frankfurt to Oberursel, a Luftwaffe interrogation station. On arrival, I was called into a tiny office in which there was a private, a little guy, but obviously a sophisticated and intelligent person. He asked me to fill out a form. The form had "Red Cross Information" at the top, and then it asked for name, rank, serial number, home address, with spaces for all kinds of military information. If I had filled out the whole form it would have given the store away. I filled out my home address and parent's name, as well as my name, rank and serial number. I declined to go further. He said he didn't give a damn anyway, as he was doing Red Cross duty and that the interrogation would come later. He said that we had to spend some time anyway, so we might just as well talk.

(Howard Rhodes was interrogated by Hanns Scharff, August 3rd, 1944.) The interrogation started with the usual cigarette or cookie, and then he said, in substance, I had to identify myself as an officer of the United States Army, that if I failed to do so I would be treated as a spy. That they weren't trying to get information; that a second lieutenant couldn't tell them anything anyway that they did not already know; that I could come in saying I was Colonel Bullshit with my dog tags; but that I had to prove it. Note that I was twenty-one, not a colonel, did not have proper insignia, and that I didn't have any dog tags. He said that the Geneva Convention had been mistranslated by the Allied governments, and that I was obliged to tell them what unit I was from; I gave him name, rank and serial number. He replied, "Oh dear, Lt. Rhodes, don't be such a bore!" Then he got from behind his desk a volume and started flipping through it. He first asked if I was from the 4th Fighter Group, P-51s, and of course, I just stared at him. He finally got down to the 55th Fighter Group, P-38s. "Oh no", he said, "just changed to P-51s." (The one big secret I thought I knew). Well, I made a little involuntary reaction, and he said, "Oh my goodness, Lt. Rhodes, you don't think we don't know that yet?" He said his name was Hanns Scharff.

Nothing further of substance transpired. He told me a lot more about the 55th. Then he stood up, told me the interrogation was finished, that I would be on my way in a couple of days, and wished me good luck. He stuck out his hand, I took it, and bang, the door opened with another prisoner outside looking at me as though I had just divulged the secret of the atomic bomb.

Later, we were taken to Dulag Luft in Wetzlar and given showers, our Red Cross parcels, clothing, cigarettes and food. We were put on a train to our permanent camps. No fun spending all night in the Berlin marshalling yards, hoping it was not the night's target for the RAF.

They hauled us into the prison camp, Stalag Luft I, and since other contributors will have told you a great deal about prison camp life, I will not. But one thing about any detention facility is that detainees, ie, the prisoners, have a lot of hostility about their detention. Rightly or wrongly, they take it out on the guards who represent the detaining power.

Early in 1945, the camp commandant issued an order requiring the transfer of all identified Jewish prisoners to a single compound within the camp. We all inferred our Jewish buddies were to be mistreated, so we ranted and raved and yelled and screamed, actually considering trying to attack the guard towers and revolt, but cooler heads prevailed and the transfer occurred the next day, although we stayed up until midnight, probably. Since our compound was next to the Jewish compound, we spent a lot of time talking to our buddies across the intervening fence for a period of days, and finally it just seemed a normal thing, and no one was mad any longer.

The Oberst in charge of the camp, who also commanded a nearby Luftwaffe air base, where jets were based, the nearby sugar factory where slave laborers worked, and a nearby death camp, came to our compound to visit us. I remember that I kind of wondered how, in his mind, he justified the different sort of treatment for the people in the various camps he commanded. One morning we woke up after hearing the sounds of artillery for a couple of days, and all the Germans were gone.

When we got back to London, we waited to go home for weeks. When I saw on the bulletin board orders for transport for an officer, Albert LaChasse, who I knew had already hit Los Angeles, I adopted his name and identity and got on board the ship. When we got to Camp Miles Standish I was put under house arrest for ten days, but I was home, and they had a hole in the fence. That's my story.