In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

Obit...

Major General John Alison
Major General John Alison, who has died aged 98, was an American fighter "ace" and one of his country's most decorated pilots; he later fought behind enemy lines with the Chindits and is recognised as the father of US Air Force special operations.

A combat veteran with seven enemy aircraft to his credit, Alison was appointed at the end of 1943 to join his friend, Lt Col Philip Cochran, to form the 1st Air Commando Group, a secret and highly innovative flying unit.

Alison's composite wing of fighters, bombers, transports, gliders, and helicopters was assembled to support Major General Orde Wingate, the unorthodox British commander of the Chindits long-range penetration force, who planned to land a force of 9,000 men almost 200 miles behind Japanese lines in Burma.

Alison trained his air transport and glider-towing force in preparation for this mission, codenamed Operation Thursday, and the assault took place on the night of March 5 1944. Men and mules were carried in Waco gliders towed in pairs behind C-47 transport aircraft. Alison had only flown a glider on two previous occasions, and never at night, but was determined to participate in the landing of Wingate's force.

He piloted one of the gliders in the first wave, taking 15 men of the assault team. After casting off from the tug aircraft, he brought his glider down safely on the rough "Broadway" landing ground before grabbing his rifle and a sack of grenades and leaping out to join battle with the enemy.

After three weeks in the jungle he was recalled. To get back he flew a damaged C-47 transport aircraft from a jungle airstrip, despite never having flown the type before. On arriving over his destination airfield he had to ask for instructions on how to lower the undercarriage and landing flaps. For his services in support of Operation Thursday, King George VI awarded Alison the DSO.

Alison was immediately summoned to Washington to report to General "Hap" Arnold, Chief of the USAAF, and General Eisenhower, to debrief them on the success of the air commandos; he was then instructed to form four more groups. In the event, only two were formed, and Alison was sent to command the 3rd Air Commando Group in the Pacific, where he participated in the landing on the Philippines and in the air operations at Okinawa.

John Richardson Alison was born in Micanopy, Florida, on November 21 1912. He graduated from the University of Florida with an Engineering degree and joined the US Army Air Corps in 1936.

Before the United States entered the Second World War he served as assistant military attaché in England and helped RAF pilots convert to the P-40 Kittyhawk fighter provided under the Lend-Lease scheme. Not content with a training role, he soon became involved in operational tasks when he recognised that the RAF had much to teach him and his colleagues. In October 1941 he travelled to Moscow to train Russian pilots to fly the aircraft provided under the sensitive US-Soviet Lend-Lease programme. After ten months his repeated requests for a transfer to a fighting unit bore fruit.

In June 1942 he reported to the China-Burma-India (CBI) theatre to join Major General Claire Chennault's 14th Air Force as the deputy commander of the newly formed 75th Fighter Squadron. On July 30 1942, operating from Hengyang in China, he was credited with the first night kills in the theatre. For his experimental night interception work, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. In early 1943 he demonstrated his aggressiveness when he took off during an attack on his own airfield. He engaged three Zero fighters and probably shot one down. He then vectored arriving reinforcements to the battle, after which he made a stern attack on another enemy fighter at close range, shooting it down. His aircraft was damaged and he was forced to make an emergency landing in a river bed. His gallantry and fighting spirit earned him the Silver Star. Ending his tour as commander of the 75th Fighter Squadron, Alison left as an ace with seven confirmed victories and several further probable kills.

After a brief spell in the USA, Alison travelled to Burma in late 1943 to take up his post with No 1 Air Commando.

He resigned from the USAAF in 1946 as a colonel, having added the Distinguished Service Medal to his earlier gallantry awards. He was recognised by his peers as an outstanding pilot. One commanding officer commented: "John Alison has the greatest pure flying skill of any pilot in the theatre – a touch on the controls that knew no equal. His talents were matched only by his eagerness for combat."

After the war Alison held key positions in government and industry, serving as the youngest-ever Assistant Secretary of Commerce for Aeronautics, and sat on the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics and the Civil Aviation Administration. He resigned as Assistant Secretary in March 1949 to become president of the Transit Van Corporation.

In 1950 Alison re-enlisted in the USAF and served in Korea, retiring in 1955 as a major general in the USAF Reserve. He was a senior vice president of the Northrop Corporation until 1984 and was secretary-treasurer of the Air Force Memorial Foundation. He was also a former president of the Air Force Association, an independent non-profit organisation that promotes aerospace education.

A slight figure, Alison was quietly spoken and extremely modest. Greatly admired for his diplomatic skills and his courage in combat, the Air Force Association designated him its "All-American Airman" and named its highest award for industrial leadership, established in 1992, in his honour.

John Alison died on June 6. He is survived by Kathleen, his wife for 60 years, and their two sons.

[bobbysocks]

Geoff Bryson Fisken, DFC, the Commonwealth's most decorated pilot in the south Pacific in World War 11, died peacefully in Rotorua at the weekend. He was 96.

Flying Officer Fisken was a masterful pilot, registering 11 kills.

He started his war years in Masterton, his celebrity, modestly held, while piloting the P-40 Wairarapa Wild Cat.

Such was his fame that on request he regularly visited the United States for reunions. He did not merely rub shoulders with the celebrated actor Eddie Albert, who also flew in the Pacific, and Admiral Nimitz; they rubbed shoulders with him.

Flint-eyed but with the hint of a larrikin, Geoff Fiskin was hewn from the rugged Wairarapa coastline. As a boy he mustered on the unforgiving tussocky terrain, where a muster of one paddock took up to eight to 10 days.

Because he was in a 'service' industry critical to the economy of the war effort, Mr Fisken's bid to enlist was rejected.
Eventually, he persuaded his employer he would be more useful in the air (he made his own glider aged 11 and learned to fly by 14 ) than on the land. To the amazement of his employer, the precocious Fisken once mustered the craggy Wairarapa hills from an aircraft.

Bluff and squarely built, F/O Fisken had a deadly eye in combat flying Buffaloes and Catalinas.

Anxious for active service, like many of his time Mr Fisken was frustrated at the 30-hours a month flying time imposed on NZ pilots.

Eventually attached to 243 Squadron, RAF, squadrons were at times shredded after each scramble, Mr Fisken saw combat in Malaysia (where he contracted dengue fever five times) and Guadalcanal.

His physical toughness became legendary.

Once, following a sortie, Mr Fisken's mechanic fainted when he alighted from his aircraft with a shrapnel protruding from his hip.

''I didn't know it was there,'' Mr Fisken related to the Rotorua Review in 2000 in a rarely accorded interview.

''It felt sore, with blood all down my leg. I tried to pull it out with a pair of pliers at the hospital but it was still too sore. They cut it out and put on some sulthalimide, strapped it up and I was able to fly again in three or four days.''

At most times, allied aircraft were outnumbered roughly 16 to one, Mr Fisken said.

''It was nothing to see 200 or 300 Japanese aircraft in the sky,'' he recalled.

''Anybody in Malaya who tried to dogfight was just a bloody fool.

''It was supposed to be all right in England where there were dogfights all the time, but in Malaya you were dead in five minutes. The Japanese could out-manoeuvre you quite easily with their Zeros.''

Zeros were attacked diving from on high, then flying in an arch from below for a second short in a three- or five-second burst providing the requisite height had been reached. Allied planes would then head for ground when it was realised the Zeroes would not follow.

''Some said the propellers came off the Zeros (at certain velocities) but I don't whether that's true. Whatever the reason, they would never follow you down. But if they were strafing low and saw somebody coming in to land they'd have a go at you _ it was common.''

As his fame grew with his mounting tally, Mr Fisken was sought out by the celebrated Admiral Nimitz at Guadalcanal. Usually, he did not leave his ship but made a concession on learning Fisken was town.

''They gave me five cases of Canadian Club whisky, in little bottles, so I put them in tents for the boys.''

It was American Independence day and Fisken had shot down three enemy aircraft.

The Americans preferred New Zealand pilots as escort cover.

Once covering the cumbersome Catalinas, which were used on rescue missions, Mr Fisken found the flight took them to within 120-130km off the Japanese-occupied land. Relations between the two allies worsened when the New Zealanders found the Americans were farewelling the natives on the island.

''We could have been killed,'' Mr Fisken said. ''The Cats flew only 50 feet above the water and we were less then 500 feet, so we would not have had a show. I asked the Americans if they would pay the bill for our dirty underwear!''

Mr Fisken lived in Rotorua for 31 years. He and his wife Rhoda, who died 14 years ago, had six children, five boys and a girl.

After he sold his Masterton farm, he worked as a manager for TemCo, representing the then Egg Marketing Board. He had also lived in Tauranga and for a short time farmed in Te Puke, retiring in 1976.

Born in Gisborne, Geoff Fisken served from 1941 to 1943, medically discharged but not before he received his DFC in September 1943.

While Mr Fisken said his number of kills was 11, the number can differ between 10 and 13 confirmed victories against probable kills.

He was, however, throughout his life regarded as the highest scoring British Commonwealth pilot in the Pacific.





The notion of "best fighter of WWII" came up again recently on rec.aviation.military. The Buffalo was nominated because it created one ace for every 13 airframes. To which somebody replied: "But weren't they all Finns?" The answer:
"Not all.... Three British Empire pilots became aces flying the Buff. Geoffrey Fisken (a New Zealander with No. 243 Squadron) had six victories in the Brewster, and two others had five."

Well, I checked Christopher Shores, and sure enough in Aces High he credits Fisken with a Ki-27 "Nate" on 12 Jan 1942; three A6M Zeroes on 14 Jan, 21 Jan, and 1 Feb; and two G3M "Nell" bombers on 17 Jan while flying the Buffalo. Here's what Shores has to say about him

"Geoffrey Fisken was born in Gisborne, New Zealand, on 17 February 1918, and was a shepherd prior to the outbreak of World War II. Enlisting in the RNZAF, he was posted to Singapore on completion of his training, initially to join 205 Squadron, RAF--a flyingboat unit. Instead he was trained by 21 RAAF Squadron to fly one of the newly arrived Brewster Buffalo fighters, and was then posted in March 1941 to 67 Squadron which was just forming; from there he moved to the new 243 Squadron when 67 was sent to Burma. As a slightly more experienced pilot at the outbreak of war, he was one of three men detached to Ipoh on 12 December to fly with 21 RAAF Squadron. Returning to Singapore a few days later, he took part in the defence of that island during January. On 31 January so few aircraft remained available to the unit, that the survivors were amalgamated into 453 (RAAF) Squadron together with their pilots, Fisken included. During his final engagement on 1 February he was shot up by two fighters as he was claiming a third shot down, and was wounded in the arm by a bullet and in the hip by a cannon shell fragment. Evacuated before the fall of the island, he returned to New Zealand where he was commissioned, and was subsequently posted to 14 Squadron, RNZAF, to fly Kittyhawks as a Flying Officer."

In three weeks in the Solomons, Fisken ran up his claims to 11, making him the leading Commonwealth fighter pilot against the Japanese. He was awarded a DFC and invalided out of the air force in 1943, whereupon he went back to farming.

[Gilly]

Spitfire diaries: The strange life in Dublin's PoW camp
An attempt to recover a Spitfire from a peat bog in Donegal will highlight the peculiar story of the men - both British and German - who spent much of World War II in relative comfort in neighbouring prisoner of war camps in Dublin, writes historian Dan Snow.
In Northern Ireland in 1941, a routine Sunday afternoon sortie by a pilot flying one of Britain's Spitfire fighters runs into difficulties.
Returning to base after flying "top-cover" for maritime convoys off the coast of Donegal, the Rolls Royce Merlin engine overheats and fails.
The pilot yells into his radio "I'm going over the side", slides back the bubble canopy, releases his seat straps and launches himself into the air.
The air flow hit this particular pilot like a freight train and tore off his boots. Luckily he was able to deploy his parachute and landed in a peat bog. His aircraft smashed into the bog half a mile away.
It sounds like a typical wartime accident but it was anything but. It was the beginning of one of the strangest incidents of WWII.
The pilot was 23-year-old Roland "Bud" Wolfe, an RAF officer from 133 "Eagle" Squadron, a unit entirely composed of Americans.
Bud himself was from Nebraska, one of a number of Americans who had volunteered to take up Britain's cause. Since the US was not yet at war with Germany when the men volunteered, the American government stripped Wolfe and others of their citizenship. These pilots were a mix of idealists and thrill seekers.
When Wolfe was found by the authorities he realised his, already unusual, situation was much more complicated than he had guessed. He had crashed over the border.
Since the South was neutral it had been decided that all servicemen of any belligerent nation that ended up on Irish soil through navigational error, shipwreck or other accident would be interned for the duration of the war.
Wolfe found himself heading not back to his airbase, RAF Eglinton, now Derry International Airport, in Northern Ireland just 13 miles away, but to Curragh Camp, County Kildare, 175 miles to the south.
Here, a huddle of corrugated iron huts housed 40 other RAF pilots and crewmen who had accidentally come down in neutral territory. They were effectively prisoners of war.
It was an odd existence. The guards had blank rounds in their rifles, visitors were permitted (one officer shipped his wife over), and the internees were allowed to come and go. Fishing excursions, fox hunting, golf and trips to the pub in the town of Naas helped pass the time.
But what was really odd was the proximity of the Germans.
It was not just the British and their allies who got lost above and around Ireland. German sailors from destroyed U-boats and Luftwaffe aircrew also found themselves interned. The juxtaposition of the two sides made for surreal drama.
Sport was a notable feature. In one football match the Germans beat the British 8-3. There were also boxing contests.
It appears that the rivalry on the pitch followed the teams into the pub afterwards as well. They would drink at different bars, and the British once complained vigorously when the Luftwaffe internees turned up to a dance they had organised.
Anything further from front-line service is hard to imagine.
It may seem to us like a welcome chance to sit out the war with honour intact, plenty of distractions and no danger, but for Wolfe it was an unacceptable interruption to his flying activities.
On 13 December 1941 he walked straight out of camp and after a meal in a hotel, which he did not pay for, he headed into nearby Dublin and caught the train the next day to Belfast. Within hours he was back at RAF Eglinton where he had taken off two weeks earlier in his defective Spitfire.
He could not have expected what was to happen next. The British government decided that, in this dark hour, it would be unwise to upset a neutral nation.
The decision was made to send Wolfe back to The Curragh and internment. Back in the camp, Wolfe made the best of it, joining the fox-hunting with relish.
He did try to escape again but this time he was caught. Finally in 1943, with the US in the war, and the tide slowly turning, The Curragh was closed and the internees returned. Wolfe joined the US Army Air Force and served once again on the front line.
So great was his love of flying that he also served in Korea and even Vietnam. He eventually died in 1994.
But Wolfe's epic story did not end with his death. Thanks to the highly unusual, soft nature of the terrain in the peat bog where his Spitfire crashed, a team of archaeologists is attempting to dig up his aircraft.
This week I will accompany them with a BBC television crew and record what we hope will be substantial pieces of wreckage emerging from the bog. The bog defeated the attempt in 1941 to gather up the wreckage, so there should be plenty of Spitfire down there, but it may well defeat us.
The digger has to sit on bog mats, big railway sleepers, to spread its 20-ton weight. But even they may not be enough to stop it sinking in. There is also a danger that the hole will simply fill with water or the sides cave in.
It is one of the most difficult excavations that an experienced team have ever faced. Whatever happens, I will be updating Twitter minute-by-minute as the excavation takes place.
Hopefully we will find the physical evidence that will shine a light on the events of that November night 70 years ago and also provide us with a connection to one of the most bizarre moments of the war


by Dan Snow, BBC website 28th June

[bobbysocks]

wow...that is interesting and something i did not know. thanks for posting gilly and keep us updated in the spit recovery. would be good to have another one in the air.

[WildBoar44]

Not much to read apart from a Big "Thank You" bobbysocks and other Authors for what you do on these pages..........

Most days I get home later after my family have had dinner.....so gone is the day's I would sit at the kitchen table alone eating.....I now look forward to grabbing my feast and nestle myself at my Pc workstation and read the latest offerings from "In thier own words"...

If I could get one to you.....here is a pint of good English Ale......Cheers !!


WildBoar.

[themeistor1]

I live right beside eglinton aerodrome i learnd to drive there and flew from there many times . there are lots of ww2 aircraft still lying around . There was a spit lying in the mud at the end of the runway for years until they lenghtend the runway also a bolton paul defiant ,corsair ,barracuda and many more . Many aircraft crashed into the sperrin mountains because their compasses were being altered by the metal ores in them .And i've heard plenty of stories about german uboat crews socialising in donegal and the west of the free state. During the war the guns of the free state all pointed towards the North. They also offered hitler sanctuary near the end of the war

[bobbysocks]

journal notes ( long but interesting)

FIRST LIEUTENANT WILLIAM A. MALONE
Navigator- 8th Air Force
303rd Bomb Group
(Hell's Angels)
427th Bomb Squadron
Molesworth England

THE PLANE ASSIGNMENTS


099 "Ole 99"
423 "Jigger Roche"
060 "Pogue Mahone"
527 "Earthquake McGoon"
569 "Means Special" (finished up in it)




REMARKS
Six raids on Munich caused riots in city and Gestapo had to forcefully put down people's desire to sue for peace. On third raid to Big M pleas were intercepted on radio to send firefighting apparatus from Stuttgart which is close to 80 miles away. Apparently incendiaries started huge fires which could not be brought under control. Because of the number of raids on Munich the trip became known as the M-M Special (Molesworth to Munich Special).


The two raids to Cherbourg started ground forces on lightning-like offensive out of St. Lo. Later raids to Paris and Brest supported this offensive.


On raid to Berlin ( Big B ) saw huge palls of smoke rising from our target, which was the Damier-Benz aircraft engine works on southern edge of Berlin. Huge columns of smoke were also seen in heart of Berlin, in Brandenburg (just outside of Berlin), at Hamburg Kiel and Wilhelmshaven, where other Groups bombed.


Raid to Peenamunde was very successful as target was blasted effectively. On way home Group got an ME 210 which made fatal mistake of coming in too close.


Both raids to Merseburg saw great clouds of black smoke at target. Saw a number of B-17's, P-51's and enemy aircraft go down in flames. It was a horrible but fascinating sight to see parts of planes plummet earthward in flames and explode when they hit the ground.


The Brux raid was first real air battle for crew. As result of fight Miles Bruce was killed. Group got at least 4 fighters and lost 1 ship. Other Groups got quite a few. Our fighters finally arrived and must have gotten quite a few more. I believe I got one ME 109. After taking a constant pounding for six straight missions our Squadron has only 4 ships fit for operations. Personnel casualties were comparatively light, but that didn't save Bruce or Newton's crew. Bruce was buried September 14, 1944, in Cambridge National Military Cemetery. The crew was present at his funeral.


Raids on Eindhoven and Hertogenbasch paved way for paratroop landings in Holland--also were in support of drive to outflank Siegfried Line.


Raids to Ruhr and vicinity to cut production, supply and transportation for front lines to a minimum. Cologne, Essen, Munster, Osnabruk, Duisburg and Dortmund are all more than half destroyed and the heart of the Ruhr (Gelsenkirchen, Battrop, etc.) is also pretty well smashed.


Two days less than 4 months was the time span for my tour which started on July 8 1944, and was terminated November 6, 1944. Now I can really start thinking of home!


RAIDS



07/08/44 - 04:30 - Etaples, France - No flak - No fighters - Bridge - Trouble with rendezvous - Hit target - Johnny was co-pilot, rest of crew was Keating's.


07/09/44 - 06:05 - Tours, France - Light flak - No fighters - Bridge - Target was socked in, so hit airfield N.E. Tours as last resort - Bombing good - Flew with crew, Johnny as co-pilot, Schwalow First Pilot - M. DuMont stayed home.


07/11/44 - 09:00 - Munich, Germany - Intense flak, no injuries - 8 holes - No fighters - City - 1 hole in nose - Hit city - Flew with strange crew.


07/12/44 - 09:45 - Munich, Germany - intense flak, no injuries - No holes - No fighters City - Hit city hard - Bomber in Purple Heaven Corner blew up over target just below us - No chutes seen - Flew with crew.


07/13/44 - 09:30 - Munich, Germany - Intense flak, no injuries - 5 holes - No fighters - City - 1 hole in nose - Hit city - Fighter exploded in mid-air below formation but pilot got out OK - Flew with crew.


07/21/44 - 08:45 - Stuttgart (Air Depot N.E. of City), Germany- Target socked in so Group hit Chemical Plant at Mannheim as alternate target - Intense flak - No injuries - No fighters - Chemical Plant at Mannheim - Flew with crew in 099. Engines overheated before I.P.; lost altitude and airspeed. Couldn't bomb primary target because of clouds and had to salvo bombs before Mannheim to catch up with formation and maintain altitude. Dwindling gas supply made whole crew anxious. Landed with about 4 minutes supply left. Really earned flying pay on this one. Group passed target, but our bombs raised hell in small German village.


07/24/44 - 05:15 - Cherbourg (St. Lo), France - Moderate flak - No Injuries - No fighters - No holes - Target was enemy troop concentrations just ahead of American lines - Raised hell with Germans - Flew with crew.


07/25/44 - 04:40 - Cherbourg (St. Lo), France - No flak, no injuries - No fighters - Enemy troop concentrations just ahead of our lines at St. Lo - Blasted positions accurately and big push started immediately after bombing.


07/28/44 - 08:40 - Leipzig (Merseburg) - Intense flak at target and at several places along route - Fighters attacked 2 formations behind us but didn't bother us - No injuries - 8 holes, 1 in plexiglass and 1 in nose - Target was synthetic oil plant 21 miles west of Leipzig at Launa. Seemed to be in flak area for 5 minutes. The longest 5 minutes of my life. Bombed P.F.F. and our Group missed target but preceding Groups hit because huge columns of smoke rose from target. Flew with Hamilton and crew.


07/29/44 - 08:25 - Leipzig (Merseburg) - Intense flak at target and moderate at several places along route - Fighters in area - No injuries - 3 holes - Synthetic oil plant at Launa was target. Blasted hell out of target and columns of thick black smoke rose for 15,000 or 20,000 feet above target. Flew with crew.


08/04/44 - 09:10 - Peenamunde - Moderate flak at target and several places along route - 1 fighter (ME 210) - No injuries - 3 holes - Target was experimental station and laboratories - Huge smoke columns seen and seemed to indicate good results ME 210 got too close to formation and was shot down.


08/05/44 - 03:15 - Pas de Calais (flying bombsight) - No flak - No fighters - No injuries - No holes - Element leader failed to make rendezvous, so bombed an airfield in France as last resort target with fair results. Would have been duck soup for German fighters. Flew with crew.


08/06/44 - 08:25 - Berlin (Genshagen) - Intense flak at target and moderate at several places along route - No injuries - 4 holes - Enemy fighters seen but did not make a pass at our formation. Also saw new jet-propelled aircraft for first time and they scared hell out of {us} for a while. Target was Damier-Benz Aircraft Engine Plant at Genshagen on southern outskirts of "Big B" - Bomb run was visual and target was hit but good. One flak hole in nose just beside my head; with a little more force my flak helmet would have had a test. Smoke rose for from 15,000 to 20,000 feet above target. Brandenburg, about 20 miles west of Berlin was also a huge pall of smoke at the airfield and ammo dumps and it seemed as if all hell had broken loose. Different Groups also raised 4 towering clouds of smoke at Hamburg, and blasted airfields and different targets all the way from Berlin to the coast. It was a beautiful sight all the way back to the coast and it was a bad day for Adolph and his bums. One B-17 blew up and 9 chutes were seen so it wasn't so bad. A helluva day and place to go on raid #13, but wound up O.K. Flew with crew.


08/07/44 - 05:50 - Paris - Intense flak at target and moderate at several places along route - No injuries - 3 holes - No fighters - Target was a bridge across Seine River at N.E. edge of "gay Paree" No.4 engine oil-cooler hit over target and engine wouldn't feather. Prop windmilled. Couldn't maintain airspeed and fell behind Group. For a while we were clay pigeons for every gunner in Paris, but although flak was terrific and practically had our number we escaped with no serious damage. By this time we had lost our formation and had to come home. Took some ticklish navigating to get past other flak installations and still get home as quickly as possible. We sweat out gas but hit English coast and base for a 0-0 navigation mission. Besecker would have been proud of that one. We were pretty lucky all the way round, but bridge was pasted and we got home O.K. even though we ruined an engine with the windmilling prop. Flew with crew and they were perfect - scared as I was but not excited. We were a perfect fighter target without any support but were unmolested. The plane was "Jigger Roche" ---423, which went down on Frankfort raid.


08/9/44 - 06:45 - Pirmasens (German town between Mannheim and Saarbrucken) - No flak at target and only meager at one or two places along route - No fighters - No holes - No injuries. Target was a last resort target after report came back that Munich was socked in. The target we were supposed to hit was a shoe factory in the middle of Pirmasens. We had RDX bombs aboard and there wasn't much left of town after we left. Hit target and a couple thousand Germans besides. Flew with entire crew except Rohner.


08/11/44 - 06:40 - Brest - No flak encountered but there was some in area - No injuries - No fighters - No holes - Target was a concentration of pillboxes and enemy troops and was really hit proper. Flew with crew.


08/12/44 - 08:50 - Metz (France) - A little flak along route - No fighters - No injuries - One hole - Target was a series of railroad junctions and marshalling yards which were important to Germans for supply land evacuation purposes. Triangular target area was completely demolished by new RDX bombs Flew with crew.


08/27/44 - 08:30 - Esbjerg, Denmark - Moderate accurate flak at target - One enemy fighter seen (ME 110) - No injuries - 3 holes - Started out for "Big B" but thick clouds persisted and went up to 32,000 feet. *General Travis led Group and putzed around over Denmark for an hour trying to get through. Finally gave up after touring up and down Denmark and hit airfield at Esbjerg as last resort. 358th lost three ships but only two crews. Flew with crew. * This is General Travis. Travis Air Force Base, California named after him.


08/30/44 - 05:10 - Pas de Calais - No flak - No fighters - No holes - No injuries - Bombed no-ball target in heavy pea soup. A real milk run. Gee-fix at target showed we bombed at least a mile south of target. Flew with crew.


09/09/44 - 07:35 - Ludwigshaven (Mannheim PFF) - Intense flak at target and moderate from Strasbourg and at Luxembourg - About 50 holes, ten of which were about as big as a fist. No fighters. Tailgunner got slight frostbite - otherwise no injuries. Target was PFF center of Mannheim. Flak was intense and very accurate at target. We were lead of the low element, low squadron, high group. Our No. 3 wingman in the Purple Heart Corner was hit by 2 direct flak hits and went down, breaking up on the way. Over target, flak burst right outside window. A piece came through and missed my arm by scarcely an inch, brushing my sleeve as it passed by. Two holes bigger than my fist in bottom of nose. Entire crew believed that our luck had run out. I believe we were all scared - though no one showed it--by the accurate fire at both the target and Luxembourg. Bombs landed all over the place and probably got a few Germans. Besides 323 going down in our squadron, other squadrons in Group lost about 6 planes. Entire Group got hell shot out of it. This was probably our toughest raid. Flew with crew.


09/10/44 - 07:00 - Stuttgart - (visual) - Moderate flak at target and several places on route, especially Karisruhe - No fighters, no injuries. Towers of smoke rose from many targets around Strasbourg, Karlsruhe, Baden. And Stuttgart. Led high squadron of lead group. Three big holes in plane - none in nose. Target was motor works 7 miles from Stuttgart. Damage unobserved. Compared to the last raid this was a "milk run." Flew with crew.


09/12/44 - 09:15 - Brux, Czechoslovakia - Intense flak at target - Hit by fighters just North of Berlin. About 15 holes - One in nose by flak which just missed Rohner's neck - One casualty. Target was a synthetic oil plant - the largest in the world --at Brux. Believe target was hit hard. Fighters, ME 109's and F.W. 190's hit us just N.W. of Berlin. They came in from nose and went around to tail. Our tailgunner was hit on first attack - whether by German shells or one of our own which strayed is only a matter of conjecture. His oxygen hose was severed and although none of his wounds were fatal he died of anoxia before the attack ceased and we could go to help him. There was nothing we could possibly do to save him before it was too late. We all felt his death was a terrible blow. He was a wonderful fellow with never a cross word and an everlasting grin. I believe I got a fighter in the attack for I saw my bullets make small puffs along the entire fuselage of a 109. Merrill DuMont said fighter went into lazy spin with smoke pouring out. With both flak and fighters this was the worst mission yet. On top of that Gen. Travis putzed around waiting for some other Group on the Czech-German border. We all sweat it out. I was scared as hell of both flak and fighters and Bruce in the tail didn't help matters any. We're all praying that the number of missions is lowered. If things continue this way it's almost impossible to be lucky thirty-five times. Now that war is close to Germany, the missions are getting rougher rather than easier. Flew with crew. Requiescat in pace!


09/17/44 - 05:45 - Hertogenbasch - Moderate flak at target and several places along route near front lines - No injuries, no fighters, 5 holes. Bombed road just north of an important bridge across Maas River and canal. Results excellent. Prepared way for paratroop landings. Flew with crew. (Target in Holland)


09/19/44 - 06:05 - Hamm (Germany) - Moderate flak at target and two places on route - No injuries, no fighters, 2 holes, one in wing bigger than my fist which missed gas tanks. Wasn't worried about flak on this one as much as about a mid air collision since the bomb run was made in thick pea soup. Surprisingly enough we didn't see much flak although we expected a rough time since Hamm is in Ruhr Valley and "Happy Valley" as it is called has close to 2000 ack-ack guns. Results of bombing were unobserved because of weather conditions. Target was the railroad marshalling yards which supply the front lines and traffic products of the industrial Ruhr back to northern and central Germany. Flew with crew and because of bad weather had to land at Bungay near coast.


09/21/44 - 06:00 - Mainz (Germany) - Intense flak at target for about 6 minutes - No Injuries - Enemy fighters seen - 3 holes. Bomb run again impaired by weather but observed results were excellent. Target was railroad marshalling yards which supply front lines and which carry most of Ruhr's products to central and southern Germany. Ran into accurate flak on both route in and out of target. Flak at target was accurate and there was plenty of it. Saw quite a number of enemy fighters but they didn't bother us. Also saw a few jet-propelled craft. A B-24 joined our squadron, which we were leading, and the crew will never know how close they came to being shot down for they didn't identify themselves at all. We are getting "trigger-happy" and Jerry no doubt has B-17's and B-24's and we won't take many chances any more. On way home during let-down from altitude the whole wing formation broke up because of thick pea soup which started at 500 feet and went up to 10,000 feet. Hit field at 0-0, thank goodness. Flew with crew.


10/02/44 - 06:30 - Cologne (Germany) - Meager inaccurate flak at target - No injuries - No enemy fighters - Not sure what we bombed but I think bombardier believed he had poor results and tried to pass off blame on navigator. P.F.F. target was center of Cologne, which I know we didn't hit. We were on course for visual primary which was Ford Motor Works 3 miles north of city. Cologne is in the heart of the Ruhr and it really surprised the hell out of us to get a free ride through. Nine to go ---four if they lower it to thirty. Flew with crew. I think we sweated out no flak almost as much as we do when there is intense flak.


10/03/44 - 07:00 - Cologne (Germany) - Intense accurate flak at target, meager inaccurate at Coast in - One injury - No enemy fighters - Not sure of target but believe we were after "G.H." Primary. Results were unobserved. We were hoping the impossible could happen twice in a row but " Happy Valley" was again in true form. The ack-ack had our range and altitude with the first burst and all hell really broke loose. Flak tracked formation right along and just after bombs away, Rohner was hit high up in the back of the thigh. It knocked him head-over-heels out of bombardier's chair but I thought he was only scared by a close miss. The inter-phone was knocked out and it took me a minute or so to find out he was really hit. The piece of flak went through his coveralls but not through his pants. The wound bled very little and resembled a puncture. Nothing serious but he is now the "Purple Heart Kid." We were both lucky because a couple bursts missed being direct hits by a matter of a foot or two. The chin turret was all banged up and nose had quite a few holes. One piece went right through waist --in one side and out the other. Wings were also pretty well perforated and so was tail. Flew with crew. Only eight to go but they get worse instead of better. Navigator in lead was worst I've ever seen, and our Group Leader doesn't deserve to fly a P.T.-19. They really did a miserable job and Johnny had a really rough time trying to keep our Sqdn. out of trouble. Flew lead, high squadron, high group. Saw Adolph's famous V-2 for first time and got coordinates of the launching site of his super rocket bomb. Fighters will probably blast it to Hades in a hurry.


10/04/44 - 07:20 - Cologne - Moderate accurate flak at target - Moderate accurate flak at battlefront near Koblenz - One injury - No fighters attacked, but were seen and attacked lead wing - Bombed Ford Plant by G.H. - Results unobserved. Flak at target was accurate again but we got through O.K. However, when we crossed battlefront they threw up everything but the kitchen sink. It was so accurate that the first burst was just above our nose and a piece hit the bombardier. The wound was slight but if this keeps up the bombardiers won't fly with us. Two in two missions is too many. Again, there were too many close ones that just missed being direct hits. Al Monnig also came awful close to getting it. Flew with crew, except of course, tailgunner and bombardier; latter was Lt. Haakonsen.


10/14/44 - 06:40 - Saarbrucken (Germany) - Meager inaccurate flak at target for us - No fighters - No holes - No - injuries - Bombed important R.R. marshalling yard supplying front lines. Believe we passed target. On bomb run, some fool almost collided with us. Both the pilot and co-pilot were putting on their flak suits and missed us by only an inch or so. The only thing that saved us was quick action by Johnny and Merrill when they shoved the stick forward and dove us out of the way. I guess everyone on the crew hit the top of the plane when it dove down but there were only a few banged heads and skinned knees to show for a close call. Flew with crew except Rohner. Haakonsen was bombardier.


10/18/44 - 07:00 - Cologne - Moderate accurate flak at target, Koblenz and battlefront. No injuries, no enemy fighters. Two holes (big ones--one in nose). Target was Ford Motor Works, but results were unobserved although heading was perfect. The flak was close but this was the closest thing to a "milk run" we're going to have anymore. Saw a couple of those new rockets (supposedly V-2) and I got a pretty accurate position on both. The fighters will probably take care of the rest. Weather again gave us a hard time. Merrill and Bill didn't fly with us but Johnny was pilot and the rest of the crew was along.


10/19/44 - 07:05 - Mannheim - Intense, accurate flak at target - No Injuries, no enemy fighters for us - About 10 holes, three in nose. Target was German "Tiger" tank works at Mannheim. Results were unobserved. We expected a very rough mission on this one, but it wasn't quite as rough as we had figured on. Flak was right in the groove, but Griggs crew was lucky again with quite a few awful close misses. There was a hole bigger than my fist above my head and flak sailed on through the partition nearly getting Merrill. There was a big gash in the chin turret and another in the nose. One very large piece put a hole in the wing, just missed the gas tanks, and took about a foot of the main wing spar off. Still another piece went through the No. 3 nacelle and came within a half-inch of the ignition system. After the target, Jerry tossed up a couple phosphorus shells but did no dam- age. Four to go - things are getting brighter. Flew with crew except Bruce.


10/22/44 - 07:25 - Brunswick (Braunschweig) - Moderate accurate flak at target - Intense observed several places on route. Enemy fighters were in area and hit one Group but our fighter cover was perfect and we didn't see any. Target was oil refinery but results were unobserved. Sweat out flying more than flak and fighters. O'Leary was squadron lead and when we most expected fighters he had us flubbing around a mile or more from our Group. Got a few minor flak holes but nothing much to speak of. The co-pilot, Droll, finished up on this raid. Flew with DuBose and crew. Rohner flew with Flesh. Johnny and our crew were stood down except for Duff who flew with DuBose in the ball. Three to go --the end of the tour draws near!


10/25/44 - 06:50 - Hamm - Moderate inaccurate flak at target - Meager accurate at Osnabruk Intense observed at Munster. Two holes --one in nose--the only two in Group. No injuries - Fighters in area. As we understand it now, it was pretty nearly a milk run. Target was marshalling yard, which I think we pasted, although results were unobserved. Flew with crew and then taking off on seven-day leave.


11/04/44 - 05:35 - Battrop (heart of Ruhr) - Flak was intense but mostly low, thank good- ness. Fighters were seen in distance, but P-51's our Guardian Angels, chased them off. No injuries. About 20 holes, 3 in nose. One hit my foot, went through my flying boot, but my G.I. Shoe stopped it. Lucky! Didn't tell anyone, no sense worrying them. We were in flak for about 15 minutes, which I found out, is one helluva long time. B-24's saved the day for us. They went in about 22,000 (their highest altitude) while we were at 28,000. They got the better part of the flak. Target was oil refinery.. I'll swear G.H. navigator made a mistake and dropped at least a minute and a half early. Results were unobserved. Flew with Davis crew.


11/05/44 - 06:30 - Frankfort - Flak intense and accurate at target. Fighters were in area, but P-51's put the fear of God in them. No injuries, about 10 holes ---three in nose. Were in flak for about 7 minutes and it really had us bracketed. How we ever got through we'll never know. One B-17 got a direct hit in number 2 engine. Plane was under control for about 4 minutes and then really flamed up. Apparently pilot tried to dive ship to put out fire but it was no soap. Ship dived under control for another 30 seconds and then went into a lazy spin. It spun and spouted flame for another 30 seconds, then tail and wings broke off and rest finally exploded. At least 5 men got out. However, I think others probably got out too, because they had all the time in the world. Target was marshalling yard in Frankfort. Results unobserved. Flew with crew except Merrill, and of course, Bruce. Merrill flew as First Pilot in 885.


11/06/44 - 05:25 - Battrop (extra mission because of abort when Flux-Gate and radio com- pass went out, and no Gee Box). Flak moderate and accurate as hell at target. No fighters. About 15 holes, most of them pretty big. Every burst of flak that came up was right in the formation. If there was as much thrown up as the last time, we would have had it. One piece of flak came in just below Johnny's half of windshield and hit him in leg. However, it had spent all its force going through bulkhead partition and a couple of other things and hit him just hard enough to scare hell out of him. Target was oil refinery again. Several holes in wing were just outside gas tanks - thank God! One piece went right through tailgunner's cubby hole and missed his head only because he bent down to fix his boot. G.H. navigator dropped exactly on my E.T.A. and his heading was perfect. Results were unobserved. However, we either got the oil plant or a bunch of Germans, and right now I don't much give a damn which it was. Flew with crew except Merrill, who showed Peterson, a new boy, the ropes. I'm first of the crew to finish. Amen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[bobbysocks]

MY FIRST MISSION
from the journal of 2Lt Carroll 'Ted' Binder
KIA 24 May 1944, his 28th Mission,


There was a loud knock on our door, and it was opened noisily. A moment later the lights were napped on and four sleepy combat men were blinking at a harassed looking corporal in the doorway. We knew what his mission was -- I, at least, had been lying awake for over an hour, worrying about the day ahead as I used to do before an exam at Harvard -- and so it was no surprise to us when he read off: Lt. Hofmann; Lt. Binder; Lt. Israelson. Flying with Lt. Gorman in ship 739--Pugnacious Peter. Breakfast at 0330. Briefing at 0430.

We had known, too, that Jim Gorman, a veteran of fourteen missions, would be our pilot on our first expedition. It was squadron policy to break in new crews with experienced pilots, so we had already had a week with Jim in the pilot's seat and Lt. Ray Hofmann, our regular pilot, in Lt. Calvin S. Brothers' regular spot on the right hand side of the cockpit.

The room was cold as we rolled out of our warm, comfortable beds, so cold that our chattering teeth throttled any inclination to talk we might have had. But uncomfortable as it was, I could think only of the things I knew I mustn't forget. Dog tags? Yes, I must have put them on when I first got up. I could feel that cold metal against my chest. Wallet? Yes, I'd remembered to take that out of my pocket and hide it in my bureau drawer. Money? The intelligence officer had said that English pounds could perform miracles in occupied Europe. I felt in my flying pocket suit to make sure that the five pounds I had put there were still in place. Papers? Yes, my pockets had been properly purged of everything that might interest the Hun. As far as I knew, I had thought of everything.

At breakfast it was interesting to note the different expressions on men's faces as they ate. Lt. Jack W. Watson, (of Yankee Stadium fame) who had lost two engines and bailed his crew out in Holland, then brought the ship back by himself, had so completely recovered that he was wisecracking all through the meal. Lt. John F. Henderson, who had to ditch twice in the North Sea and now went on every mission knowing that he was going to die that day (he was shot down three days afterwards), looked grim even when he asked for the marmalade. Lt. J. W. Stuermer, who had completed twelve missions successfully, looked and talked as if he had nothing more ahead of him than a practice flight to Hereford and back (two days later as we were leaving on pass, we heard a loud explosion south of the field. One waist gunner was the only survivor of Stuermer's collision with another Fort). And me, Lt. Binder, who had no idea what was coming, tried to look nonchalant and laughed nervously but loudly when ever anyone said anything.

Another cold truck ride brought us to the main briefing building where crews from all the squadrons were given all the information that could be of value to them that day. Pilots and co-pilots, navigators, bombardiers, and radio operators, each had their own private briefings, with the other gunners lumped together in one large room. After collecting my set of maps, I walked into the navigator's room where the colossal map of western Europe had already been covered with the transparent material on which our mission route was marked. Up to now I had felt the usual first mission jitters, but when I saw the target I felt a strange sense of exhilaration. Berlin was still the Great Untouchable for the Eighth Air Force, but it could not have had more interest to me than Leipzig, which I knew to be one of Germany's greatest manufacturing cities and one of the least attacked of her major war centers. I had expected a short run to a French air field, and I had been afraid. But when I found that it (Leipzig) was to be one of the longest runs yet attacked , my satisfied ambition made me forget my fears, and I knew that I wouldn't be battle shy on my first mission. From then on I positively glowed inside.

Navigator's briefing began with the reading off of a flight plan for all of us to copy. Every course, distance, drift and ETA from departure to return had been worked out by the Group navigator, and if metro (meteorology department) winds proved correct, there would be no work at all to be done on the mission.

Next on the platform was an Intelligence officer who had the latest information on hazards. Every flak town on our route was pointed out to us, along with those airfields which the Germans thought worth defending. At the target, we were told, there were umpty-eight guns, only umpty-six of which could bear on us if we stayed on course. As for German fighters, there were -- hundred twenty single engines, --hundred sixty-twin engine fighters within range of our course. I wondered how intelligence could say that it was sixty-six and not sixty-seven. It seemed doubtful that the best spy network in the world could cut it that close.

A more pleasant subject was the fighter support. We were given the exact points at which we were to be met by our Thunderbirds (P-47's); Lightings (P-38's); Mustangs (P-51's) and the English Spitfires, so that we would not be expecting the various kinds at the wrong times and consequently make the fatal and often-made mistake of calling an FW-190, a P-47 or a Me-109, a Mustang. The weather man was next to be given an audience. In spite of the abuse to which he had been subjected for recent mistakes, he spoke confidently of the 3/10 alto-cumulus clouds to be expected at the target, of the eighty knot wind that would complicate our navigation, of the unlimited visibility in central Germany that day. Each of us was given a weather report to be made out at a specific time to aid in the weather forecasting that night.

I was beginning to think that there was nothing else we could be briefed on when another intelligence officer took over and spent ten minutes describing how to identify the target and how to orient oneself on the bomb run. We were to follow a railway all the way down the run, so it looked like a hard one to miss. The Junkers Aircraft Works factory was certainly distinctive enough to stand out.

Navigator's briefing always lasted at least half an hour longer than anyone else's so we had little time in which to dress. Electric suits, flying suits, life vests (called Mae Wests by both RAF and AAF), and parachute harnesses were on in a matter of seconds. Equipment bags were checked to see that we had the electric shoes, gloves, oxygen masks and helmets necessary for a long flight at high altitude. Then back on the trucks and out to our planes.

We were flying a brand new ship which, for want of a name was known by its call-letter, P for Peter. (It later took on the name Pugnacious Peter.) By the time I arrived on the scene, Ray Hofmann and Jim Gorman had gone over every detail with the crew chief, making sure that all four engines were in perfect shape, that radio equipment was functioning properly, and that oxygen and gas load would be adequate for the long journey ahead of us. Gunners had done their pre-flight work, putting in their guns -- the fifty-calibers they had cleaned the night before, then hand-charging them to make sure they were ready for action. Only Shorty, the ball turret operator (Sgt Ollie G. Crenshaw), was still at work on his guns. The rest had joined the officers around the coal stove in the ground crew's tent.

Noticing that forty minutes remained until engines were ready to be started, I quickly checked my own guns, laid out my equipment, and then made for the tent and broke into the circle around the fire. It was a good feeling being together for a few minutes before going to our separate, almost lonely stations in the plane. I must have sounded like a football coach giving a last-minute pep talk, but I think the others knew I meant it when I said we were lucky to get in on so important a raid, and when I pointed out that with our fighter cover we would not have too hard a time. I don't think I was the only one who left our huddle in the best of spirits.

Outside, daylight had broken and unfriendly-looking clouds were hanging low over the base at Molesworth. We climbed into our ship, and in a moment, one after another of our engines was sputtering, and then catching and throwing out a stream of flame and black smoke.

Before long our plane was on its way down the runway, gaining speed until, the airspeed meter reading 125 M.P.H., Jim Gorman pulled gently back on the wheel and the ship nosed into the air. Around the field once at eight hundred feet, then out on a heading of 310 degrees and up through the clouds at four hundred feet per minute. Every man on the crew was at his station, straining his eyes into the mist to make out the forms of approaching planes. In eight minutes the first traces of blue appeared above us. In ten we had broken through and were skipping along the tops of the higher strata-cumulus clouds. And a minute later we were high enough to see a plane ahead of us turning back toward the field, where we were to assemble around the radio beacon. All we had to do was follow him, for his markings identified him as the leader of our own squadron.

Take-off had been at 0730. By 0835 the six ships of each squadron had taken their positions in neat three-plane V's and the three squadrons had occupied their respective lead, high and low spots in the group.

"Navigator to pilot."

"Go ahead."

"Leaving base on course, two minutes behind schedule."

"Roger."

A moment later, Iz (Lt. Elmer P. Israelson) was on interphone to tell the crew that we were now at 10,000 feet and would have to put on our oxygen masks. In quick succession everyone checked in -- tail gunner, left waist, right waist, ball turret, radio, and top turret. To make sure that no one succumbed to anoxia, either Iz or I ran an oxygen check every five minutes from then on, a precaution that had already saved several lives in our squadron.

Just as our squadron had joined others to form a Group, our group now took up its position with others to form the Wing, and by the time we reached the coast, the wings, too, had taken their assigned posts in the Air Division. It must have warmed the heart of much-bombed Great Yarmouth to see us in the bright sunlight, streaming eastward to avenge the wounds of the free world, and to make it possible for a new and better society to rise. But if it didn't impress Great Yarmouth to see formation after formation head out across the water, it certainly impressed me.

Half-way across the North Sea I went on interphone to tell the crew it was time to test-fire guns. "For Christ sakes watch out for planes when you shoot, and those of you who can, fire into the water." Everyone checked in to let me know the message was understood, and a moment later I could hear and feel -- short bursts fired from all parts of the ship. My own guns barked satisfyingly. It was now time to put on flak suits if we were to be prepared for the enemy coastal batteries, now only twenty miles off. It was time, also, to be looking out for our Thunderbolt escort aircraft, and for enemy fighters from fields that dotted the Dutch coast.

Iz and I helped each other wiggle into the awkward flak suits. They hadn't seemed heavy on the ground, but even at 19,000 feet, a moderate enough altitude, the eighteen pounds of protective armor had become a formidable burden. When I had finally managed to clip mine on properly, I surveyed myself a little ruefully. Holy smoke! The Luftwaffe would be the least of my worries. Flak too for that matter. My real problem would be just to move amid the tangle of wires and tubes that were necessary to keep me going -- the thick, awkward oxygen hose, the wire to my throat mike, the wire to the earphones sewed into my helmet, the plug attachment for my heated suit. Yes, it would be a battle to get through today even if I never saw a German plane or a flak burst.

"Flak at twelve o'clock low," I called nervously on interphone. An equally nervous "Roger" came from the cockpit.

It didn't look like much to worry about -- not much of it and too low to hurt us. So I forgot my initial fear and pressed my face against a window to get a good look -- that thrilling first look -- at enemy territory. Just off our right wing was Haarlem, where our pilgrims first experimented in living abroad and where they made their history-making decision to sail for the new world. On the coast near Haarlem was Ijmuiden, where a year before a dozen marauders (B-26's) had attacked and a dozen had been shot down. And off in the distance at two o'clock, bordered by rivers, canals, and the Zuider Zee, now nearly four years the capital of a nation in chains, was Amsterdam. Knowing that the crew always like to know where we were, I got busy on interphone with the latest bulletin. "Navigator to crew. We're on course just north of Amsterdam. That's the Zuider Zee ahead of us. "Let's all check in." Everyone was really on the ball now. I don't think it took three seconds for the six gunners to answer. It was a good sign.

I was just beginning to wonder where our fighter escort was when I heard Jim Gorman's husky voice on interphone. "Contrails at nine o'clock high." And sure enough, there they were. Too far out for the planes themselves to be visible -- I could make out three groups of vapor trails, thin wisps of white against the deep-blue February sky. The wisps seemed to be extending themselves parallel to our course.

I had hardly focused my eyes on the fighters to the north of us when our right waist sang out: "Contrails at three o'clock high." I could see these, too, and they were close enough for me to make out four wisps in each flight of planes, a little black speck at the head of each wisp. Let's keep our eye on these babies, " called our battle-wise pilot. At Oschersleben the Germans had flown along parallel until our Fort gunners, thinking they were friendly, began to relax. Then they had come in closer and closer, finally committing themselves and attacking when it was too late to stop them. The January 11th communique had reported: "From these operations, sixty of our bombers are missing."

So long as the sky remained cloudless and visibility unlimited, I knew that I had no need to worry about navigation, so I put my maps aside and strained my eyes out into the distance, looking for a speck that might prove a fighter. Occasionally my glance would wander to the ground, or rather to the water of the Zuider Zee. It was now possible to make out a convoy of small ships making their way up the stream shore.

The country of the Zuider Zee was flat, honeycombed with canals, and covered with light snow not quite deep enough to reflect the bright sunlight. There were brilliant flashes now and then, though. They came from the guns at Zwolle.

We had left the Zuider Zee fifteen minutes behind us when I called the crew to report we were now in Germany, four minutes behind schedule. I had worked out a hasty ETA for the initial point and target, now told the crew how much longer we would be carrying our bomb load. "In another hour and forty minutes, we'll be getting the lead out of our pants," I said, and for a reason I cannot now comprehend, I felt quite witty and proud of myself.

Moving across to the other side of the nose, my eye fell on my log, and I noticed that I hadn't had an entry in fifteen minutes. Pacing off roughly forty-five miles with my glove-covered fingers, I looked for a landmark that would pin-point me quickly. There was a good one about fifty miles from my last check point, a big forest with a railway along its eastern edge. I looked out my left window, and there it was off our wing. We were going faster than I had calculated. "We're now over the Teutoburger forest," I called on interphone. "A Hun named Herman licked the -- -- out of the Romans here."

"What is this, a Cook's Tour?" moaned the bombardier.

"O.K., I'll shut up. Just wanted to let everyone know we're in fighter alley now. Let's all stay right on our toes because for the next two hours we'll be in range of the Berlin fighter defenses. The chips are down, so let's give 'em hell."

A minute later the bombardier spotted two fighters at eleven o'clock low. By the time I had picked them up, they had attacked the group ahead of us, peeling off and diving just before they reached the lead plane. They were a mile below us, well out of range, before we reached the scene of battle. Iz fired a couple of hopeful bursts their way, but I confined my activity to entering two silver Focke-Wulfs in my log. We were now crossing the Weser river, so I took advantage of the lull to work out a good ground speed and a new ETA to the target. Just a – – secretary, I thought to myself.

Then an exciting thing happened. Three Mustangs that had been circling high above us dived on the planes on our left. The odds were even numerically, but the Jerries high-tailed it for home, two of them dodging away from their faster pursuers. The third exploded with a bright yellow flash, leaving a cloud of black oil smoke where he had been. So thorough had been the explosion that not a fragment of the plane was visible, and I knew that little pieces of Hans would be floating down river to Bremen for days. It was two minutes after twelve when I entered Hans' demise in my log. Fifty minutes to the target.

Fighters were all around us now, most of them attacking other formations but still near enough to shoot at us if they veered toward us for ten seconds. How I cursed the flak suit that weighed me down as I followed planes from side to side.

The group ahead of us really seemed to be getting it now. One Fort dropped out of formation with a wing on fire. Seven chutes came out of it before a blinding explosion finished off the plane and crew. Another “Seventeen” which must have had a hit in the gas tank exploded while still in formation. Fighters, too, were going down; a few from Fortress guns but mainly from combat with other fighters. Our Mustangs seemed to have the upper hand, pursuing FW's and Messerschmitts right down to the ground and then climbing up for more action. There weren't enough of them to keep all the vultures off us, but they could break up any attempt at a mass attack. That was what really mattered. So long as the Jerries couldn't sit out of range and fire rockets into us, or queue up and come in simultaneously from several directions, we were fairly safe (especially when they were concentrating on someone else). It was strange how detached from the whole battle I felt. I experienced no more emotion when I saw a Fort with ten men in it blow up than I used to experience when such a scene was enacted in the movies. I just couldn't feel I was part of the drama going on in the arena around me.

I had seen Magdeburg as we passed it – I'd even remembered that it was the laws of Magdeburg that German settlers carried to eastern Europe centuries ago and retain to this day. I'd seen Berlin off in the distance to our left, and wondered when we would be going there. (It would be exactly sixteen days later.) But it was only when we had turned south toward Torgau that I realized how quickly the time had passed.

Hastily I called the bombardier and pilot to tell them we were now ready to turn on the “initial point,” then I made sure that the waist gunners were ready to throw out the chaff because I'd been told by old combat men that it did wonderful things to the Jerries below, hampering the aiming their flak guns.

The lead group, a little ahead and to the right of us, was turning. A moment later we were swinging sharp right to keep pace and regain our position. There were no enemy fighters to harass us now, so it was easier for the pilots to concentrate on getting into bombing position. A lot depended on concentration of the formation during the bombing pattern. From the minute we turned at Torgau it was possible to see Leipzig off in the distance. Smoke had risen from the city to well over 15,000 feet, a black cloud foreboding future evil as well as recording previous disaster. Fresh streams of smoke poured from every part of south Leipzig, good evidence that the fires started in the night's R.A.F. raid were still blazing. I found myself hoping that we could do as well.

Bomb doors on the lead ship were swinging open now, followed moments later by the doors of all the other planes.

“Five minutes to the target,” I called on interphone. “Let's start throwing that chaff out now.”

Waist-gunners came back with quick “Rogers.”

I had hardly spoken when I realized that it was well I hadn't put off the signal any longer. Not far ahead of us, at the bend of the railway line we were following on our bomb run, I could see distinctly the outlines of our target, streamlined looking factories in a group just north of the city. And directly above the target hung a seemingly impenetrable wall of flak, an almost solid cloud of little black bursts. My flak suit didn't feel so heavy after all.

Everyone was tense now. The lead ship, which had been doing mild evasive action, now settled down to a straight and level course, making only one perceptible correction as the bombardier picked up the target in his bombsight. We were sitting ducks for the flak gunners and we knew it.

I don't believe I'll ever live a day that seems as long as those last two minutes before bombs away at Leipzig. The bulk of the flak had lowered, forming a kind of floor of black puffs below us, but our chaff had not had its effect on several batteries, which continued to pump quantities of lead into our formation. “Easiest thing is not to look at it,” I thought to myself, so with unaccustomed zeal I proceeded to record heading, altitude, and air speed. I didn't envy Iz, who had to sit up front with his eyes glued to the lead ship lest he miss the moment of bombs away. But then my curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned over Izzy's shoulder to get a good look at the target. Yes, it certainly looked as if we were heading right for it. But of course it was impossible to tell at this altitude.

Just then came the long-awaited moment. A swarm of bombs streamed out of the lead ship, and almost before they had cleared the plane, Iz had flicked his toggle switch and our own bombs were on the way. His relieved voice called triumphantly “Bombs away” on interphone, and a minute later Berman (S/Sgt Seymour Berman, our Radio Operator) called to report that the bomb doors were closing.

Meanwhile the group leader, who had almost run into four flak bursts as the bombs were released, had swerved off to the right and led us through evasive actions so violent that it was all Jim could do to keep us near our squadron. In less than three minutes we had drawn out of range of the last 88 millimeter guns and were all heaving a sigh of relief, so heartfelt that even Pugnacious Peter must have sighed with us. It was only a matter of seconds before we had tightened up our formation and turned our course for home. The temptation to feel that the danger was over was almost irresistible even though I had a flight plan in front of me that told me we still had two hours and a half over enemy territory.

For half an hour after the target we plowed south and west toward the Rhine river without encountering a single fighter, friend or foe. Then, just as the undercast was beginning to break a little, Blakeney (S/Sgt William R. Blakeney – our Engineer and Top-turret operator) spotted four, then eight black specks in the distance. We watched them carefully as they approached, climbing to get well above us. According to my gun-sight they were just over a mile away when they flipped over on their sides to give us a good look at them. They could hardly have been mistaken. They were our own lovely P-38's.

It was only now that I dared relax enough to check in the crew on oxygen, something I hadn't done since the target. All seemed to be well.

Then I noticed two things almost simultaneously. One was that I had to screw up my face in a funny position in order to breathe – had, in fact, been doing it every since Magdeburg. The other was that I felt terribly tired. Checking my oxygen mask, I found that all I had been breathing for the past hour had been the thin air at 19,000 feet – my facial contortions had not let me breathe through my mask, but around it. The mask itself had frozen solid and not a pinhole was left for air to come through.

The realization that I should now be in a state of collapse made me twice as weak as I had been before I'd thought about it (like people who faint an hour after donating blood). I suddenly found that my flak suit was more than I could carry, so I sat down. Knowing that the air at that altitude was not enough to keep me going, I made vain attempts to break the ice out of the sponge pores in my mask and to suck air through them. And knowing that I must now be in a state of collapse, I looked at my fingernails and found them blue.

By now I was just sitting still, breathing hard but thinking little. But I finally got the bright idea of tapping Iz on the shoulder and showing him my predicament. As on every other occasion in the air Iz knew what to do. We had an extra mask, and he tried that. It turned out to be a high pressure type mask, did no good with our low pressure oxygen system. So Iz reached for the outlet hose, held it to my mouth, and turned on the emergency handle. The pure oxygen that poured into me was so effective that within a minute I was transformed from a useless grinning idiot into a navigator reasonably able to keep up with his job – as able, at least, as he had been at the beginning of the mission.

It had taken much “wind” to describe all this, but it was only a matter of six minutes from the time we saw the first P-38's to the time I was back on my feet again. The rest of the mission I was as good as ever, gulping pure oxygen for a minute or two and then breathing this air until I felt too weak to work.

It had seemed like much more than that, but according to my watch it was just an hour and half after bombs away that we had another brief visit from fighters. We were crossing the Rhine, just north of Koblenz when we saw half a dozen ME-109's queue up just out of range. A flight of P-38 Lightnings saw them too, and they were on them in a matter of seconds. One Jerry dived for the ground, two 38's on his tail. We saw him explode less than a mile below us. Two others also dived, then flipped over as the German pilots bailed out. The planes spun to the ground, and were out of sight before they crashed. Meanwhile, the remaining three ripped through our formation, under fire of both our Fortress and Lightning guns, and while they may have been hit, they showed no sign of it as they disappeared to the south.

The rest of the trip seemed terribly dull after what had gone before. Just inside Belgium we were met by swarms of Thunderbolts, and from then on we were always in sight of at least a dozen of them. Occasionally, too, we caught a glimpse of Spitfires which, three miles below us, were keeping a constant patrol around German fighter fields.

A layer of strata-cumulus clouds lay on the ground, so we got only an occasional look at Belgium. Only at the coast did we get a good view of the ground, and what we saw was a fitting climax to an exciting day. Below, and a little to the left of us, were the beaches of Dunkirk, spotlighted by the afternoon sun shining down between the clouds. I looked carefully, and I could almost visualize armies of half-dead men hiding behind the pathetic little sand dunes as they waited for the next boat –or the next bomb. Occasionally I could see the flash of a flak gun, but it only served to emphasize the contrast between the hammer blows Germany was striking at our side in 1940 and the puny little pot shot she could take at us now.

There's no question that the German flak guns were ineffective that afternoon, but nevertheless I felt mightily relieved when, Dunkirk safely behind us, I was able to call the crew and announce that flak suits could now safely be discarded.

“Hallelujah,” said the tail gunner.

“Amen,” said the left waist.

And the others echoed similar sentiments. I myself felt as I used to feel after putting down my canoe at the end of a long portage, so light my feet hardly seemed to touch the ground.

Across the channel to Clacton, our point of entry back in England, we kept a constant look-out for planes, but we knew that the fighting was over. The day when Hun intruders could wait for tired Fort crews over England had long since passed. A Spitfire or a Mustang was now safer than a Focke Wulf over Brussels, let alone London. So we joked on interphone all the way across the water, stopping only occasionally to call off Thunderbolts or Spitfires. By the time we reached England we had dropped to 7,000 feet, so oxygen too was no longer necessary. The mission was all over but the shouting, and we munched sandwiches the rest of the way home.

We were back over the base at 1715, on the ground ten minutes later. We piled out of our planes like a football team leaving the field after a great victory – very tired but very happy. A moment later a truck was whisking us away to interrogation in the main briefing room, where our yen to tell the world about our mission was satisfied by an intelligence officer with a lot of questions to ask. Sipping coffee or tomato juice, or gulping the shot of Scotch issued “for medicinal purposes only,” we chattered like high school girls, telling all we knew and more, about flak, fighters, enemy installations, and bomb damage. Shorty, (Sgt Ollie G. Crenshaw) who had never spoken an intelligible word from his ball turret, now had some astounding information to reveal. He had seen the bombs hit “right on target,” no small feat when the target was covered by clouds when our bombs hit; he had seen rocket-firing JU-88's, unobserved by anyone else; and he had counted a hundred enemy planes, while others had been so blind to see only twenty or thirty.

Interrogation finished, we piled back on our truck for the rough ride back to the plane. It was only now that we got a chance to look over Pugnacious Peter. With extreme pride we counted those nine flak holes! Yes, we'd really been in combat. And with what astonishment we surveyed the fifty-caliber hole in our horizontal stabilizer! But it was when we found out what had made the hole that we really got excited.

It appeared that when we were experiencing fighter attacks in the Magdeburg area, a Focke-Wulf fighter had come in on us from about four-thirty low–out of range for the tail gunner but a perfect shot for the ball turret, and a fairly good one for the right waist. However, the ball turret guns were not operating, and when Sgt. Jensen found that he was the only one firing, he kept “peppering” until the attacker peeled off a hundred yards out, and in tracking, Jensen failed to notices that our tail surface was dangerously close to his line of fire.

What disgusted us was not Jensen's understandable over-enthusiasm, but Shorty's unforgivable failure. We knew that, barring cold conditions not even approaching that day, guns would operate if properly cared for, and we were furious to find that Shorty had never succeeded in firing a single round from either gun, even more furious to see that, far from apologizing, he was now strutting like a peacock, telling the ground crew what it was like to be fighting the war. Under normal conditions, at least one of us would have taken a crack at Shorty's too-active jaw, but we were so tired that we let it go at a warning that a similar incident had better not take place again. Shorty said something about our always picking on him and sulked off to remove his guns.

In ten minutes everyone had taken his equipment out of the aircraft, piled it on our truck and climbed in himself. After a brief stop to deposit our guns at the armament shop, we took another and final truck jaunt to the equipment room.

It didn't take us long to change clothes. We were in too much of a hurry to get to our first meal in fifteen hours (unless two ounces of chocolate and a jelly sandwich can be called a meal.) It was only a matter of minutes before we were in the chow line pleading with the K.P.'s to give us good pieces of chicken. But regular Sunday dinner had been held an hour before, and all that was left for combat men was necks and backs. We made all kinds of profane remarks about paddle feet, but they did no good. So we had to be satisfied with a good dinner of vegetables.

It was 2015 when we finished our meal, and for pilots and co-pilots that was the end of the day. But Iz and I, like all other gunners, still had guns to clean. We found the armament shop too crowded to do them immediately but within a half an hour our guns were stripped and we were busy with brush and gasoline. By 2200 hours we were back in our room undressing.

I was more exhausted than I had ever been in my life when I finally climbed into bed. But I was happier than I had ever been, too. I knew that at last I was part of a war I had wanted to fight every since the International Brigade first stopped the Fascists at Madrid, Spain. And, almost equally important to me, I had a feeling that I was not a coward.

[bobbysocks]

i would love to see tempests and typhoons in the next game. trust me i love all the old birds of that era. so, with that in mind here's a link to comments from tempest pilots. scroll down.....its copy righted so i wont/cant post it. but it is worth reading.....

http://www.wwiiaircraftperformance.o.../temptest.html

[WildBoar44]

Originally Posted by bobbysocks

i would love to see tempests and typhoons in the next game. trust me i love all the old birds of that era. so, with that in mind here's a link to comments from tempest pilots. scroll down.....its copy righted so i wont/cant post it. but it is worth reading.....

http://www.wwiiaircraftperformance.o.../temptest.html

Cool Beans as we say.......thanks bobbysocks.......Sadly I dont think they will be included ??


Read something the other day from the book by Chris Thomas & Chris Shores " The Typhoon & Tempest Story".....this really made me sit up and think "my god".........

On 22nd January 1944 , a flight of eight Typhoons from 263Sqn were led on a "Ranger" sweep by their Commander Squadron Leader Geoff Warnes . When crossing the French Brittany coast near Vannes, the flight flew into 10/10th snow cloud and turned back from the primary mission attacking airfields in the Kerlin / Vannes sector and took on the secondary mission of shipping reconnaissance. The weather made visual ID almost impossible as snow and rain squals made formation almost impossible, at about eight miles north west of Guernsey, Squadron Leader Warnes reported that his engine was running rough followed by a further broadcast stating he was going to ditch. The Flight orbitted over head and Warnes was seen struggling to get to his un-inflated dinghy in the icy waters below. In what must be one of the most calculated acts of bravery and despite being ordered not to, a young Australian pilot Flying Officer Tuff was not prepared to see this very popular Commander struggle alone and announced he was going to bail out to help Warnes. Leaving the relative warmth of his cockpit, Tuff bailed out into the freezing snow swept icy waters below in the faint hope of bring aid to his Squardon Commander.

Despite a very good fix and low level ASR search until fuel dictated that the other 263Sqn Typhoons returned to base, Squadron Leader Warnes and Flying Officer Tuff were never found again.......


The "my god " factor.........? how was PO Tuff's act of sheer gallantry recognized ?


Pilot Officer Tuff was only ever mentioned in a despatch......no award, no medal......

Now that to me is bravery........



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