In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

Philip Wright and Pickle Barrel Bombing

Mid-February of 1945 Major General Elwood "Pete" Quesada, the legendary commanding general of IX Tactical Air Command 9th Air Force, zipped on to our field, A-89, at the village of Le Culot, Belgium - trailed by a host of aides and staff members.

He had come to fly a mission with our 36th Fighter Group to check out why the new "Pickle Barrel Bombing" technique wasn't living up to expectations.

"Pete" Quesada's fame stemmed from his daring and "can do" spirit. On D-Day + 1 he flew a P-38 into the beachhead to establish his own headquarters next to General Bradley's. He often visited the front to check on how his fighter-bombers were doing. On one trip his jeep took a direct hit from a German Panther tank's 75mm. shell, smashing the jeep to smithereens and wounding the driver. The General spent the next twenty minutes ignominiously crawling away under small-arms fire.

But his most famous exploit had raised all kinds of hullabaloo in high places. During a visit by General Eisenhower to Normandy in mid-June '45, Quesada left a staff meeting to go on a fighter sweep.
Eisenhower asked, "Can I come?"
"Sure." Quesada answered.
Eisenhower was crammed into the rear seat of a P-51 and they flew a few miles over the lines, before Quesada thought better of the idea and aborted the flight. Both Eisenhower and Quesada received holy hell from the big-wigs in Washington for this nutty escapade.

Now, "Pete" Quesada was here in Le Culot to fly a Pickle Barrel Bombing mission with us. The us being: 1st Lt. Robert "Red" Ferris, 2nd Lt. Clyde Hartszelle, and me, 1st Lt. Philip N. Wright, Jr., better known as "Junior," because I was always the youngest officer in the Group the entire time I was there.*

Pickle Barrel Bombing was a spin-off from a new radar system, touted to be accurate within fifty feet from a distance of fifty miles. They thought the idea was simple. Send a bunch of P-47s out over solid cloud cover at 10,000 ft. and 250 mph. in tight formation. Guide them to the target with the new radar, and tell them exactly when to drop their bombs. Bingo! It was a great idea, but it wasn't working.

The operation was run out of a site well back of the lines. A Norden Bombsight was hooked up to the new radar, and specially trained bombardiers that gave the order to drop the bombs. We bellyached that these guys were probably yelling, "Bombs Away!" and rushing out for a shot and a beer to ease their "combat fatigue." They probably even expected D.F.C.s for heroism. Damn it, they weren't the ones getting shot at - we were!

At 10,000 ft. and 250 mph., flying straight and level in tight formation, we were sitting ducks for the German radar controlled 88mm flak. Pickle Barrel Bombing missions had turned us into a bunch of lousy bomber pilots. We hated these missions.

On this mission there would be one critical difference- there would be no cloud cover. With clear skies the General hoped to find out why "Pickle Barrel" wasn't working. The idea was nuts! Cloud cover was the only protection we had. If we'd been sitting ducks before, we'd be dead ducks now. Our only hope was we'd be flying behind a two star general's skirts. The Germans wouldn't dare shoot him down!

Why the 36th Fighter Group was chosen for this mission, I have no idea - even more why the 23rd Fighter Squadron was selected, and even more than that why we three were picked.

Our briefing was like no other we'd had before one major general and three lowly pilots, hovered over by a bunch of brass. The target selected was a German Panzer division headquarters, because it was close to the lines. If anyone got hit, he'd have a better chance to make it back before going down.

"Red" Ferris was picked to lead the mission, with General Quesada flying his wing as Vibrate Red Two. I would lead the second element, with Clyde Hartszelle as my wing-man. On the way out to our Thunderbolts, armed with two 500 lb. bombs and full loads of ammunition, General Quesada grinned and said, "Gentlemen, just forget I'm a general," then wryly added, "If you can?" We laughed but knew there wasn't a chance in hell we would.

We took-off, formed up, and it was immediately apparent our new colleague wasn't used to flying our combat formation of low and forward, but instead, he flew the old training command formation of level and back. How was "Red" Ferris going to radio him, "Damn it, Vibrate Red Two, close it up, and get in formation!" So much for forgetting who was what.

Ten minutes out a call came in, "Vibrate Red Two to Vibrate Red Leader, my engine is cutting out when I switch fuel tanks, but I'll keep going." We didn't know what to do about this- and did nothing.

Pickle Barrel Control took over before we reached the target area, and gave us our heading. We snugged up tight and flew straight and level at 10,000 ft. and 250 mph. towards the target, sweating out the inevitable bursts of 88mm. flak. Then "Pickle Barrel" radioed up, "Our radar is acting up, and you'll have start over."

We went through this, on again - off again thing several more times, sweating out the flak each time. Finally, the controllers called and said, "Our radar still isn't working, and we have to scrub the mission. Out."
"Okay. Roger and out." "Red" Ferris responded.
We spread out - "Whoosh." I looked back- "WHOOMPH," six bursts of "88" went off right where we had been. It never fails that the sight of those orange-red fireballs inside the black bursts, turns courage to mush. Without knowing it the Germans had come within a gnat's eyebrow of bagging a renowned two star general. Maybe, those controllers weren't so
dumb after all.

"Vibrate Red Leader, this is Vibrate Red Two. We still have all of our bombs and ammunition. Let's dive-bomb and strafe the target.
Out," the General urged.
"Roger, Vibrate Red Two." Ferris came back.

We dove down on the Panzer division headquarters, each of us firing bursts from our eight 50cal. machine guns, in hopes of shaking up the German gunners firing 20 and 40 millimeter flak at us. We lined up on the target, and let fly. For once, my bombs made a terrific hit, and I hoped Vibrate Red Two was as impressed with me as I was. One run was
enough, and we headed home, happy to be in one piece.

Back at the field, we were de-briefed, then stood around bragging about what hot shot pilots we were. The General's P.R. photographer snapped away, as the rest of the squadron gawked in envy. We played our parts to the hilt.

It turned out the reason General Quesada's engine kept cutting out was that he was turning his fuel tank selector valve through "Off" when he changed tanks a big No-No. But he had a lot of guts and had flown the entire mission on one tank of gas. He was a good sport about his boo-boo. On the other hand, our sympathy towards him was shamefully condescending. We owed him better.

With all the hoopla and good-byes over, the General and his staff took off for IX TAC Headquarters. We continued to carry on in our self-anointed glory. But it didn't last. The next day we were back to where we were- three not so hot-shot fighter-pilots. But thanks to General Quesada and the good Lord, there were no more "Pickle Barrel" bombing missions.

In Aspen, Colorado in the late 1960s, Aspen resident and friend, former Secretary of the Navy, Jim Smith, came into our store with a familiar figure. I approached him and asked, "Are you General Quesada?"
"Yes, I am" he replied.
I reminded him of the mission we'd flown together, which he remembered. I took him into my office and showed him the picture of the four of us of on that long ago day. We went across the street to the Red Onion saloon, downed a couple of beers, and laughed over the great "Pickle Barrel Bombing" fiasco. We agreed it was just another of those great ideas... that didn't work.

At a marvelous party in Vail, Colorado in the 1980s, that Mrs. Quesada also attended, she told me the General was nearly blind and unable to travel, or he would have come.
"Please, say, 'Hi' to him for me, and give him my very, very best," I asked her. She thanked me and said she would be happy to pass along my message.
General Quesada passed away several years later.

* To this day, whenever I attend a 36th Ftr. Grp. reunion, someone always comes up to me and says, "Hi 'Junior.' How are ya?" Despite the incongruity of my bald pate and a more rotund figure, I consider it a compliment.



a story of years later and a reunion of sorts...( by philip wright)

While on a 1986 sojourn in southwest France, a love of fine wine put me in touch with Monsieur Guy Schyler, a distinguished Bordeaux wine négociant and consultant to Chateau Lafite-Rothchild, arguably, the greatest vineyard of the Medoc. Kindly, Guy had arranged a private tour of Lafite for my wife and myself.

Traveling through the famous vineyard towns of Margaux, Beychevelle, St. Julien, and Pauillac, it was a treat for me to see the renowned chateaux, so often read about - but whose product was so less often savored.

Schylers have been prominent members of the Bordeaux wine trade since 1739, and along the way Guy stopped at Chateau Beychevelle, with its lovely filigreed iron gates hinged to massive stone pillars. Gazing wistfully down the long gravel drive to the magnificent 18th century Chateau, he revealed his great grandfather had once owned this renowned estate and contemplated what might have been.

Learning Madame Schyler was a member of the prestigious Pol-Roger champagne family of Épernay, made it even more intriguing. Pol Roger champagne was Winston Churchill's favorite. Once, in a gesture of appreciation, he named one of his race horses for his friend, Odette Pol-Roger. Sadly, the filly was not a speedster.

My enthusiasm for fine wine does not translate to profound knowledge, and I hoped not to make a fool of myself while discussing it with Guy. However, my stock soared, when he learned I had been a sixty-mission P-47 pilot and a P.O.W. in Germany. He had been a fighter pilot in the French Air Force until France's fall in 1940, and following the war he had served with distinction as French liaison to the U.S.A.F. in Bordeaux. It was the start of a lifelong fondness for American airmen. I count myself fortunate, he calls me - "tres cher ami."

In February 1990 my wife and I arrived in Bordeaux on the way to Biarritz for several months stay. Later we would join the 36th Fighter Group tour of our wartime airfields. While lunching with Guy, he told us of two P-51s that had recently emerged from the sand on the beach near Arcachon, west of Bordeaux. They had belly landed in 1944, and wind and sea had buried them. Now, forty-six years later, the same elements had brought these phantom aircraft back to view and memory.


He related how on August 26, 1944 three P-51s were seen by members of the Marquis or French Resistance cruising around Arcachon Bay, then up and down the coast, as if lost. One flew out to sea and disappeared; the other two landed at a spot known as Truc Vert.

Responding to the request of the head of the local Marquis to investigate, Schyler contacted his friend and neighbor, Prince Stanislav Poniatowski, and the two set out by sail across the bay to aid the downed fliers.

Prince Stanislav was a remarkable gentleman. Though a descendant of the royal family of Poland and a pretender to that throne, he was an astute businessman who suffered badly under the Germans. As C.E.O. of the renowned aircraft engine manufacturer, Hispano-Suiza, he was jailed in Paris, then Berlin, for refusing to produce engines for the Nazis. During his military court trial, he escaped severe punishment only through a remarkable bit of luck.* He was freed on condition that he cease all industrial activities, and went to Arcachon in November 1940 under house arrest. Nevertheless, in spite of the risk of deportation and worse for himself and family, he joined the underground.

Reaching the downed planes, Schyler and Poniatowski took the two pilots, Lieutenants Sam Gevorkian and John Kester, in hand, and together they scrambled up and over the dunes. There they were met by the Marquisards and loaded into a truck for the ride back to the boat. The four sailed back to Arcachon, where Prince Stanislav hid Gevorkian and Kester in his home for twelve days.

Guy then took them to his grandmother's, Mme. Guestier of the renowned house of Barton & Guestier [B&G], home in Bordeaux. There they stayed several days making plans for their escape through Spain, to Portugal,
and back to England.

The pilots related the circumstances of their forced landings as follows: Returning from an escort mission to Ludwigshafen in bad weather, the three P-51s became separated from the main formation. Lost, they mistook the Gironde estuary for the Loire, and could not locate themselves. Low on fuel, Gevorkian and Kester opted to belly land on the beach at Truc Vert. The third pilot, 1st Lieutenant Sam Hansard, mistaking the Bay of Biscay for the English Channel, headed out over the open Atlantic. He was not heard from again. One can only shudder at the horror he felt, upon discovering his error.
Completing the saga, Guy showed me the extraordinary photographs he had taken in 1944 of the downed planes and the pilots' rescue. Examining them, it occurred, if I could learn the squadron's designation from the plane's ''CL" markings in the photo, we could contact the Group veterans' organization. Perhaps, Gevorkian and Kester were members? The prospect was exciting.

From our villa in Biarritz, I called Colonel Lewis "Bull" Curry, former C.O. of my 36th Fighter Group, for help. He succeeded, advising that Gevorkian and Kester had been members of the 55th Fighter Group, 338 Fighter Squadron of 8th Air Force. Further, he had contacted Bob Littlefield in Carmel, Ca., who headed the Group veterans' organization. I passed the information on to Guy and told him I'd follow up with Littlefield when I returned home.

Later, when the 36th Fighter Group tour reached Épernay, near one of our old fields, we were met by Christian and Danielle Pol-Roger, and their British friend, Richard Dumbrill. What a day was planned for us! First, a champagne reception, Vin d'Honneur, at Chateau Pol Roger.

Next, we were taken by a grand convoy of French Army armored personnel carriers to a small airport for a magnificent champagne luncheon. With sommelier, Odil Girardin, pouring, there wasn't a dry glass in the house!

Following the luncheon French Air Force Raphaels performed a spectacular fly-by for us. Then we went on in the APCs to the site of our old strip for dedication ceremonies and then to Tour-sur-Marne for more ceremonies and a final glass of champagne for "Auld Lang Syne." It was a never-to-be-forgotten day for the anciens warriors of the 36th Fighter Group.

Without the friendship of Guy and Nicole Schyler, it could never have happened!

Back in Montana, a letter from Bob Littlefield revealed that both Sam Gevorkian and John Kester had later been killed. However, he did have good news. Sam's sister, Alice Davey, lived in California. He thought a letter from Guy, along with the long ago photographs, would be a wonderful surprise. I forwarded his suggestion on to Guy, hoping he would respond. Of course, he did.

It was sometime before we heard from Mrs. Davey, but when her response came it was all we could have hoped for. She was astonished and grateful for what we had done, particularly for the photos and fascinating detail of her brother's 1944 rescue.

For Guy and myself, when we next meet, over a bottle of Ch. Lafite-Rothschild, we shall raise our glasses in tribute:
"Salut! pilotes du chasses, Sam Gevorkian et John Kester - and your 'Phantoms in the Sand.'"

[bobbysocks]

Joy Ride

The department head's meeting was over, and Major Broadhead, our CO, said the only fair way was to choose numbers. I guessed number one; it turned out to be the lucky one. I had won a ride in a piggyback Mustang!

I suppose there have been piggyback P-51's converted before, but some ingenious mechanic in our top-scoring 357th Fighter Group had dreamed this one up by himself. The radio was taken out, the guns were taken out, and an extra seat complete with air speed indicator and altimeter was directly behind the pilot. As a "paddlefoot" usually on friendly relations with pilots, I had gotten quite a few rides, but never in an operational, single-seater fighter aircraft. I've always wanted to ride in one - but I was a little bit scared, too. Major Broadhead, on his second tour and with eight ME 109s to his credit, didn't make me any more at ease by explaining how difficult it would be to bail out. The make-shift canopy may stick, and things happen awfully fast.

It seemed that at least half the GI's in the squadron were watching me climb into the ship - secretly hoping I'd get the hell scared out of me. Which - I did.

Bob taxied to 06 (the long runway), and before I knew it we were airborne. It was a beautiful day, with a layer of white baby wool clouds at 5,000 feet. Bob climbed up slowly through a hole, although to me the altimeter seemed to be spinning like the second hand of a watch. Then before I knew what was happening, the nose of the ship dropped and the plane seemed to be falling right out of the sky. The aie speed rose..200..250..300..350...and the nose came up again. All the weight of my body seemed to be directly against the seat. Ice water was flowing through my legs instead of blood. My jaw had involuntarily dropped, and I could feel my cheeks and eyes sag like an old man's. I tried to lift my arms; they seemed glued to my lap. This, then, was G strain. Approximately four G's, Bob said later.

Now the nose was going straight up. If the altimeter had looked like a second hand before, it looked like a Ferris Wheel now. Before I knew it, we had looped. Not being satisfied with a gentle pullout, Broadhead dropped her on one wing, and did a barrel roll.

After a few minutes of straight and level flying (while I got my breath back), Bob decided to hedgehop some clouds. A beautiful layer of white fleece stretched, endless as earth, as far as the eye could see. Toward it we dived, 300 miles per hour. For five minutes Bob indulged in his favorite relaxation of clipping the tops off clouds and turning on one wing. Occasionally the earth would wink at us, or clouds would engulf us from every direction.

"Now what would you like to do?" Bob seemed to signal from his cockpit. Ther was nothing I would rather do at the moment than get out and walk home - but that seemed a little impractical. Bob seemed to be making all sorts of "hangar flying" motions with his hand. In my brief experience, that hinted of violent maneuvers to come. Happily, I pointed to a lone fortress at seven o'clock. I thought we might fly alongside and wave at the pilot. Instead, we peeled off and made a pass at him.

There turned out to be two forts, and two mustangs were already giving them a bad time. It wasn't long until a flight of four more arrived from nowhere and joined in the fun. It was about that thime that everything from nowhere I had ever heard about "ratraces" was completely forgotten; I was learning from scratch. For a while I kept my eyes on two 51's directly overhead. I looked straight down, and there was the sun. We were up, down and around the bombers - right on the tail of a 51 - on our side, upside down, in a dive, in a pullout, I lost all trace of horizon, airspeed, ground...my head was spinning...the prop was spinning... I was conscious only of the throb of the engine and the occasional flash of an airplane overhead.

After a king-size eternity, the ratrace was over, and although I could not see Bob's face, I knew he was grinning from ear to ear. We had been up about thirty minutes. Seeing nothing else of interest, Bob headed "Eager Beaver" for 373. we flew straight and level, on a compass heading, all the way home. I saw a town of around 90,000 from the air, but I couldn't get very interested in it. I felt dead tired, as if I had worked a week without resting and had suddenly stopped. I had the thought that I was dead weight as much as a sack of flour. I wanted to collapse.

By the time we arrived at the station I felt much better. The field looked like three toothpicks touching, with the ends overlapping. The altimeter read 8,500 feet.

"Fifteen minutes more, and we'll be landing," I thought. bob grinned back at me. More maneuvers with his left had. I nodded agreement, and wondered what would come next.

One wing suddenly slipped out from under us, and we were upside down. Little pieces of mud an debris went past my eyes and hit the canopy, I remember thinking they were falling upside down. Then the nose dropped, and we split-essed out, going straight for the ground. The airspeed increased; the earth grew larger. The huge prop was spinning like a man gone mad. I watched the airspeed: 350...400...425. The altimeter was spinning backward like a watch going the wrong way...6,000...5,000...4,000. The earth had never looked so hard. At 2,000 we leveled out, with the airspeed indication 450.

After that, the peeloff and landing seemed dull. We had traveled a vertical mile in a matter of seconds, and had reached approximately 550 miles pre hour ground speed. The landing was rough. I tried to swallow, and couldn't. My throat was dry. My hair was tousled, my legs were cold, my face was white, and I was glad to be on the ground.

Thanks to Major Broadhead, that was forty-five minutes of my life I'll never forget. And each time I remember it, the more I enjoy it!

By Paul Henslee, 362nd FS Adjutant and Executive Officer



The Norwegian Odyssey of Bill Dunlop

By Merle Olmsted

As the 357th FG Historian, the name of William Dunlop was familiar to me because of a brief note in the group records for September 1944. An added paragraph to the mission report for 15 September has to say: "Lt. W.R. Dunlop, spare on mission separated from group on West Frisian Islands. With his gyro out, Lt. Dunlop got lost in the clouds and when he finally found his bearings, he was over Christiansand harbor in Norway. He strafed three seaplanes at 1045 anchored in the harbor, damaged a DO 24. He then took heading for nearest land and landed at Crail, Scotland at 1630."

I had often wished I could ask him about that adventure but Dunlop was listed as a lost sheep. In mid 1972, by a stroke of luck, I found him, now a Psychiatrist living nearby in the San Francisco Bay area. Subsequently, he and his sons and later he and his wife, came to visit us and they also attended the Long Beach Reunion. During these visits, I asked Bill about the long ride to Norway and asked him to write it up for the newsletter. Following is the story of Bill Dunlop's Scandinavian adventure on the 15th of Sept, 1944. Merle Olmsted

I did preplan going to Norway. For the trip, I could only procure maps of the nearest Norwegian coast. The night before, I asked to be put on spare. The next morning we were briefed for a mission to the Stettin area via the Frisian Chain and Denmark. We took off as low squadron, me with the second spare on my wing. After a non-eventful takeoff and assembly, we began the long climb to the enemy coast. Five to ten minutes from the first of the Frisians, we suddenly ran into a solid front. Trying to get through, the entire squadron split up. Just before entering the soup, I told my wingman to return to base. He had lost one of his drop tanks and had insufficient fuel to make the long trip ahead. Once in and split up, I was alone and spotting one of the islands thru a temporary break, I felt my responsibilities to the mission were over. A spare is only requited to accompany to the coast. I began a tight spiral in an attempt to stay in the hole. At 3000 ft., I had built up 300-350 mph airspeed and couldn't keep it tight enough with a full gas load. Entering the stuff half ready to spin, I barely gained straight and level at 500 ft. still on instruments edging down to 200 ft., I broke out in a driving rain storm and over a high running sea. Turning to my heading and setting the airspeed and mentally noting the time so as to make a bend into the Skatterak, I snuggled down to 50 ft. over the North Sea. I switched to channel B, Air Sea Rescue and hoped I was low enough and far enough away from the Danish coast to elude the radar sweep. I had computed an 1 hr steady course prior to the turn. As the first hr. passed, it was only with great concentration that I kept from hitting the wave tops. The water had a disillusioning effect on depth perception and it seemed to draw me like a magnet. Somewhere enroute I passed over a drifting mine. From my low altitude it looked huge and it's protrusions very deadly. I contemplated exploding it with the 50s, but thought better and let it alone. After approximately one and three quarters hrs. of this mist flying, I had the surprise of my life. The mist and rain ended suddenly in a wall just as it had begun. Bathed in sunlight and framed by pearl-like clouds, the mountains of Norway rose straight out of the sea. For a moment, it took my breath away. I almost went into the water again. There was no doubt I had overshot and come upon the south coast somewhere in the vicinity of Lister. I decided to parallel the coastline hoping to pick up a plane or a transport a few minutes after climbing up over the mountains from the sea. The country is wild and rugged in terrain almost beyond imagination. The mountain ridges and ranges run into the North Sea to make contact perpendicularly, the dividing valleys with rushing rivers, hurdled cliffs to form water falls of great violence. The only agriculture seemed to lie along the narrow space between the river bank and the valley walls. There was however an abundance of lumbering. The streams were choked with logs and great floats lined the edges of the Fiords. Still attempting to elude German Radar, I would dive down into the valleys and zoom up the other side flat on the deck in a porpoising motion. Perhaps due to the kick I was getting out of it or the maps, I never did locate myself. Off the coast several miles, there was considerable shipping. In each of the larger Fiords, there seemed to be at least one fair sized town usually one half on the mountain side. The houses were always wood, generally white, sometimes red or unpainted. Everything seemed extremely neat and gave the impression of a hardy civilization below.

At first I contented myself staying away from built-up areas, but attracted by a wood church, beautifully and massively built and receiving no flak, I flew over everything from then on. I never tired of flipping over a ridge and diving down the next valley. Each time there was a new and awesome sight. Finally I came on a Fiord which dwarfed the others with a lush green, well planned countryside, extending 5 to 10 miles along either side. I later learned this was Oslo Fiord. Here I notice my first railroad and partly looking for something German to shoot at, but also just curious, I followed it flying about 50 ft. above the tracks. I had been over Norway for one hour and was about to retrace my flight when I stumbled across the German Seaplane Base at Horten, just south of Oslo. It was in a cavity in the Fiord with bordering hills and an Island in the harbor, making it an ideal spot to defend and providing smooth water for takeoff and landings. On the island, a half-moon affair, stood a powerhouse and I was soon to learn 20 or 40 mm flak guns. In the town of Horten due south, several ocean going vessels were docked, perhaps transporting aircraft parts that a factory nearby produced to Germany. What particularly interested me and had me excited were a HE 115 and two large Dornier Flying Boats floating serenely in the center of the bay. (Journal lost, from this point on, the rest from memory 48 yrs later.)

I remember popping over hills on the west side of the small harbor, firing at one of the Dorniers most of the fire missing, kicking rudder to bring the fire back, but getting only a few hits on one wing. Later I found all the guns on the left side had not fired. I could not let the fat target go, circled low and made another pass from the west. All hell broke loose with AAA from a number of locations around the harbor. I can't remember if I fired again, but I do remember the AAA was heavy and I took off south down the Fiord full throttle, little balls of fire floating by on all sides. I remember feeling amazed that nothing had hit me. Out of range, I briefly considered going to Sweden, which was in plain view to my left. I knew I had used too much gas and could not get back to England. I decided I might be able to make it to Scotland. I remember thinning the mixture, lowering the RPMs and climbing back into the clouds to approximately 10,000 ft. I set a course for what I thought was the nearest part of Scotland. Now that radar could pick me up, I wondered if the Germans would send up fighters? I flew instruments all the way west. I tried to make some kind of radio contact but couldn't. As the gas gauge became near empty, I descended gradually wondering if I could make it to the coast. I had it in my mind that the Scottish coastal range was 1000-2000 ft. high. As I got down to that altitude, the visibility was still zero. I thought about bailing out at the end of the gas, but that was an unattractive option at best. Finally, I decided to inch down hoping to come out over the sea near land. I broke out at no more that 100 ft., not over the sea, but miraculously over an airfield. I dumped it in without ground contact, I couldn't wait and taxied to an apron. A British officer, probably the C.O., met me in a jeep. He seemed irritated by my unexpected arrival. I don't think he believed my story, that I had been lost in Norway, more like I was another crazy Yank. Finally he became a little more friendly, promised to put me up and service my airplane. We did have a momentary run-in. He wanted me to give him my gun camera film. I refused saying it was US property. Later I hid it under the cockpit seat. The airfield was the British Naval Airbase at Crail, Scotland. I was shown to the mess and later to the Officers Club. It was a scene hard to believe. Not a sober citizen to be found, everyone was smashed, singing and shouting. It seemed they had sunk the German pocket battleship Tirpitz earlier that day, of all places in a Norwegian Fiord. I remember talking to a flying officer from Ceylon. The pilots were from countries all over the world. The next day I checked my airplane, it had been serviced as promised. The line mechanic told me I had landed with 4 gallons of gas. I made a hot takeoff wanting to show the British what a P51 could do, pulling it off quickly and as straight up as it would go. At something like 500ft. over the end of the runway, it started to fall off in a stall, but I was able to get the nose down and steady it with the rudder and regain flying speed. I remember thinking how foolish I was, but also happy that the British could see what our plane could do. The trip south was uneventful except for some Spits and Hurricanes that wanted to dogfight. I left them behind. The hills in southern Scotland and northern England were rose colored and quite beautiful at that time of year.

Further Note by Merle Olmsted:

Although Bill remembers that the escapade caused him to be grounded for a week, the grounding did not "take", as two days later, he was aloft with the rest of the group over the airborne landing at Arnhem. Here he shot down an ME 109 and another the next day. He scored a total of four victories before he was shot down on "The Big Day" - 14 January, 1945, and spent the remaining few months of the war in a Stalag Luft.