Home » Story of Lt Jerome Jacobs – 364th FS Pilot

Story of Jerome Jacobs – 364th FS Pilot

Prologue
I have decided to try my hand at writing, not a great novel, but a series of events that actually happened during my participation in a period of history that will soon be forgotten except as a paragraph in a history textbook. Novels are written about war, but although some of the subject matter may have been taken from actual experiences, some of the stories are contrived for entertainment, and facts are distorted or invented to make a story. This is a form of art. My stories are true, with no attempt at art.

As I am entering the beginning of that inevitable period in life known as “Old Age”, which only some of us successfully reach, I would like my grandchildren to be able to possibly spend some rainy afternoon or evening reading about their grandpa. They might want to show these stories to their children. I have very little knowledge about my predecessors; zero about the generations before my grandparents, and almost nothing about the latter.

Another factor was to finally put down on paper the memories of some of the experiences that on occasion I recall; and I worry that although some of the memories were extremely unpleasant and even painful, I might forget them. Some people call it exorcism, but I think that it really is the relief that I can now relax and read about these experiences as though they were happening to someone else.

I also could have been killed and not be here at all.

We have all had accidents that could have maimed or killed us, but the horrible act of actually trying to kill or get killed is a different sort of happening that not many of us have experienced. It is the ultimate gamble!

Of course luck plays an enormous role, and that my friends are what it is all about.

I do not have the Congressional Medal of Honor, or the honor of being knighted, but more important I have the luck to still be alive, and that is the most important award.

I take no credit for having survived, for some of these episodes were caused by my clumsiness or stupidity. How I made it through I can only attribute to luck and perhaps to the good food that my mother fed me as I was growing up.

In truth the time that I spent in the service, except for the prison camp period, was a very romantic era. I was young, in superb physical condition, and flying the best aircraft; fighters. I was a member of an elite corps and fighting on the side of the righteous; and of course we had to win.

There was always the thought of not surviving or coming home maimed and living the rest of my life as an invalid. It was very much on all of our minds as we went about our tasks and flew the missions and survived on a day to day basis. Those who made it home fully intact and without incident were either extremely skillful or extremely lucky or a combination of both.

As children we played war games, or Cowboys and Indians, and this then was the grown up version of these games. We thought that we were grown up now, and we were still playing cowboys and Indians. We knew that people were being killed, but in a way that made it more romantic, for besides playing games we were becoming heroes. We were the modern knights and we were fighting for what was right.

These vignettes are incidents that actually happened with as much detail as I can remember.

PART ONE TRAINING PEARL HARBOR

On December 7, 1941, while the sky was turning black and American blood was turning the water red in a tiny spot in the Pacific, I was home alone studying. I was a college student at New York University getting ready for my first semester final exams.

I decided to have some food, and turned on the radio for some music, when the announcement came on that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.

It took a while for the news to sink in and for me to realize that life would never be the same for me. I was eighteen years old and although eligible for the draft, I was in school and would probably be able to complete the year.

I listened to the radio news for the rest of the day while I tried to study. The news kept getting worse as the day wore on. That night I could not sleep, and I continued to monitor the news. It seemed as though the entire world was awake waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was hard to believe what had happened at Pearl Harbor and I thought that this was a nightmare from which I would awaken. It was not a dream.

As I predicted I was in a special category that left me exempt from the draft. I completed the year at college and attended summer school to speed up my education. We were spending the summer at Long Beach, Long Island, and I was having a great time. After returning from school each day I would walk the short distance to the ocean for a long swim, dry off in the sun and return home to study. If there was time in the evening I would spend some of it with my buddies. The war was far away and it seemed that I would not be involved at all, since we were certain that it would be over before long.

My best friend, Jimmy Kennedy told me that he was going to enlist in the Naval Air Force to become a pilot. He asked me to join him so that we could train together. I told him that I knew nothing about flying and that if I had any intention of enlisting my mother would probably put a stop to it. I continued at school and completed the year.

We were now on an all out wartime environment. Many things were rationed including gasoline, tires, and some foods. It wasn’t bad, but there was a great deal of complaining. I was feeling guilty for not doing my share of the fighting. Some of my friends had already left for the service, but I continued with very little change in my life style.

My friends were all talking about enlisting in the Army Air Force. They were always humming “Off we go into the wild blue yonder”, and with all the news of the Japanese and the German atrocities, it began to get to me. We were always discussing how much better the army planes were. After all, who would want to be out at sea all the time?

By the end of the summer of 1942 I decided that I would enlist in the Army Air Force for pilot training. Among other things I felt that if I were going to war I should also learn to fly. I also felt that by the time I was finished with the training phase, the war would be over and I would be able to continue my life.

My parents wanted me to complete college, but when I showed them some articles in the Reader’s Digest about our nurses being raped by the Japanese soldiers, and about what was happening to the Jews and other minorities in Germany, they signed the necessary papers.

There was about a six-month wait before there was room for me in the Army Air Force Cadet Corps, and I made good use of the time. I attended summer school and made up a semester doing that. The next regular semester I carried an enormous number of credits at school, and had completed another semester when I was called up.

At this time even though I had enlisted as an aviation cadet for pilot training I was brought in as a private in the army. I went through basic training in Atlantic City and then to Penn State College for more schooling until there was room at the testing base at Nashville, Tennessee. The time at Penn State was a rescue operation to keep us from going into the infantry.

I am getting ahead of myself.

The basic training was a rough way to get initiated into the army. It was a damp, cold winter in Atlantic City. We lived on the eleventh floor of one of the hotels. We were not permitted to use the elevators, and had to double time up and down the stairs at least a dozen times a day. Also, after a tough day marching and exercising we would be aroused by the fire alarm in the middle of the night and had to double time downstairs and assemble in the street. After making sure that we were now fully awake we were again rushed upstairs to our quarters and allowed to try to fall asleep again.

The hotel rooms had been modified to accommodate the Army. The carpeting was removed leaving a bare concrete floor, and the furniture was changed to make more space in each room for more men.

I was assigned KP duty [kitchen patrol] by my sergeant whom I was sure had taken an immediate dislike to me. The sergeant placed me at the rear of one of the large hotels [Chalfonte] where the dirty garbage cans were placed. He told me to make them shine inside and out using a scrub brush, soap, and hose, and that he would be back in a few hours to check on me. It was seven AM and it was cold.

I immediately began to tackle the job. The garbage cans were greasy and dirty, and it took a good half hour to do each one. More and more they began to pile up behind the kitchen. After about three hours I was totally soaked, both from sweat and from the garbage cans. At first I had a problem with the smell along with the cold, the water, and the work. After a while the smell disappeared, but the water and the cold never let up.

The sergeant must have forgotten about me because he didn’t reappear until five in the evening. I had worked without stopping for lunch and must have cleaned at least fifty cans. The sergeant was impressed and brought me inside for some hot soup and food. He sent me to my room and told me to take a hot bath or shower as soon as possible, and not to stop to talk to anyone before I had bathed. I ended up in the hospital two days later.

With the icy winter rain and the lack of sleep, the awful food, and the garbage cans, I had to spend two or three days in the hospital with the flu. Most of my buddies had the same experience. The army called it a flu epidemic, but it really was due to the so called training.

After the hospital interlude we were initiated into close order drill. This meant marching, marching, marching. First we marched on the beach, then we marched on the street, then we marched to Brigantine Beach.

Brigantine Beach was sort of a suburb of Atlantic City. There was a huge parking lot which was not paved where we marched every day for the entire afternoon. It was good exercise, but total boredom. It seems that the army was looking for a way to keep us busy until they could find a slot for us where we could really begin our training.

I was now fully indoctrinated into the army’s way of doing things and I was not very happy. Flying an airplane seemed far away. I felt that I would probably end up as a foot soldier and that would be bad news.

However, after a very uncomfortable three weeks we were transported during the night to State College, Pennsylvania, the home of course, of Penn State College.

It was a fun time and made up for the Atlantic City agony. We lived in a brand new fraternity house which had been evacuated to make room for us. I knew that the fraternity “boys” who were to move were furious and left some evidence of their feelings when they had to evacuate, no pun intended. The countryside was also beautiful. The Nittany Mountains surround the town of State College, Pa. The entire town was and still is devoted to the University.

The fraternity “mother” was hired to do the cooking for us. Every evening we were individually asked what we would like for breakfast. The lunch and dinner meals were equally great.

The curriculum was easy and since I had taken some of the courses during my brief college career, I was made a tutor and given a temporary rank which allowed me to leave the house some evenings. I would wander down to the women’s dormitory where I knew some of the female students from my hometown.

As a matter of fact during the first week at Penn State while we were marching to class a very attractive girl rushed up to me and threw her arms around me and proceeded to kiss me. She was one of the girls I had dated from back home. I had attended her going away party before she left for school, and I hadn’t seen her since then. This is how I found out about the other girls from my hometown.

I was embarrassed, but also pleased that she had shown so much affection in front of my buddies. I took a large amount of ribbing over this incident, especially from our sergeant.

I also met a distant cousin who spotted me and he helped make life more interesting.

Weekends were great! We were invited to picnics, and even to one of the fraternity houses, which had not been evacuated, for their Saturday night parties. These parties were wild! I was not prepared for what was happening at these fraternity houses where the bedrooms were comfortable and the drinks were plentiful. It was almost natural to adjourn to one of the bedrooms after having some drinks. I felt sort of cheated that this had been going on while men were giving their lives to protect the country. I also felt that I had been naive to think that going away to college was anything but hard work. I was comparing this with my own college experience, which had been all work and no play.

The campus was beautiful, and with the mountains as a background, I thought of how lucky I was to be in this paradise. Since it was wartime, there were many more women than men. This added to the excitement and to the pleasures that I had never had at home.

Since we were in the army, we were forced to stay in uniform which made it easy to be dressed properly for any occasion that presented itself. We were dressed for picnics or parties without worrying about being dressed for “the occasion”.

The regular students had already paired off before we arrived at the college. However, there were plenty of females to go around without anyone feeling stepped on. Besides, the females knew that we were there on a temporary basis.

This wonderful existence lasted for two months, after which a group of us were sent to Nashville, Tennessee for processing. I was sorry to leave this wonderful existence, but I was eager to see what was ahead.

At Nashville the first sorting out was done. This was the real army, with marching again and with no more good times. It was a full day with no time for anything but testing. The only pleasure was to fall into bed at the end of the day, and fall asleep. Those who passed the testing were divided into three categories, pilots, navigators, and bombardiers. I made the pilots list and was very pleased with myself. The testing took two weeks of day and night work. We were tested for every conceivable situation including reflexes, aptitude, coordination, manual dexterity, etc. We never did get to see the city of Nashville.

Now that I had been selected for flight training I began to develop an interest in reading about aviation and airplanes. I knew that I wanted to learn everything that I could about my new adventure.

I wanted to learn the new language and to experience the sensations of piloting an airplane.

Of course I began to worry about whether I would be able to handle this totally new world that I was about to enter. I had heard about the high wash-out rate. This was a challenge, and I did want to see if I could make it. I did have confidence in my abilities, but I had no experience in flying and I knew that some of my buddies did have some flying experience. Anyhow, I was game to give it a try.

Pre-flight School

The next step was a two-month stretch at Maxwell Field in Alabama for “pre-flight training”. We studied aircraft recognition, math, survival, officers training, including how to eat with proper etiquette, etc. We also were given intensive physical training to get us in good shape. It was summer and in this part of the country the heat was unbelievable. We were forced to run instead of walking to classes or wherever we were headed. Our uniforms were always wet from sweating. There was no air conditioning and sleeping was a problem. They probably exercised us so much so that we would be able to fall asleep at night from exhaustion, without paying attention to the heat.

One of the daily duties that we were put through was a run through a section of forest that had a trail through it. It was about a three-mile run and was called “The Burma Road”. It was cool enough while running through the forest, but when we emerged from the forest and had to keep running until we reached our barracks, the heat became overwhelming. One very hot day during this run one of the cadets was overcome by the heat and went into a coma and died.

The first month was tough! We were the underclassmen, and we were constantly hazed by the upperclassmen. We were good sports and let them have their fun, knowing that when we would be upperclassmen in a month that we would have our turn. However, that was not to be. There was an enquiry by the congress concerning the hazing and it was prohibited when our turn came.

Also, we were kept on base that first month, and when we were allowed into town, we really let loose. It is interesting that the waitresses in the mess hall looked prettier each day, until we were allowed off the base.

This second month was much easier since there was no hazing and we were becoming accustomed to the routine.

One of the experiences that we had to go through was the decompression chamber. This chamber was similar to the compression (hyperbaric) chambers used for medical purposes. Instead of increasing the atmospheric pressure as in the compression chamber, this decompression chamber decreased the atmospheric pressure to simulate flight at high altitude. Since all of the aircraft that we were to fly were not pressurized we had to wear oxygen masks to supply the supplemental oxygen that we needed as the atmospheric pressure in the chamber was decreased. We were given writing exercises to do with and without the oxygen, and as the altitude increased and the pressure decreased, the writing deteriorated when we were not wearing the masks.

On one of these decompression exercises, as we passed through about 30,000 feet, I developed a case of the bends. It hit me in the wrist. The pain was severe. It felt as though I had been stabbed. I was brought down to about 20,000 feet and the pain disappeared. That was the only such episode that I had.

Incidentally, the math officer turned out to be my math professor at college. He remembered me and told me that he had been drafted and because of his civilian job he was assigned to teach at this pre-flight base. He was married and had his wife with him, and he seemed to be enjoying his tour of duty.

This part of the program was to also teach us to become officers.

I still had not seen an airplane, and I was becoming impatient. The war was going on and I was still wondering if I would be able to hack it. Although we went through all of the testing, none of it could predict if we would be able to handle the flying and the combat. I was anxious to get started.

Apparently the army felt the same way and we were now sent to a primary flying school. We were never told where we were going, probably for security reasons. However, we did our traveling by train. The trains in those days were just beginning to become modernized. These modern versions were for civilian use. For troops they utilized the steam engines pulling old trains with nonadjustable seats and no air conditioning. The steam engines were coal burners which left a trail of soot. Since there was no air conditioning, the windows had to be left open. By the time the trip was over we were dirty, sweaty, and coughing up black soot. The trips were usually overnight since we were not top priority and had to spend some time on sidings waiting for clearances up ahead.

However, we were all young and healthy so there were no complaints. We were headed for a new adventure and that was what we were all thinking about. I was ready to accept the new challenge and all of the potential problems and the excitement that I knew was to come.

The airplane that we flew was an open cockpit, tandem seated (front and rear) airplane with fixed landing gear (non retractable). It had a nine cylinder, radial, air cooled engine that turned out 220 H.P. The army designation was Primary Trainer 23 or PT23 and it was manufactured by the Fairchild Corporation.

This airplane was designed for a much smaller and lighter engine. Since this was a tail wheel airplane, the heavier engine gave it a tendency to nose over if the brakes were applied too strenuously. The extra weight also caused the landing gear to collapse if the landing was too hard.

Communication from the instructor to the student was through tubes from the front cockpit connected to the ear flaps of the student’s helmet in the rear cockpit. The student had no way of speaking to the instructor. Also, because of the open cockpit and the noisy engine, much of what was shouted by the instructor was lost. A good deal of the communications was through inventive and often confusing hand signals.

The half day that was spent at ground school included studying aircraft and naval recognition, theory of flight, navigation, meteorology, survival, etc.

Physical fitness was also a part of the daily regimen. We ran, did calisthenics, and practiced hand to hand combat.

It was total immersion!

We were not allowed off the field for the first month, and only on weekends during the second month.

The airport itself was a fairly large grass covered field located in farming country. The town was very small without paved streets, and the residents of the entire area were handsome, intelligent, and friendly. They knew what we were there for and they were very appreciative.

It was necessary to fly solo within twelve hours or wash out (dropped from the program). The minimum time was eight hours.

After breakfast every day we were marched in formation from the barracks to the flight line. Our uniforms were green flight suits and canvas helmets and goggles. We wore the goggles around our necks until after we soloed. After we had soloed, we wore the goggles on our helmets.

Each day marching back to the barracks it was easy to spot who had soloed, both from the position of the goggles and the smiles on their faces. As the days went by there were fewer and fewer faces as the washout lists became longer.

Anyhow, I did get to solo after ten hours. I remember the intense feeling of excitement and fear when my instructor had me stop the airplane at the side of the auxiliary airfield where he climbed out of the cockpit, smiled, and waved me off. This was it! Taking off was easy. Getting the airplane on the ground safely was another matter. Flying the rectangular traffic pattern was no problem, but when I looked down at the grass field it looked very small. Now there was no one in the airplane to make corrections or to take over the controls if necessary. It was now all up to me. I had to make all the decisions. Make a mistake now and it could kill you, or worse than that, damage the aircraft.

That first landing was a tremendous effort. I was tense, with all of my instincts and reflexes standing by, ready to make any corrections or adjustments in a nanosecond. I touched down safely and looked over at my instructor who gave me an OK signal and motioned me off for another takeoff. Now I doubted that I could do it again. I really wanted to just go back to the home field to take a nap, but now I knew that I had to make two more landings before going back.

I made the necessary three landings with much trepidation, and we flew back to the base field with one very happy and very sweaty student.

On the next day we were scheduled to repeat the performance, but this time from the base field. After practicing a couple of landings with the instructor, I pulled over to the edge of the field to allow him to disembark. Now I had a problem getting the airplane to move again. It was necessary to use almost full throttle to start the airplane to taxi. The instructor had to push on a wing to help me start rolling. We both thought that it was the tall grass and the mud at the edge of the field that was impeding the movement.

When I lined up for takeoff and pushed the throttle forward the airplane stubbornly began to move forward slowly, and instead of holding right rudder to compensate for the torque effect as was usual, I found myself instead using left rudder to keep the airplane pointed straight ahead.

It took a long time to attain flying speed and lift off the ground. As soon as I was off the ground the airplane immediately picked up speed and I circled to make the landing.

I touched down in a perfect three point landing and almost immediately the airplane began turning to the right. I was holding full left rudder, but the plane kept turning right. It made a full 360 degree turn before coming to a stop. I could not get the plane to move now even with full throttle. I looked around and saw that the grass where I had landed was torn up from the point that I had touched down to where I had stopped.

The crash truck appeared at this point carrying my instructor who was screaming at me. He jumped off the truck and after examining the airplane looked up at me peculiarly. He motioned me to stay in the airplane while he climbed up on the wing and apologized for his earlier remarks. He told me that I had a locked brake on the right wheel, and that on takeoff the tire had been pulled off the wheel.

The brake had locked as a result of some air in the hydraulic line which had expanded when the air temperature had warmed up as the morning wore on. The problem was compounded when the brake itself heated up as the wheel rotated and then locked.

I had landed on the bare rim with the brake locked, but because I had made a good landing the airplane did not flip over and was intact.

The crash truck went back to the hangar and returned with a new tire and wheel which they quickly installed on the airplane. They bled the brake line and I was ordered to continue to complete my landings and takeoffs for the day.

My instructor was very pleased that the airplane was saved and a serious accident averted. He rewarded me by writing a very good report for my file. That report probably kept me from washing out at least during this phase of my training.

We now were all speaking a new language. We had a new vocabulary composed of aviation terminology.

A week later I was scheduled for a routine check ride with an Army examiner. This was my first check ride and I was up tight.

The examiner was in the front seat and I was as usual in the rear seat. He motioned me to take off and I began the takeoff roll. Before the airplane had lifted off the grass he began to yell instructions at me. “Climb to 2,000 feet and do a power on stall to the right, then do a 60-degree turn to the left, then do a spin to the left”, . . . and on and on.

I was concentrating on the take off and only heard about one half of what he was saying. I remembered the 2,000 feet and when we were at that level I immediately began the power on stall to the left. He grabbed the controls and pointed down to show me that I had begun the maneuver in the traffic pattern of the airport. I was embarrassed!

He kept the control of the airplane and landed, taxied to the operations office, climbed out of the airplane and yelled to me to “go up and practice”.

I was certain that I would be on the washout list that evening, and I wondered why he let me take off again.

After practicing some stalls, spins, and other maneuvers for an hour I returned to the field and landed, thinking that this was probably the last landing that I would ever make in an airplane.

I taxied over to park the airplane and saw my instructor waiting for me. He was grinning from ear to ear! He put his arm around me and told me that the examiner had given me all A’s, and he was proud of me.

I explained to him that I had made a fool of myself and that I should have flunked the check ride. He laughed and said that when the examiner had read the report of my accident he felt that I deserved to pass for having saved the airplane. He also felt that the examiner knew that I was uptight, possibly from the incident a few days ago.

The most important lesson that a novice pilot must learn is to pay strict attention to airspeed. If the airspeed drops below the stall speed for that aircraft, it will quit flying, go into a spin, and head for the ground. If there was not enough altitude to recover from the spin and the stall, then there would be a crash. In this case the pilot could probably be picked up with a blotter.

This lesson was indelibly written into my brain!

Soon after soloing I was out practicing some maneuvers. When I came in for a landing, I noticed that on my final approach using the correct airspeed that I was moving over the ground at a much slower speed than usual. I became nervous about stalling out and aborted the landing. The second time around the same thing happened and again I went around. On the fifth attempt I decided to increase the airspeed and go for it. I landed, but not before floating half way across the field, close to the ground, until the airplane finally quit flying.

My instructor had been watching me and asked me why I had gone around four times before landing, and why I had landed like a fighter airplane. When I told him what had gone through what substituted for my mind, he laughed and said that I had learned a very important lesson. He reminded me that there was a stiff breeze blowing, and that accounted for the low ground speed, and had nothing to do with my airspeed, and that it was the airspeed that was important to keep the airplane flying, not the ground speed. He also said that if I hadn’t landed that he was getting ready to look for a gun to shoot me down.

We were required to do several cross country flights. The countryside in Tennessee was beautiful and since these were open cockpit airplanes it was truly a pleasure. I couldn’t believe that life could be so beautiful. Also, since these airplanes had no electrical system, we had no radio contact with the base, and no radio navigational aids. The navigating was strictly dead reckoning and pilotage. That means that aside from watching the compass it was necessary to watch for landmarks on the ground to compare with the charts to know where you were. If necessary, you could always find a water tower with the name of the town on it and if you circled it counter-clockwise you could read the name. Since there were so few towns in this part of the country it was easy and very pleasant.

Of course I had written home to tell my family that I was progressing in my training and that I had soloed. Of course I received a letter by return mail from my mother telling me to fly low and slow. I showed this to my instructor and he in turn wanted to tack the letter on the bulletin board.

We did not fly nor have ground school on weekends. I spent most of the weekend studying textbooks and manuals. I wanted to learn as much as possible about flying.

By the time that I had completed the two month course I was very comfortable flying this airplane. I no longer became sick from the flying or from the fuel odor. I awoke every morning happy with the thought that I would be flying, particularly when the flying was in the morning. I also enjoyed the wonderful countryside and the clear fresh air that was a part of Tennessee; and that feeling endures to this day.

For me this period of training (two months) was exciting and it gave me a great deal of self assurance. I was so involved with the flying that I rarely left the base. I studied, and for relaxation I would walk over to the ice cream bar for a chocolate ice cream soda, and after staring at the female attendant I would return to the barracks to continue my studying. I felt that I had control of myself and when we moved to the next phase I was ready for it. This next phase was called Basic Flying School and it was located in Newport, Ark.

BASIC FLYING SCHOOL
The airport at this base had multiple paved concrete runways. This was different from the grass, unpaved field at Union City, Tennessee.

I had no problem getting into a more complicated and larger airplane and I began to again enjoy the flying. This new airplane was called a basic trainer [BT13] or [BT15] and we were now on a real military base. The instructors were all in the military and the interaction was more formal. We did a great deal of formation flying and began night flying. We flew for one half of the day and continued with our ground school for the other half of the day. When we flew in the morning, we would also fly that night. It was a seven day per week program allowing for a holiday only when the weather was too bad to safely fly.

I loved the airplane and I felt that I could do almost anything with it. This was a 450-horsepower low winged monoplane with fixed landing gear and a two-position propeller. It was much larger than the primary trainer and had an enclosed cockpit. The seats were in tandem with dual controls and a low frequency radio with an intercom. It was stressed for acrobatics and we were not limited from doing any maneuver that we wanted to do. The only difference between the BT13 and the BT15 was the engine. One had a 450 HP radial engine manufactured by the Pratt & Whitney Co. while the other had a 450 HP radial engine manufactured by the Wright Co. As I recall, the Wright engines were probably older since they almost all had some oil leaks.

The airplane had no peculiarities except when in a tailspin. When entering the spin, and during the first few turns the airplane would vibrate until it really got wound up. Because of this and because it was made by the Vulture Corp. it was nicknamed the Vultee Vibrator.

We flew this aircraft for two months during which time we practiced precision landings, acrobatics, cross-country, formation flying, instrument flying, and night flying.

After my first week of flying this airplane and finding it to be easy to fly and very tame, I was introduced to instrument flying. This was done with an instructor in the rear seat. The student would be flying under a black hood so that he could not see outside of the cockpit. The takeoffs were made with the student under the hood steering the airplane by watching the directional gyrocompass. If the instructor wanted to take over the controls, he would shake the control stick from side to side and the student would yield the controls to him.

It was during this type of practice that I almost got clobbered.

We had completed some practice maneuvers with me flying the airplane under the hood and the instructor relaxing in the rear seat. As was typical, after about an hour of dedicated instrument flying we were both happy to end the lesson. He wanted to look at a rice paddy that we were flying over, so he shook the stick and made some steep turns circling over the rice paddy. When he was finished with this, he told me over the intercom to take over the controls and return to the base to land.

I entered the traffic pattern, which at this time of the day was crowded, and flew the standard pattern, entering the final approach and in a standard glide to the paved runway. At about 400 feet above the runway I felt the stick shaking and took my hand off the stick, relinquishing control of the airplane to the instructor, thinking that he wanted to make the landing.

We continued the glide to the runway, but it seemed to me that we should have already begun to break the glide and begin to flair out for the landing. The glide continued and I was getting antsy. The runway was now directly in front of me and coming up quickly. Automatically my hand was close to the stick ready to pull back, and then it happened. My hand was on the stick and I was pulling back and breaking the glide and we were on the runway.

I taxied off the runway and into the parking ramp and into a slot, shutting down the engine, filling out the paperwork, undoing my safety belt, and climbing out of the airplane and on to the ramp, nervously waiting for the instructor to ream me out for interfering with his landing.

We were walking side by side with our parachutes over our shoulders when he remarked rather nonchalantly that even though it was a smooth touchdown he felt that it would be better to practice flaring out sooner before touching down. I looked around at him and told him that I thought that he was landing the airplane. He turned white and asked me what gave me that idea, and I told him that I felt the stick shake and I was under the impression that he wanted to make the landing. He explained that he had an allergy and was reaching into his back pocket for a handkerchief and probably hit the stick with his knee when he sneezed at the same time.

We both stopped, looked into each others eyes realizing that we had a close one. We walked into the operations room, sat down and began to laugh ourselves sick, but never uttering a word to the other men in the room.

I really enjoyed landings as the biggest challenge and whenever possible I practiced. I found that I was able to predict exactly when the wheels would touch down and I could land and take off in as short a runway as possible. I would sneak off to one of the auxiliary fields to shoot some landings.

After a couple of weeks we were sent to one of the auxiliary fields to be tested for landing skills. There was a white line painted across the runway and we were to make seven landings and takeoffs each, landing with the main landing gear in front of the line and the tail wheel behind the line. The scoring was a U for unsatisfactory, an S for satisfactory (landing within a couple of feet of the line), and SS for a perfect landing as described above.

My engine began to run rough and I called the instructor’s aircraft to report this. He ordered me to go back to the base and get another aircraft and return for the landings. When I returned, the weather turned sour and we all flew back to the base and I could not get in even one landing. When the weather cleared the next day we were scheduled to do some other missions, and I did not get a chance to do the landing test until about two weeks later, when we were scheduled for our next landing tests.

We flew over to the auxiliary field in formation and began the landings one after the other. When we had all done the seven landings the other aircraft were ordered home and I was asked to continue the landings to make up for the ones that I had missed. I asked if I could make the pattern smaller since I was the only one in it and the instructor who was seated in a parked airplane even with the white line answered in the affirmative.

I made a very short pattern and when I had completed six more landings the instructor said that I should return to base. When the grades were posted, I had twelve SS and one S, the best grades in the class. I wasn’t too impressed with these grades figuring that I had sort of cheated somewhat by making so many consecutive landings in a row and within a smaller traffic pattern. Also I had probably practiced more than anyone in the class. However, my instructor was proud of me and I enjoyed the respect of my classmates.

We also began to do night flying. At first we practiced landing with the runway outline on, and the runway floodlights on, and the airplane landing lights on. This was easy, and it was a pleasure, particularly since the air was much calmer at night, with no updrafts. However, after a night or two the floodlights were shut off, and only the runway outline lights and the wing lights were used. This too, was easy and I figured that I had it made, but then we were not permitted to use the aircraft landing lights and it became more interesting.

The technique, at night, for getting a number of aircraft into the air quickly, and to practice traffic control at the same time was interesting. The field was divided into four quadrants by having a cross of lights on the ground at the center of the field.

After takeoff each aircraft was assigned to a quadrant and an altitude. The altitudes were 1,000, 2,000, and 3,000 feet. This would allow twelve aircraft to be in the air at one time. A typical assignment would be, for example: number two quadrant at level three, or number one quadrant at level two. Once up at a level and at the proper quadrant the pilot would circle either to the right or to the left depending on which quadrant he was in.

Getting to the proper level was the trick. It was necessary to first get into the quadrant and then to start to circle in the direction for that quadrant and to locate the aircraft at the next level above, and to climb and enter his level at the opposite side of the circle. Then to keep climbing, doing the same maneuver to go through the next level until reaching the assigned level. The danger was to keep from colliding with the other aircraft when passing through their altitudes. It was also very black out and easy to develop vertigo.

Once at the proper position in the pattern and flying circles, making sure that your circle did not encroach on any of the other circles, it was necessary to wait for either a green light beamed up from the ground or a call on the radio to come in and land. The same procedure was now done going down to land. There were some accidents, but not as many as I had expected.

I believe that it was about this time that I was introduced into the world of guns. One morning we were brought to the gunnery range and we were each given a Colt 45. This is a semi-automatic 45 caliber handgun which was issued to officers as their personal weapon. It is a fairly heavy, large gun with very lethal firepower. The ammunition is large caliber and can knock over someone who gets hit. It is accurate, but the individual who is firing it must be familiar with its recoil, which is considerable. At that time it was fired using one hand with the arm out straight. This was different from the two handed method now used. This was my first experience firing a real weapon, and I was anxious to become a straight shooter like John Wayne.

My first attempts to hit the target were laughable. The instructor then told me to relax, and to squeeze the trigger instead of pulling it. I concentrated on this and pretty soon I was doing much better. I could now hit the bull’s eye regularly.

The next gun that we were trained with was the army carbine. This was a relatively short rifle firing 30 caliber ammunition, and it was much easier to use than the Colt 45. This gun I felt was superior and could be used for hunting if that were necessary.

We were also trained to use the Thompson sub- machine gun which was also 45 caliber. This gun was fully automatic and had almost no recoil. It also was probably the gun used by the Mafia in all of the old movies.

The toughest target practice was skeet shooting which we did on a regular basis. This was done with a twelve gauge shotgun which became my favorite. The guns were either pump action or semi-automatic. The targets were clay dishes about four or five inches in diameter, and were tossed into the air by a spring mechanism. One target came from each side and it was necessary to lead the target in order to hit it. At different angles it was necessary to use different amounts of lead. At the ninety degree point it was necessary to lead the target by about three feet in order for the shot to arrive at the same time that the target arrived. If the gun was not on the shoulder before the trigger was pulled the butt of the gun would recoil and hit the shoulder with considerable force. There were several purple shoulders in the shower room that night.

Of course shooting from a fighter plane was the ultimate. There was probably no greater thrill than aerial gunnery. To have done this without electronics and all of the modern aids was fantastic. Again I am getting ahead of myself.

My only recreation was when one of the PX female employees took a shine to me. She lived on the base and I could visit her after hours. My roommate who was married covered for me if I stayed out past lights out. When I would return to the barracks, he would ask me what I had succeeded in doing that evening. I would give him a blow by blow description of what had transpired. He would then tell me what to do the following evening. I was a virgin at the time and so I listened to him intently and followed his instructions. It seems that he was having a vicarious thrill by partaking in my seduction of this female.

I wonder if I have any relatives in Arkansas.

There was a situation that came up that is worth telling about. Each barracks had an officer in charge, called the tactical officer. He was a non-flying officer, and it was his duty to keep control of us. He would call us out and march us to the mess hall for our meals. He also inspected our rooms each morning to make sure that we made our beds properly and to see to it that our rooms were clean.

One morning I had overslept and was late to assemble into the formation for breakfast. This would have been a major problem calling for me to serve extra time marching around the area in my time off. I elected to not make my bed that morning, hoping that I would have time to make it after breakfast. We did not return to the barracks before going to class, and when I returned to the barracks after lunch, I found that my bed had been made. I asked around and no one knew who had done it.

The next day I again did not make my bed up, and again when I returned to the barracks I found that someone had made it.

Several days went by and I had almost forgotten about this incident, when after a very late night flight I again overslept and again did not make my bed. Again I found my bed made. This time there was a note pinned to my blanket. It was from the tactical officer asking me to report to his office.

I walked over to his office with a feeling that now I would be punished. However, when I entered the office he stood up, returned my salute, and then shook my hand. In a very gentle voice he asked me to sit down, looked me straight in the eye, and asked me to please cooperate with the system and make up my bed each day. He told me that he had a son who was also in the service. He knew that we were working hard and flying seven days a week, but if I took advantage of him, the other men in the barracks would do the same thing, and that could become a catastrophe.

I left his office feeling ashamed of myself. I returned to the barracks, told my buddies that I was being punished, and for the rest of our stay at this station I never again missed making my bed.

ADVANCED FLYING SCHOOL

After two months at Arkansas we were moved to Moultrie, Georgia for advanced flying school. Here the weather was much warmer, with balmy days. It was a much more improved atmosphere than Arkansas.

Since we were now more or less committed to graduate there was much less tension, and we were treated with a much greater amount of respect by the ground officers and ground crews.

The airplane that we flew was the North American Texan, the AT6. This was again a tandem two-seater with retractable landing gear, a controllable pitch propeller, and a 560-horsepower engine. It was fully acrobatic with a relatively thick wing which made it very maneuverable, but fairly slow for such a large engine. The landing gear was narrow which made each landing exciting.

When in basic flying school I had a close friend who decided that he wanted to become a fighter pilot. I, on the other hand, had decided that I wanted to fly a bomber. We argued about the merits of our choices for about a month, each trying to talk the other into his choice so that we could stay together during the next phase of our training. This would be either multi-engine advanced flying school for the future bomber pilots or single-engine advanced flying school for the future fighter pilots. We were allowed to make a choice by a closed ballot, and if we were proficient in acrobatic maneuvers we would be given our choice, and if not then we would be assigned to bomber school. Of course most of the students chose fighter school, but there was a greater need for bomber pilots since first of all there were more bombers than fighter aircraft and secondly each bomber had two pilots.

Now my friend was a very agreeable fellow and of course so was I. Because of that we decided to surprise each other by checking our ballot for what the other one wanted, feeling that we would then stay together. We kept our choice secret to surprise each other until the assignments were posted, and that’s how I became a fighter pilot and he became a bomber pilot. His name is Nick Sidovar, and I hope that if he is still alive that he has forgiven me and that perhaps I will some day meet up with him again.

One of the stories about Nick was about what happened during our pre-flight days at Maxwell Field on one of the rare nights when we were allowed to leave the base and go into town. We decided to visit the local Woolworth store to buy some sundries, but mainly to be able to speak to the female clerks, since we missed female companionship and had not been away from the base for over a month.

We did meet two very suitable young ladies, who since they were living together, invited us to accompany them home after they finished working that night. Nick was older and more experienced than I was, and he suggested that he could brief me on what to do in order for me to spend a more interesting night. I told him that I could handle myself and refused any advice from him. During the night we were in adjoining rooms and I therefore knew that he had a much more intensive and interesting night than I did. When we were on our way back to the base the next day, I decided to ask him about his obvious ability for conquest. He told me that aside from being more attractive to the opposite sex than I was, he would tell them that he was a homosexual, and that would become a challenge for the girl to see if she could cure him. It also gave her ego a boost if she could succeed in seducing him. He told me that it always worked, which he proved to me on another occasion.

There is an addendum to this story that I feel obliged to relate. The reason that I was not successful that night was due to a couple of incidents. The first was that the individual whom I went to bed with was in no shape to engage in the activity that I had in mind. It seems that nature had played a trick on me. The second reason was that later in the evening two more females arrived with their dates, two other aviation cadets. They sat around and talked for a while and the cadets left. One of the females climbed into bed with me and my date and went to sleep. The other female who was extremely attractive went into another bedroom by herself.

Sometime during the night I decided to go to the bathroom. There was another door to the bathroom and after I had completed my mission I decided to see what was behind the other door. I opened it carefully, but apparently not careful enough. I found myself in the bedroom of the other female. She was in bed reading and when she saw me she motioned to me and invited me in. I was embarrassed and so I quickly shut the door and went back to my original bed with the two girls and went to sleep.

In the morning we all awakened at about the same time and I quickly dressed. All the girls were now in the room with me and my friend Nick. He was all wrapped around his date both physically and emotionally. I was ready to leave when the very attractive girl from the other room came over to me and whispered to me that she was sorry that I had not accepted her invitation to join her in bed last night. I explained that I thought that she was motioning for me to leave. She said that I had misunderstood, and that she had been motioning for me to join her. She said that the offer was still in effect, and took my hand and began to lead me to her bedroom.

Just then there was a pounding on the apartment door. It was the landlord, and he was very upset about having two men in the apartment. He ordered us to leave, and the girls began arguing with him. He said that if we didn’t leave immediately that he would call the police.

Nick and I decided that it would be a good idea to stay out of trouble and to leave. We told the girls that we would be back the following weekend, but that never happened, and I don’t remember the reason.

Anyhow, back to advanced flying school.

Again we were to work very hard with little time off, but with no complaints because we were all enjoying the flying. We also were becoming quite conceited about our new skills and found that anyone who was not a pilot was not in our league. I was now twenty years old and I must admit that it was a very good year. I knew that I was on my way to combat and that I might not reach my next birthday, but I put those feelings in the back of my head and enjoyed these days and months thoroughly.

One of the secretaries at the base invited me to visit her in town when I had a day off. One Saturday I did have the day off and decided to go into town to visit her. She lived in a rented room in a home that belonged to a young couple. The husband was a ground officer at the base.

When I arrived at the house, the wife of the officer was home alone. She told me that my friend was away for the day and that her husband was on duty at the base for the day. She was wearing a very thin negligee and it was very evident that she had a beautiful body under the negligee. She asked me to sit down and join her for either a cocktail or coffee. I refused both and she allowed the negligee to partially open and sat down inviting me to do the same. I was getting very nervous since I was an aviation cadet and her husband was an officer. She detected my discomfort and suggested that I might be more comfortable if I removed my tie.

The next day was Sunday and we were invited to put on an air show for the townspeople. We flew tight formations and did some relatively low altitude acrobatics and made a lot of noise. I was thrilled to be part of the show and enjoyed every bit of it.

Oh yes, if you were wondering about what happened, I did not remove my tie, excused myself, and returned to the base. Please forgive me for not making the story more interesting, but in the interest of honesty I must tell the truth.

NIGHT FLYING

Night flying was always dangerous, particularly in a single engine airplane. If the moon was full, it was a huge help, but on a dark night, it was eerie. Also, way out in the boondocks it was difficult to determine where the horizon was, since there were very few lights. There also was no radar.

The AT6 Texan, the advanced single engine trainer had split flaps. This meant that when the airplane was airborne and the flaps were raised, the airplane would lose lift and would sink about 150 feet. When climbing to a given altitude with the flaps down it was usual to climb an extra 150 feet before leveling out and raising the flaps. Also, the AT6 used a hydraulic system for the flap control and also for raising and lowering the wheels. The hydraulic system was unusual in that it was not energized until the power lever was pushed down. To raise or lower the landing gear, it was necessary to first place the position lever in the up or down position and then to push down on the energizing lever. The same was true for controlling the flaps. This was a very good idea since if there was a leak in the hydraulic system all of the fluid would not leak out very quickly since it was under no pressure until the power button was pushed. However, it could cause a problem as you will see.

We were practicing night landings during a very dark night. We were ordered to land without aircraft landing lights, runway flood lights, nor runway outline lights. The instructor was in the back seat sweating it out, and I was in the front seat making a full flap approach to a landing, having trouble deciding where the runway could be. I did find a dark strip that I decided was the runway and made a very decent landing. At the moment that I reached down to pull the flap handle to the up position, the tower called and ordered me to make a left turn at the intersection that I was approaching, and take off again. My eyes were peeled looking for the intersection and I also had to respond to the tower which required my left hand to squeeze the microphone button. With all of this activity going on, I forgot to push down the hydraulic actuating lever that would pressurize the hydraulic system and raise the flaps. All three of the levers (landing gear, flaps, and hydraulic pressure) were on the left side of the cockpit and also required the use of the left hand. So now the flaps were fully down and the handle was in the up position.

Remember that it was a pitch black night out and that there was no runway lights to guide us.

I found the intersection, made a left turn and applied full power for the takeoff. I headed down the runway and when I reached takeoff speed the aircraft lifted off the runway and we were again airborne. I reached down and pulled the wheel retracting handle to the up position and then pushed down on the hydraulic power lever. The wheels came up, but so did the flaps!

I was still on full power, but the airspeed was not increasing as it should and the altimeter still showed that we were at ground level but not climbing. I couldn’t figure out what was happening, but I knew that I was in trouble. I could see the shapes of trees sliding by out of the corner of my eyes and I was past the end of the runway and the airspeed was still not increasing.

Finally the altimeter needle flickered and began to show a gain in altitude. We were climbing out and on our way around for another landing. After we had landed my instructor asked me to taxi off the runway. He climbed out of the airplane and told me to complete the remainder of the landings without him.

When the night flying was completed and I had parked the airplane, my instructor sat down with me in the operations room and explained to me what had happened. At first he could not figure out what was going on, but then he realized what I had done wrong, and when he did, he felt very frustrated, since there were no controls for the flaps and landing gear in the rear seat.

Great lesson!!

Night flying was now part of our routine. We were becoming accustomed to the blue exhaust flame coming out of the side of the engine, and there were no more emergency calls to the tower that the airplane was on fire.

We had a night cross country from Moultrie, Georgia to Tallahassee, Florida, and then return to the base. We were to fly to the airport in Tallahassee, but not land. There would be an instructor on the ground and we were to contact him via the radio and circle the field until he spotted us and order us to return to Moultrie.

It was a dark night with no sizable cities along the route that we could use for checkpoints. The flight was approximately one hour and fifteen minutes each way. This was not a triangular flight as was usual, but a straight line flight going and coming. This would keep us further from the field than a triangular flight would.

At briefing we were given the wind direction and speed. We were to plan the flight from this information and from our charts. After the briefing we all sat down at desks with our computers {not the electronic type that we use today} and figured our headings and ETA (estimated time of arrival).

We departed at about five minute intervals beginning at about 8PM. We therefore expected to return in time for a good nights sleep sometime before midnight.

I was on my way at about eight thirty after eating dinner, doing the flight planning, and preflighting my airplane. Although it was a very dark night, it was very smooth, and I anticipated a good flight.

We were ordered to only use the radio for communications and to not use it for navigation. The only radio navigation that was possible at the time was the old radio range with A and N quadrants which was fairly easy to use, but not for precision approaches. This was to be strictly an exercise in dead reckoning navigation.

After takeoff I picked up my compass heading, climbed to my assigned altitude, and trimmed the aircraft for an effortless flight to Tallahassee. There was absolutely nothing to be seen on the ground, and that made the trip very lonesome. When the ETA was up I tried to pick out an airfield, but the ground was black. I called the instructor who was sitting in an airplane on the ground to see if he had me spotted. He said that he could see me circling and gave me permission to return to base at Moultrie.

I now turned to my compass heading that would take me home. I was a little skeptical about the instructor having seen me, but I was happy to be on the return leg of the trip and casually dispelled all thoughts that perhaps he had seen someone else, or was too sleepy to pay too much attention to the aircraft checking in.

After about an hour, when I should have seen the light beacon at the airport, I became somewhat anxious and decided to cheat and turn on the radio beam that would bring me home. I followed the beam for a while and soon was able to see the split beacon that was home base. I turned off the radio beacon feeling that I should not cheat too much and headed directly for the field. As I approached, I called the tower for landing instructions giving them my call number. They answered giving me the runway in use, and the other information that was routine for a landing, and I acknowledged. I was now quite relaxed and made the aircraft ready for landing, putting my wheels and flaps down and switching to the fullest fuel tank. I did notice that both of the two tanks were fairly low, but that was of no concern since I was now on final approach.

I glanced to my right as I made for the runway. Instead of seeing a group of single engine AT6’s I saw instead a group of twin engine aircraft and realized that this was Moody Air Force base which I knew was east of Moultrie.

I quickly raised my landing gear and flaps and headed west. After about twenty minutes I could see the split beacon that I assumed was definitely Moultrie. My right fuel tank now was empty and my left tank was reading empty. Now I realized that I had compounded the problem by not landing at Moody and I began to sweat. I made ready to bail out when the fuel would run out. It was standard procedure to not make a forced landing at night since it was impossible to see a safe place to land unless you were lucky enough to be over an airport when the time came.

The engine kept purring along and I was ready to go the instant that I heard it skip a beat. I was now coming up to Moultrie and I again called for landing instructions. The tower gave me the instructions and also added that he thought that he had given them to me a while back. I told him that he must be mistaken and ended the conversation. If you are wondering how the tower at Moultrie was able to converse with me when I was a good distance away, remember that we were using low frequencies which had a longer range than the Very High Frequency radios now in use. The Very High Frequency was line of sight, so that the higher the altitude the further the range, since the earth is round.

I was now busy deciding if I had enough altitude to make the runway if the engine should quit at this time. It kept running and I was on the runway and taxiing to the parking area and then finally I was parked and I had the pleasure of shutting down the engine without it ever skipping a beat. What a relief!

I waited for the fuel truck to come over. The driver told me that I was one of the few who had returned from the cross country and that there was much concern about missing aircraft. It seems that the weather people had given us the wind direction 180 degrees in the wrong direction. The man who filled the fuel tanks told me that he had never pumped this much fuel into one aircraft before.

The final night cross country was scheduled the night before graduation, not intentionally, but because bad weather had prevented us from flying earlier in the week. I was very antsy about this flight since I had problems with the other last night cross country. Therefore, I decided to do some preliminary preparations.

I spent a couple of evenings going over the charts of the route that we were to take. I found that there was a light line connecting most of the towns along the way. I marked them and memorized the codes to identify them and also memorized the shape of the towns that we would pass along the way. I was ready!

While I was doing all of this preparation my two roommates were busy smoking cigars and contemplating where they were going after graduation. They were a few years older than I was and they came from the same part of the country, Texas. I was sort of their baby brother, and they apparently did not share the anxiety that I had with night cross countries.

Anyhow, the time came for takeoff and it was again a very dark night and I was already sweating and it was December. I had all of my charts out and folded properly and I knew that there was nothing more that I could do to prepare for the mission. I was now very much at home in this type of aircraft and could concentrate on navigating, paying very little attention to the flying.

The tower ordered me out to the runway, cleared me for takeoff, and after noting the time, I was on my way. I was off the ground, and after raising the landing gear and setting the throttle, trim tabs, and prop pitch to climb, I headed for my first checkpoint. I reached my assigned altitude, reset the throttle and prop for cruise, and began looking for the light line. Sure enough there it was. I checked the Morse code to be certain that this was the correct one. I passed the first checkpoint right on the money and I was now smiling at how easy it was. Now I knew that there was no way that I would screw up this cross country! I also began to feel that my roommates would have no problems and that they would laugh at me for taking all of the precautions that I did.

Now I was making my first turn to a new heading and I was right on time. The light line was working fine and it was making it very easy. I was enjoying the scenery now and I was totally relaxed. I made my next turn and again I was on time. This was the last leg of the trip and I settled down and rechecked my engine instruments and kept my compass right on the money. I switched fuel tanks and felt secure that I would soon see the airport beacon with its split beam.

I began to worry that everything was going too well. It was such an easy flight and my roommates who had each become airborne before me would probably now be on the ground. I could hear some radio chatter and assumed that it was from some of my friends checking in and landing.

The beacon was in sight in the distance and all that I had to do was to make a good landing and tomorrow was graduation. I had it made and I was happy. It was now time to begin my letdown to traffic pattern level and call in for landing instructions. I called the tower and was told which runway was active and I was told that I was number one in the landing pattern. I made the traditional 45-degree entry and then entered my downwind leg with the altimeter stuck to the 800-foot pattern altitude. I then made my turn to the base leg and as soon as I knew that I had the field made I cut the throttle to make a power off landing as was customary. I rechecked to be sure that my landing gear was in the down position and I brought down full flaps, put the prop in low pitch, re-trimmed the airplane, and turned to final approach to land. I glanced to my right and saw some AT6 aircraft parked and then watched the runway coming up at me. I leveled out just above the runway and eased the nose up, heard the stall warning horn go off and almost instantly heard the tires touching the runway.

I taxied to the apron, parked the airplane, and shut down the engine, knowing that this was the last time that I would fly as an aviation cadet. The next time that I would fly I would be a fully qualified pilot and an officer in the Army Air Force.

I filled out the necessary paper work, climbed out of the airplane, took off my parachute, and headed for the pilot’s ready room. A couple of my friends were putting away their gear and I did the same. We then headed for the barracks for some sleep. I entered my room, but my roommates were not there and I knew that they were probably either in the latrine or out in the back of the barracks having a smoke.

I took a quick shower and went to sleep; it was late. I awoke the next morning and found that my roommates had not slept in their beds, or were already having breakfast. They probably made their beds quietly to keep from awakening me. I looked at my watch and found that it was quite early. I went into the latrine to do my ablutions and met some of my classmates. They were discussing last night’s cross country and were commenting that rumor had it that eight of the aircraft on the mission had not returned including my two roommates.

I dressed for the graduation ceremony and went to the mess hall for breakfast where I found out that for sure my roommates had not returned last night but had become lost and each had landed at different airports around the state of Georgia. They did miss the graduation ceremony, but they did receive their wings and commissions the following day when they were brought back to base. However, I confronted them with the fact that I was their superior officer since I had received my commission a day before they did.

I never again discussed the incident with my roommates, and to this day I have no idea why they were lost, and after graduation I never saw them again.

After graduation I was given my first leave to go home for ten days. One of my friends, who lived in New York, and I, left together and went to the train station for our tickets. The next train was filled, but we were told off the cuff that if we spoke to the conductor and told him that we hadn’t been home for a year he might find us some seats.

We did just that and since we were in uniform the conductor had us wait on the platform of one of the cars while he rearranged the seating. He found two attractive young women and asked the individuals sitting next to them to change their seats for one reason or another. He then brought us to the vacated seats and introduced us to the girls. I was in one car and my friend was in the next car. The trip was overnight, and the lights were turned down to allow the passengers to sleep. Several times during the night my friend came over to see how I was making out. He was having a ball and when we arrived in New York he apparently had made arrangements to spend part of his leave with his new friend.

It was great to see my family and some friends who were not in the service. My older sister was thrilled that I was now an officer and a pilot and she made me take her to Manhattan so that we might come across some enlisted men who would be required to salute me. I was embarrassed and tried to stay off the streets, but when we did pass some much older enlisted men they did salute, and indeed, I was embarrassed.

While in Manhattan we visited one of the vaudeville theaters where Milton Berle was doing his thing. My cousin Marty Ragaway was his writer and his good friend, and Marty had invited me to visit the theater while I was home on leave. So we went backstage and asked for Marty and to my surprise we were invited into Milton Berle’s dressing room. Marty was there and he introduced us to Mr. Berle who was in a nervous frenzy before going on-stage. He reached out his hand and shook mine and I was astounded to find that his hand was sweaty and shaking.

Marty told us that he was always that way before going on-stage and that as soon as he began his routine it would all settle down. After the war Marty ghost wrote Milton’s book which I believe was called the “White Elephant”.

My cousin Marty was about a year or two older than I was and he was well into his profession as a gag writer. Eventually he moved to Los Angeles and made a name for himself writing for several of the current comedians including Red Skelton. Marty could not enter the service because he had a speech defect and he always felt left out for having had to sit out the war.

Years later Marty was one of the people who helped produce the Country Music Awards show each year in Nashville, until he died of cancer. He was a kind and gentle man with great talent. We were not only related, but we were also close friends. We lived far apart after the war, but always kept in touch by telephone. We also met every year in Gatlinburg, Tennessee about a week before he went on to Nashville.

P-40 SCHOOL
On returning to the base at Moultrie I was immediately given an assignment to get a check-out in a fighter, a P-40, at Tifton Army Air Force Base in Georgia, several miles from Moultrie.

Some of my buddies and I were delivered by truck to the airbase. Almost immediately we were given lectures on the flying characteristics of the P-40. We also had available a copy of the book, “God is my Co-Pilot”, to read in the evening. As some of you know, this book is about the Flying Tigers in China, and they were flying P-40s with the shark mouth painted on the nose. I suppose the army thought that we would get a feel for the airplane if we read about it.

We were not allowed off base since this was to be an intensive training course.

The Curtiss P-40 or Warhawk was a low wing monoplane with a V12 cylinder liquid cooled engine manufactured by the Allison Co. It was a single-seater, with the pilot seated almost on the floor. The visibility forward when on the ground was very poor since it had a tail wheel instead of a nose wheel. This placed the airplane in a nose-high tail-low attitude. There was no way to see in a forward direction. It was necessary to continually S turn the aircraft when taxiing. For the sake of accuracy let me add that all of the aircraft which I had flown up to this time also had to be S turned when taxiing since they were all tail wheel aircraft. However, this one had a much longer nose since it housed that huge V12 engine. When the nose turned to the left, you could see the runway to the right, and visa versa. When ready for takeoff the nose was pointed as straight down the runway as possible and as the airplane traveled down the runway, it was aimed by watching both sides of the runway until there was enough speed for the tail to come up to give better forward visibility.

We were instructed on the flight habits of the airplane for a couple of days and then brought to the flight line for the real thing. This turned out to be quite hazardous, particularly to the airplanes. After starting out with about twelve flyable planes, in two days we were down to two of them. The rest were missing wingtips, landing gear, and other vital parts.

On the third day I was installed in the cockpit of a war weary P-40 with an instructor standing on the wing of the airplane for my first flight, reminding me that this was not like a training plane. It was much heavier on the ground and it would want to turn to the left strenuously on takeoff so I had to be ready with plenty of right rudder, etc.

He then jumped off the wing and saluted as though I were on my last day on earth. I was ready to go.

I pushed the throttle forward slowly as instructed and started down the runway. As I added power the airplane tried to turn to the left, but I kept it straight with a great deal of right rudder and as I picked up speed the tail came up giving me much more visibility forward. I had no previous idea of the large amount of force with which it was trying to turn to the left. It also seemed to take forever for the airplane to become airborne, but once it was flying it was very responsive.

Now that I was airborne I was aware that I had a tiger by the tail. When I began a turn the “G” forces dragged everything down and I became very heavy. I noticed that my goggles were moving down my nose and my jaw felt very heavy. I also noticed that my stomach felt a bit queasy.

Two things became apparent at about the same time. First, I realized that I hadn’t flown for about three weeks and second, that it was a very warm day. These two problems were adding to the initial problem of a queasy stomach. As a matter of fact I didn’t know if it was the heat or the stomach that was now causing me to sweat so profusely.

The problem became more acute with each turn that I made. Every bump became more noticeable and I was progressively becoming more and more airsick.

The flight was supposed to last for one hour, and I was now airborne for about ten minutes. I opened the canopy to try to cool down, but that didn’t help and I was becoming more panicky. I was really losing it.

Now, if you have ever been seasick or airsick you could appreciate how I felt. I could barely concentrate on flying the airplane, and I just wanted to be on the ground and lying on my back as soon as possible. I tried to fly straight and level thinking that it would help, but you guessed it, it didn’t help and I had to fly a box pattern to stay close to the field. I was getting sicker.

I kept thinking that I would never be able to land the plane in this condition and that it would be best if I bailed out and lost the airplane. At least I would be alive, and that was worth something.

I was soaking wet and my face must have been a deep shade of green, but I persevered.

The clock now had me flying for thirty-five minutes and I decided to get set up for the landing. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and eyes with my sleeve and began a pre-flight check. I lowered the landing gear and took up a heading for the home field.

I was now down to the eight hundred feet, the traffic pattern altitude, and in a position to begin my landing descent. My eyes were burning from the sweat, and I lost all power of concentration and could only think of being on the ground. I knew that I couldn’t land this demon safely on that small patch of runway which was now beginning to get closer and become more ominous minute by minute.

I was able to speak to the control tower, and that surprised me. They gave me landing instructions and told me that they would talk me in since this was my first landing, and I was grateful for that.

The sickness now was coming in waves. I had to really try to concentrate on preparing to land. I remembered that my wheels were down and that now it was time to put the flaps down and enter the final approach. I had the feeling that this would be my final approach, because even if I survived the landing I would never want to fly one of these things again.

The runway was now straight ahead and the tower was talking to me, but I wasn’t listening too well. I heard them ask me if I were okay and I answered in the affirmative, and I had the suspicion that they knew that I was lying. They now told me that I was five feet above the runway and that I should flare out and let the airplane slow down. Then they told me that I was two feet above the runway and to hold the plane steady and slow my descent. Apparently I was following the instructions and I felt a slight jar as I touched down and began rolling on the runway. In seconds I was in control again, and the agony was over. I was soaked, but the sweating had stopped, and when I finally parked the airplane and shut down the engine I was able to climb out of the cockpit and chat with my instructor about how much I enjoyed flying this plane.

When I reported to the flight line the next day, I was apprehensive, but anxious to try the airplane again. This time I did not get sick and I did enjoy a marvelous flight in this beautiful ship and never did get sick again.

I had completed about five hours in the P-40 when two newly rebuilt P-40s arrived to add to the remaining two aircraft still intact since we arrived.

I was assigned to one of the new aircraft and my instructor cautioned me to be careful to not fool around. The numbers identifying these two airplanes had not been painted on the fuselage. The only identification was the white nose cone on one of the airplanes and the red nose cone on the other airplane. If I were to be caught doing anything illegal I would certainly be court marshaled. The reason that I was assigned to this airplane was because I had made some very good landings thus far. It was great to fly this renewed airplane. Everything looked fresh from the factory. I looked forward each day to climb into my bird and take off. I tried every maneuver in the book. The airplane was solid and it felt as though I had been born in it. I was ready to stay here forever.

After two weeks we had completed the course and were returned to Moultrie for another assignment.

This time it was to Eglin Field, Florida, for air to air gunnery practice.

GUNNERY SCHOOL

The airplane that we flew for the gunnery was the AT6, Texan that we had flown in advanced flying school. However, these airplanes were each equipped with a 30-caliber machine gun that was mounted inside the engine cowling and was synchronized to fire in between the propeller blades as the propeller was rotating.

The field that we used was way out in the boondocks many miles from civilization. It was a very small field with a relatively small runway, and with no relaxation facilities. It was very quiet and lonesome. Fortunately we did a great deal of flying. After hours was for reading and writing; remember, there was no television.

Every day someone took a turn flying to the main field for the mail and newspapers. The main field was very interesting. There were all types of airplanes to be seen, including a German ME109, which type of aircraft we were possibly to face in combat in the near future.

I did have an accident!

Most of the flying was for target practice. Shooting at a moving flying target that was used to simulate an enemy airplane. The actual target was a long section of wire mesh about 4ft.x 25ft. attached to the tow plane by a long heavy steel cable. It trailed the tow plane by about 50 feet and it was kept vertical by a steel pipe with a large lead ball at the lower end of the pipe.

Since the target was moving, it was necessary to aim the bullets at a point forward of the target so that the bullet and the target would reach the same spot at the same time. This is called “lead”, as in leading the target. The smaller the angle that the target made with the flight path of the pursuing aircraft the smaller the amount of lead necessary. When directly behind the target no lead was necessary since the airplane and the target were both on the same flight path.

The procedure was for the tow plane to fly back and forth allowing the shooting plane to take shots at the target from the side at different angles. This procedure allowed us to practice judging the amount of lead that it would take from different angles in order to hit the target. Shooting from too small an angle at the rear was forbidden since this would put the tow plane in jeopardy. We all took turns flying the tow plane, and therefore there usually were no problems enforcing this rule.

Each aircraft would rendezvous with the tow plane flying above and to the right of the tow plane, going in opposite directions. The shooting plane would peal off and make a U-turn that would put it in a position behind and somewhat in the same direction as the tow plane. Because it had been above the tow plane and had to dive while turning it had more speed than the target and pulled up to it rather quickly.

This put the shooting plane in a position that would enable the pilot to get off a short burst of fire at the target and then head back up and out to begin another pattern. This was done until the ammunition was expended. There were usually four airplanes shooting at the same target. The ammunition was dipped in a different colored paint for each plane in order to identify the pilot for scoring purposes. If a bullet made a hole in the target longer than six inches, the pilot could be court martialed, since that meant that the shot was taken from too narrow an angle behind the target. When the shooting was over, the tow plane would fly over the field and drop the target where it would be picked up and the hits counted.

My first mission was an orientation flight with an instructor in the front seat flying the airplane and demonstrating how to fly the pattern and when to do the shooting. I was in the rear seat watching the show.

The instructor was speaking to me over the intercom as he was approaching the target. “Jacobs, I want you to know that my students get very good grades because I teach them to get close to the target before shooting. Watch how close I am to the target before I fire”. He kept repeating this as the target came closer and closer and grew larger and larger. Suddenly we hit the target with the right wing!

It wrapped around the right wing, breaking the steel cable and with the steel bar tearing through the leading edge of the wing. The instructor yelled at me to bail out!

As I was opening the canopy to jump, I heard him calling the tower at the field. He told them that we were bailing out, and they asked him why? He answered that he expected the wing to come off at any second. They suggested that he bring the plane back to the field. It was their opinion that if the wing hadn’t come off already, there was a good chance that it wouldn’t come off. In retrospect I later realized that their opinion was an uneducated guess.

I asked him if I could stay with the airplane and return to the field. He shrugged his shoulders. I decided that I would take my chances and risk what would happen if the wing came off, rather than bail out and land in this wilderness.

As you can tell we did reach the field intact and were able to walk away without injury. However, there were two vehicles waiting for us. An ambulance took me to the flight surgeon. When I told him I was OK, he sent me back to the operations room where I was ordered to immediately take off in another aircraft and shoot at the target. When I explained that I had not yet completed my orientation, I was told that I had all of the orientation that I needed.

The other vehicle waiting was a jeep which was used to transport the instructor back to his barracks where he was ordered to pack his belongings. He was sent to another duty post, probably flying a small artillery spotting airplane.

I did very well at the gunnery school getting good grades and I was feeling comfortable with my flying. I really felt at home in the airplane and it became routine except for the propeller incident.

One morning as I was shooting at the target, apparently the synchronization went awry and I heard a strange noise as I pulled the trigger and at once the airplane developed a vibration and a whistling sound. I assumed correctly that one of the bullets went through a propeller blade throwing it out of balance.

I returned to the field, and sure enough there was a clean hole through one blade of the prop. The mechanics drilled a hole in the opposite blade at exactly the same spot as the bullet hole had made in the other blade. They filed the hole to remove the sharp edges and balanced the propeller. The propeller blades were made of aluminum.

They explained that if this happened to this propeller a second time then they would replace the propeller. My own feeling was that if the propeller took another hit, it would probably break off. I was happy that I never did get assigned to fly one of the airplanes with a wounded prop.

It took two weeks to complete the shooting and we were brought back to Moultrie and civilization again.

FIGHTER SCHOOL

Now we were sent to fighter school; to learn to fly and shoot from a combat type fighter aircraft. This was the P-40 again, but this time it was for extensive training under all situations.

Sarasota was on the Gulf coast of Florida in a beautiful setting. It was like being on an extended vacation.

A typical day consisted of having an early breakfast at the Officer’s Club and then walking over to the flight line, changing to our flight gear, checking with our instructors, and then climbing into the cockpit of a P-40 and preparing for takeoff. The airplanes had been armed with a small practice bomb on the belly and 100 rounds of 50 caliber ammunition in each of two of the six machine guns, one in each wing. Again, the ammunition had been dipped in a different color paint for each pilot in order to identify the pilots when scoring the targets.

The guns were installed inside the wings, three in each wing next to each other, and far enough outboard in the wings so that the bullets would not hit the propeller. The guns were stationary, and the aiming was done by aiming the airplane. The trick to hitting the target was to figure out how much in front of the target to aim the airplane. This depended on the angle of the airplane to the target. The higher the angle, the greater the lead necessary to get the bullets to the target when the target arrives at that spot.

Because the guns were not in the centerline of the airplane, they had to be installed so that the bullets converged 300 yards in front of the airplane. This then put another factor into the equation. In order to hit the target with the most firepower, it would be best to be about 300 yards from the target when shooting.

We took off two at a time and joined another two to form a flight of four. We flew in echelon and first headed for a small island off the southern tip of Longboat Key and kept at a minimum altitude just above the water. This was called “skip bombing”. We aimed our bomb by sighting the engine exhaust stacks protruding from both sides of the engine. When the number two stack was lined up with the target on the island, we pressed the bomb release button on the control stick and looked back to see how close we had come to the target. I don’t ever remember scoring a hit.

We then headed up to meet the tow plane with the target. We peeled off one at a time making a fighter curve toward the target. The fighter curve was an S. The formation flew parallel to one side of the target, and about 500 feet above. The lead plane in the echelon formation peeled off turning toward the target in a vertical turn. Now, closing in on the target at about 90 degrees, the turn was reversed allowing the attacking plane to get into position to aim and fire. A one or two second burst of fire was used leading the target and then breaking off and climbing back up into formation and waiting for another turn to peel off and fire again. Since the attacking airplane was above the target and began the attack by peeling off and diving at the target, it was going faster than the target. Therefore, the target was in range for only a few seconds. It took four to six or more passes to use up the ammunition and then head back to base again in echelon.

We approached the base at minimum altitude aiming for the threshold of the runway. As the lead plane came over the threshold of the runway he peeled off in a climbing, tight turn to the left; the other three aircraft peeling off in the same manner as they each in turn came over the threshold. The tight climbing turn and chopping (closing) the throttle allowed the airplane to slow down enough so that the landing gear could be lowered, and then the flaps. The landing was made at the end of the 360-degree turn, allowing the airplane to quickly lose altitude during the second half of the turn. The first aircraft usually made the landing out of the turn in less than a minute. The loud, popping noise that the engine made when the throttle was closed quickly during this procedure caused the unknowing individual on the ground to think that the airplane was coming apart.

We also spent time going off two at a time away from the base to practice dog fighting. We would turn on our gun cameras (16mm movie cameras) and try to get into position to shoot the other plane down. When the trigger was pulled the camera turned on and recorded the attack.

One of the procedures that I enjoyed tremendously was the “rat races”. We would take off in a two ship formation with the instructor in the lead plane on your left. The instructor would climb to about three thousand feet, which was at about the level of the small cumulus clouds and the student was signaled to get in real tight to the lead plane. The instructor would begin to climb over and around the clouds, diving and wheeling about, having a ball. The student would automatically become attached to the lead plane and as the maneuvering heated up it became an exercise in tight formation flying. The concentration level increased as the turns became tighter and the diving and climbing became more intense. When I saw a smile on the instructor’s face I knew what was coming. He was going to try to lose me; and I was not about to let him!

He had the advantage of course and at first he did lose me. This he did by rolling the elevator trim tab forward, holding back on the stick and then when climbing over one of the small clouds he would release the back pressure and push forward on the stick and disappear into the cloud. The reason that I couldn’t stay with him was that if I tried to push the stick forward quickly in order to keep in formation, the airplane would pitch forward forcibly pushing me upward. Instead of pushing forward on the stick, I was using it to hold onto in order to keep myself down in the seat. So after doing this a couple of times I figured out what he was doing and I did the same thing. I stuck to him like glue and I had a ball.

This type of flying made me feel that I was part of the airplane. It was intense, never boring and, I was getting paid while I was enjoying myself.

Whenever I began to feel satisfied with myself, I managed to overcome that feeling by doing something stupid. One morning as I was taxiing to the active runway for takeoff, the engine misfired and quit. When I tried to start it again I found that the battery was too weak to turn the starter, but there was enough power left for me to call the tower. They told me to stay in the airplane and that they would send out a portable generator.

Sure enough a few minutes later a tractor drove up towing a large portable electric generator. They plugged it into the outlet in the side of the plane behind the pilot’s seat. I then restarted the engine and since I was late to rendezvous with the other airplanes, I immediately began to resume taxiing to the runway. I happened to glance back and saw that I was still connected to the generator. The mechanics were screaming at me to stop, which I immediately did. They disconnected the generator and I was able to take off. I was happy that I didn’t hear what they were screaming at me.

We also practiced dive bombing. There was a very small island in Sarasota Bay that we used as a target.

The procedure was for two aircraft to fly in formation with a bomb on their bellies to about four thousand feet above the island. The first aircraft would peel off and enter a vertical dive toward the island and release the bomb and pull out of the dive at the same time. Again I don’t think that any of us ever hit the island with the bomb. However, one morning one of my close friends did hit the island with his airplane. His name was Jackson and his fifteen year old brother had come to visit him the day before. He slept in our barracks and as I remember shared my room for the night.

We went to breakfast that morning at the officer’s club and spent some time showing Jackson’s brother around the flight line. The young boy was thrilled to be that close to a fighter aircraft and we enjoyed watching him.

Jackson and I took off on this mission leaving his brother in the operations office. Jackson peeled off first and went into his dive while I circled looking down at him so that I could begin my dive as soon as he pulled up.

He never did pull out of the dive and hit just off the island in a tremendous splash.

I immediately called the field and headed home with my bomb still attached. I landed and as I taxied in the squadron commander came out to meet me. He wanted a full briefing about what had happened. He also wanted me to tell Jackson’s brother about the accident. This I refused to do explaining that I was in no condition to carry it off.

We never found out exactly what happened, but a very good estimate was that the canopy probably had an air leak, and that the speed built up in the dive had caused the canopy to impinge on the pilot so that he could not move the controls.

There were other mishaps, but not fatal ones.

I spent a great deal of my time at the threshold end of the main runway, watching the landings. I felt that I could learn by watching the mistakes that some of the other pilots were making.

One morning after I had flown a mission I went out to my usual spot to watch and I witnessed one of the accidents. The pilot was too high when he broke his glide and leveled out about twenty feet above the ground. Instead of adding throttle to keep the aircraft from stalling too high and dropping in, he froze on the controls and the airplane did stall and dropped in like a rock. Fortunately the airplane was in a landing attitude and hit the ground that way. It hit so hard that the landing gear struts were pushed up through the top of the wings and one of the wheels tore loose and was pushed down the runway by the wing. It rolled for awhile and then fell over. There was a great deal of noise and sparks were flying from under the airplane until it scraped to a stop. The pilot was in shock and he quickly jumped out of the cockpit, jumped off the wing, ran down the runway, picked up the wheel and carried it back to the airplane in both of his arms. He then realized what had happened and he sat down and cried.

It was about this time that I fell in love! It certainly was not love at first sight; it was a slow process. It was not a sweet young thing, and it was not a sexy, slinky female. It was a P-40! I loved that airplane, and I know that I was not alone. It took awhile to learn to handle this one, but once that happened, the love set in.

I believe that any pilot who learned how to fly this airplane properly felt the same way. I was surprised that I liked the P-40 better than the P-51, which had a much better reputation, but I found out later that many pilots felt the same way that I did. I was having breakfast one morning a few years ago with one of the pilots from the old fighter group at a reunion when he shyly said to me that he wished that he had a P-40 in combat instead of the Mustang. When I told him that I had felt the same way he smiled and said that this was the first time that he had admitted this to someone and he was happy that I had agreed with him.

Certainly the P-51 was faster, had much better range, could climb to a higher altitude, and looked more glamorous, but that P-40 really got to you. It became a part of you.

Now that I have that off my chest I can continue with my story.

One of the high points of the fighter school was the minimum altitude(low level) cross country that we would be scheduled for before we left Sarasota. This was sort of a graduation present from the army and we all looked forward to it.

Low level flying, otherwise known as “buzzing” was forbidden and could result in a court martial. The only low level flying that was sanctioned during training was flying a mission that called for it; such as during strafing practice. Of course, in actual combat no holds were barred.

This mission was for about an hour, and it called for minimum altitude for the entire mission. There were four of us in the flight in tight formation, with an instructor in the lead ship. It was necessary to lift a wing to keep from hitting a tree, or any other obstacle. The ground slid by showing us how fast we were traveling. This was about the last adventure that we had at Sarasota. We would soon be on our way to combat.

While in Sarasota I met a very fine girl, Ann Glover, and we saw each other almost every evening after duty hours. We would go to the Lido Beach for a swim and then eat a picnic dinner at the beach. It was a wonderful relationship and I sort of intimated that when I completed my combat missions I would return to Sarasota. A few months before I met Ann her brother was killed during pilot training and when I climbed aboard the bus to leave after the training was complete, she broke down completely. Ann had taken the day from work to see us off. It was a sad time and although I kept reassuring her that I would make it back she couldn’t control her sobbing, and that was the last vision that I had of her.

The evening before we left Sarasota my friends Matt, Ozzie, Willie, and I went into a bar so that they could get a drink. I had a beer, and we left the bar to have a last look at Sarasota. Willie still had his cocktail glass in his hand, and when he finished his drink, he threw the glass over his shoulder and it landed in the street. A policeman was watching us and he immediately arrested Willie. We all went along to the police station with him and we spent an hour persuading the magistrate to free Willie. We explained to the magistrate that this was our last evening in Sarasota and that we were leaving for overseas the next day. Finally the magistrate gave in and we took Willie back to camp.

Sometime during this training period I met Ann Glover.

We were at the Lido Beach with mutual friends having a beach party. We were all swimming, eating hot dogs, and drinking beer. When the party was over we were able to get rides back to the mainland. I was placed in the rear seat of some ones auto and Ann, whom I had just met, was placed on my lap in order to save space.

On the way back to the base we sort of got very friendly and when I got out of the car I said goodbye to Ann and she turned to me and planted a kiss directly on my lips. I had never been kissed this way and when I returned the kiss I discovered that we both had enjoyed the kiss and the embrace. This started a friendship that lasted until I was shipped to the next base, which was for more training in survival.

Ann was a wonderful individual and we had great times together. Almost every evening I would take the bus to her home and we would walk together and talk about our families. Ann’s dad worked as a pharmacist next to the railroad station. Her mother was a wonderful housekeeper and a wonderful mother.

Ann’s older brother had been an aviation cadet at the beginning of the war an was killed during a training flight. Ann also had a black Cocker Spaniel named Chandell.

After our walk we would usually sit on her front porch and continue with our kissing I quite sure that we fell in love with each other. I would take the bus back to the base with a lonesome feeling. On the last day of my training Ann took off from work and borrowed her dad’s car and came to the field to see me off. I told her that I would be very careful and that when the war was over I would come back to Sarasota and we would be married.

I climbed aboard the bus and had a seat at the window overlooking her auto. She was crying and that was the last that I saw of her as the bus was pulling away.

I did write to her for awhile until I went into combat.

OVERSEAS

Now it was getting close.  We were shipped to Tallahassee, Florida for more training in survival and more ground school.  Another two weeks went by and I was ready for combat.  I was anxious to test the training and get to wherever the combat was and do my thing to end the war.  We had no idea which theater of operations we would be sent to.  One thing for sure, we would be shooting at the Japanese or the Germans.  In retrospect, I am embarrassed realizing  now how naive and immature I was.  I had no idea of what war was all about.  Until now the only fatalities were due to accidents.  No one was shooting at us, except with gun cameras.  I felt invincible.  How young and how foolish.

From Tallahassee we were shipped north to Camp Miles Standish in Massachusetts, and from there to a port where we boarded a ship and were soon out in the Atlantic dodging submarines, apparently heading for England.  The voyage took seven days, which was longer than usual because the ship had to zigzag every seven minutes.  They figured that it took about eight or nine minutes for a submarine to get into position to fire a torpedo at us.

Once on board the ship we were assigned to staterooms which were large, but we shared them with about five other pilots.  We were assigned a table in the main dining salon with four of us at a table.  Each table had a waiter and a busboy.  The food was delicious and we sort of felt that they were fattening us up for the slaughter.  The trip was as though we were on a cruise with the thrill of getting to see England and whatever adventure that would bring.  The weather wasn’t too great and so I spent a good part of the trip reading.

We sailed past Ireland and into the port of Liverpool.  We left the ship dressed in field clothes so that any spies at the port would think that we were in the infantry.  There were fifty of us and I don’t think that we fooled anyone.

Oh yes!  While on board the ship we were given our 201 files.  These contained all of the information about what we had done up until then.  It contained all of our grades and evaluations.  I was surprised to find that only one other pilot and I had received  “superior” efficiency ratings.  All of the others had received “excellent”.

From Liverpool we were transported to a pilot pool in the center of England.  We remained here for a few days and were then sent to Grimsby, a small town in northern England on the Humber River.  Here we were to be checked out in a combat airplane.  When the  truck transporting me arrived at the base I could see only two types of aircraft on the apron, P38’s and P51’s.  I wondered to which one I would be assigned.  Since I was trained as a single engine pilot I assumed that it would be the P51, and I was correct.

Again we began ground school to learn about the idiosyncrasies of the P‑51 Mustang.  There were some very old Mustangs on the field, and these were used for the checkouts.  Again there were no two-seaters, so the checkouts were on the ground first, and from the beginning I was alone in the aircraft for my first flight.  I was worried about getting airsick again after not flying for about a month, and I started to make some very shallow turns, and flew around for a while just getting acclimated.  I did not get sick and that was a huge step forward for me.  After two weeks of flying around in the Mustang I felt comfortable in it.

The only days that we didn’t fly was when the weather was crummy, and even the birds wouldn’t fly.  We waited around the operations room waiting for a break in the weather.  On one of these days we were asked to censor the enlisted men’s outgoing mail.  They piled a huge stack of mail on a round table and we began reading and then sending off these letters.  I decided to do some mischief and when no one was paying attention I wrote a letter that I knew would cause a problem.  I threw the letter into the pile and waited for someone to read it.  Sure enough one of the pilots picked it up and began to read it.  Suddenly he let out a yell as though he had caught a bank robber and began waving the letter in the air and screaming that he had caught a bad one.  Everyone stopped reading and looked over at him.  They all were wondering what to do when I reached over, grabbed the letter and began to tear it up.  They were all yelling at me that it was illegal for me to destroy evidence and to tamper with private mail.  I continued to tear up the letter when the Colonel walked in to see what the commotion was all about.  He looked over at me and joined in with the fun.  He looked at me sternly and said that I would be up for a court martial for destroying the letter.  When the fun was over the sun came out and we were able to continue flying and leave the censoring to someone else.

One rainy day we were sent across the Humber River to the city of Hull.  Here there was a huge Olympic sized swimming pool where we had to practice jumping into the water from a high board with a full pack on our backs and swim to the side of the pool.  It was cold outside, but it felt good to be swimming around with our clothes on.  That was about the only change that we had from our daily flying schedule, except for the accidents.

We were on a four ship, minimum altitude practice mission, when my friend Willie who was flying at one end of the formation was so low that about a bushel of wheat from a field that we were flying over was caught in the air scoop that all Mustangs have on their belly.  The wheat blocked the coolant radiator and his engine overheated and quit.  He was too low to bail out and he tried to belly it in and ran into a hill.  The airplane exploded and burned.  We flew over the scene several times trying to see if there was a chance that the pilot was alive.  It looked impossible for anyone to have survived the crash and so we flew back to base and reported the accident.  I was very sad to have witnessed the terrible mishap and I couldn’t eat dinner that evening.

The following afternoon when we were all brooding about the event Willie walked in with his clothes all torn up, with no shoes, and with most of his body blackened from the fire.  He was only superficially hurt and really in a very happy mood for having survived the crash.

It seems that when he hit the ground the seat parted company with the airplane, and he found himself sliding along the ground on the seat.  His shoes came off as he was trying to stop the sliding.  All that was lost was an old $58’000 Mustang, a flying suit, and a pair of shoes, and oh yes, some skin.

We all celebrated that evening.  However, my friend almost lost his young life about a month later while he was doing a prohibited maneuver in a Mustang.  He was doing a slow roll when the tail of his plane came off and he went into a flat spin and apparently had to bail out.  Some time later while in a dog fight with a Jerry,  He shot the German down and lost his life doing it.

These early Mustangs had a weak tail and if a slow roll (an acrobatic maneuver where the airplane is made to roll around a point) was performed, the tail could, and in this case did come off, leaving the airplane spinning around with no way to control it. This defect in the airframe was in the process of being corrected when this accident happened.  A dorsal fin was added to the tail to strengthen it, and all of the Mustang’s were being retrofitted.

The hours that we spent getting acclimated to the mustang were used to practice tight vertical turns, high speed stalls, and other maneuvers that we would be using in combat.  We were also encouraged to dog fight with any friendly fighter that we came across.

I was out practicing late one afternoon when I noticed a Spitfire just below me and I decided to jump it.  The pilot saw me on his tail and began evasive maneuvers.  I knew that the Spitfire had a reputation for being extremely maneuverable, but I decided to hang on for as long as possible.  He went into a dive, followed by a vertical turn coming out of the dive.  I was still in there on his tail, pulling streamers from my wing tips, and having a ball.  We were fairly close to the ground when he again went into a vertical dive.  But this time I decided that we were under the critical altitude for this maneuver and I gave up the chase, satisfied that I had the opportunity to engage a Spitfire and that I could at least keep up with it in a tight turn.  Of course it helped to not have but a but a relatively small amount of fuel on board.

One afternoon I was practicing dog fighting with one of the other pilots in our group and when we came in for our approach to land he called me on the radio and asked me if I were married.  When I told him that I wasn’t, he told me to remind him to talk to me about a  situation when we landed.

After we landed, he came over to me and told me that he had been to town a couple of nights before, and that he had met a very attractive girl.  They were going to spend the night together, but decided to go to a pub for a couple of drinks in order to wait for her sister to go to bed before returning and going to her room.  However, they had too much to drink and when they finally went to her room they both passed out and he had to leave early to return to the base on time.  They decided to take a rain check and do their thing a couple of nights later, which was to be this evening.

He told me that he was married and decided that he had changed his mind and would not keep the date.  He did not want to disappoint the girl and asked me if I would take his place.  I had not left the base since we arrived and I felt that this might be a good adventure.  I also realized that the girl would probably not go along with these arrangements, but what did I have to lose?  I decided to go, but also felt that I had the option of backing out at the last minute if the girl was not to my liking.

I arrived at the address that he had given me and found that I was in a very nice part of Grimsby.  I rang the door bell and a very lovely girl with beautiful skin came to the door.  She was the girl that my friend had the date with and I told her that he couldn’t keep the date and that he had sent me in his place.  She first looked me up and down, and then asked if I knew what their plans were, and when I answered affirmatively she asked me in and introduced me to her sister, who was equally attractive.  We sat for awhile and when her sister left the room she told me that we had better go to the pub and wait for her sister to go to bed before returning, but that I must not allow her to drink more than one beer and that she would make me do the same.

We went to the pub and became better acquainted.  After about twenty minutes she said that she was getting turned on and that we should go back to her home and take the chance that her sister was asleep early.  We went back to the house, took off our shoes and went to her room.  A series of events began that lasted from about ten P.M. until about two A.M. when I decided that I had better get back to the base since I was scheduled to fly the next day.  She begged me to stay until morning, but for health reasons I decided to leave at once.  As I was walking through the hall a door opened and her sister asked me to come into her room.  I told her that I would be right back and I went downstairs, put my shoes on and raced out into the night.  I wonder if I have any relatives in Grimsby.

I was able to get back to the base and as quickly as possible got into bed and almost immediately fell asleep.  I could not get up in the morning and I decided to report to sick call.  I did not fly that day, which was lucky for those who were to fly with me, and for all of the people on the ground.

PART TWO

COMBAT

Six of us left Grimsby together.  We were transported to Leiston, a small town on the east coast of England in an area called East Anglia.  This was an Eighth Air Force combat fighter base.  This finally was where we were to put into practice what we had been taught all of these past months.  This was where we would live or die.  It was an eerie feeling looking at the aircraft and the men who probably that very day had been over enemy territory getting shot at.  This was where the fun stopped and the deadly business of combat was carried out.  I felt in awe of these brave men who had already been exposed to all of the dangers of aerial combat.  These men were survivors and I was anxious to become one of them.  I was ready for the initiation so that I could become part of this way of life.

There were three squadrons of Mustangs at this base.  The three squadrons made up a group.  Each squadron was made up of four flights of four aircraft.  Each flight was made up of two elements, each element was composed of two aircraft.

Two of us were dropped off at each squadron.  My squadron was the 364th.  My buddy, Matthew Martin was assigned to the 362nd squadron.  This was the same squadron that Chuck Yeager was in.  My friend Ozzie Howes was also assigned to the 364th squadron with me.  We could not become roommates since we were assigned beds in huts where pilots had not returned from a mission, and there were no two beds together.

It was close to dinner time and I was brought to the mess hall for food and then to a Nisson Hut for my quarters.

There were eight men in my hut, four pilots and four ground officers.  The four ground officers were the squadron radio officer, the squadron engineering officer, the squadron flight surgeon, and the squadron cryptography officer.

One of the pilots in the hut was my flight leader.  He was about five years older than I was, and he was asleep when I was introduced to him.  Apparently he spent much time in bed and I later found out why.  I was summoned to the squadron commander’s office to be introduced and for him to give me a schedule for a training flight for the next day.  They were wasting no time!

We were awakened early the next morning and assembled in the mess hall for breakfast.  After breakfast we went to the briefing room and although I was not to fly a combat mission that day I witnessed my first briefing.  It was a tense moment until the curtain was pulled back revealing the route of the mission.  It apparently was an easy mission (milk run) and immediately everyone was in a good mood.  When the pilots left the room and were driven to the flight line I remained behind and one of the senior pilots sat down with me and informally chatted with me about combat flying to which I would be exposed the next day.  We then drove to the flight line and watched the group taxi out to the runway and take off, two at a time.

The takeoff was spectacular!  As the two aircraft picked up speed and the engines came to higher power, the sound made my spine tingle.  It was a low pitched growl that became more distinctive as they picked up speed.  I will always remember the sound of those Rolls Royce Merlin engines, and I believe that anyone who has ever heard one has had the same feelings.

The two aircraft would circle and pick up two more aircraft and so on until the entire group was assembled.  They would then head out over the channel and into combat.

After we watched the takeoff, we each then climbed into an airplane and taxied out together in formation, took off and did some air work.  He had me fly very close formation doing some tight turns and then some dog fighting.  We landed, he shook my hand and announced that I was now a certified combat pilot and that I was to report to the flight line after briefing the next day.  He also introduced me to the ready room sergeant who assigned a locker to me and gave me a nylon scarf.  When he saw how puzzled I was about the scarf, he laughed and told me to wait until tomorrow and I would know why he issued it to me.

The next day I saw my name on the flight schedule.  I would be on a combat mission to France.  It was about a two‑hour mission to escort some medium bombers someplace south of Paris.  It was a beautiful day and I was ready.  My code name was Greenhouse Red four.  Greenhouse was the name for the squadron, Red was the name for the flight, and Four was my position in the flight.

I neglected to wear the nylon scarf, feeling that since I was a novice I should not do anything as flamboyant as wearing a white scarf on my first mission.  When we arrived over enemy territory I became very tense and kept my eyes peeled searching for enemy aircraft.  My head spun around from one side to the other continuously.  Every spec in the sky was suspect!  I would not even use my tinted goggles for fear of missing something.

When we arrived safely back in England, I became more relaxed and sat down to eat some lunch.  I noticed that the skin around my neck was sore.  It was from looking around so much that the skin was raw.  I decided that from now on this almost experienced combat pilot would wear a nylon scarf on every mission.

When I saw the equipment sergeant the next day, I made it a point to go over to him to thank him for the scarf.

I also found out why the cryptography officer in our hut spent so much time in bed.  It seems that this airbase did not have a cryptography setup, and the commanding officer didn’t know that we had a cryptography officer on the base.  Therefore my roommate made himself scarce during the day and spent most of the night with his girlfriend in Leiston.

I was told that when the Group first came to England and arrived at this base that all of the pilots were issued jeeps.  However, since there was such a high accident rate, all of the jeeps were replaced with bicycles.  It was necessary to have transportation because the barracks and the mess hall were somewhat removed from the flight line.  Also, the English drove on the wrong side of the road [although the English would never accept this] and that was the reason for so many accidents.

Eventually the bicycles were taken away for the same reason that the jeeps were removed.  It was then necessary to call the motor pool for transportation.  However, we were allowed to purchase bicycles.  I decided to do this, and found that it was necessary to travel to the next town, Saxmunden, in order to find a bicycle shop.

Saxmunden was a larger town and I could easily get a ride there in one of the trucks that was used as a bus to shuttle off duty ground crew back and forth.  On one of the days that I was not scheduled to fly I did go into Saxmunden and found a used bicycle which I purchased for a few pounds.

I was riding from the shop when I noticed a very attractive female window shopping.  I stopped and asked her for instructions to where the bus was supposed to pick me up that evening.  She began to give me instructions when I stopped her and asked if she would like to have a beer with me in the pub just down the street where she could better give me the instructions.

As we sipped our beers, she told me that she was a school teacher and that at present she was staying with her sister until she could get her own flat.  Her sister lived about three miles from where we were, so I asked if she would accept a ride on my bicycle to her sister’s place.  She accepted the invitation, and so after we finished our beers, we left the pub, pointed the bicycle in the correct  direction, and climbed aboard. I sat her on the frame and away we went.  The route took us up a long hill lined on both sides by two and three story attached houses.

In order to climb the hill I had to stand up to pedal.  This brought me in contact with my passenger, and the pedaling motion apparently was enough to make us both feel very stimulated.  When we reached the summit she suggested that perhaps I should rest for awhile since I was breathing so heavily.  I explained that it wasn’t the pedaling that made me breath so hard.  She looked at me and without a word slid off the bicycle and sat down on the grass of a triangular island that was used to mark a fork in the road.  I parked the bicycle and sat down next to her.

We both stretched out on the grass, looking around to see if there were any witnesses.  Finding none, we began to touch each other and then to touch our lips, and ended up doing what apparently we both wanted to do.  I was amazed that no one interrupted us, which would have probably led to our arrest since we had to remove enough of our clothes to be able to do what we were doing.

Afterwards we dressed and continued on our way.  When we were close to her sister’s apartment she thought it appropriate to disembark and continue alone.  I was in a trance and watched her walk down the street, turn a corner and disappear before I realized that I had not found out her name nor how to contact her.

I looked, but could not find where she had vanished, so I could not continue what could have been a very interesting friendship.

I wonder if I have any relatives in Saxmunden.

P-51 MUSTANG
During our training back in the states we all fell in love with whatever airplane we were flying, but the airplane that was the ultimate and was almost like a pin-up girl was the P-51 Mustang. Whenever one of them landed at a field out of which we were flying, a group of us would surround the airplane and wish that we could climb in and take it for a ride.

When we were checked out in the airplane at Grimsby we were using the old B or C model, but that made no difference, it was still the best airplane in the world as far as we were concerned.

After we arrived at Leiston for combat, there were three models on the flight line. Most were B or C models, but there were also a few D models. The big difference was the canopy. The D had the teardrop canopy which improved visibility tremendously, particularly on the ground. Of course the instrument panel and the controls and everything else in the cockpit in the D model looked new and worked. The guns were the same. There were six 50 caliber machine guns, three in each wing. The engines and props were the same, and the speed apparently was the same, but the improved visibility was great!

Now I was a replacement pilot, which meant that I was not assigned to one airplane. I would be scheduled to fly any of the airplanes whose pilot was either sick or on leave, and it made no difference to me which model I flew. As far as I was concerned they were all great. When I was assigned to fly a D model, it was like borrowing someone’s Cadillac.

My first flight in a D model came a couple of weeks after I arrived at the base. Some brand new Mustangs were assigned to our squadron and it was necessary for six pilots to be ferried to the field where they were located, and fly them back to our base. Fortunately I was one of the pilots selected. We were ferried over in a B-17 bomber one evening and each of us climbed into one of the Mustangs.

It was a short flight back to the base, but I enjoyed every minute of it. The visibility from the cockpit was great, and taxiing was so much easier with the increased visibility. What a pleasure!

Some of the older models were equipped with a bubble canopy. An Englishman named Malcolm developed a canopy that looked like a bubble and was fitted to some of the old models after the original fold-over canopies were removed. The bubble canopy was an improvement, but not nearly as good as the D model tear-drop canopy.

The landings were done in the same manner as when we were at Grimsby, but naturally much crisper and with much more finesse. Since we were flying in much larger formations, it was important to get on the ground quickly to give the others room to land, particularly when we were all returning short on fuel.

In order to do this the landings were not only made as quickly as possible, but also when we touched down we kept the tail and our speed up until we reached a spot on the runway where a red flag was posted. At this point we cut the power, let the tail wheel drop and turned off at the next intersection. The first airplane in the flight touched down on the left side of the runway, the next one touched down on the right side, the third one on the left side again, and the fourth one on the right. There would be four airplanes on the runway at once, and using the method mentioned above they were off the runway as quickly as possible so that the next flight could land.

The ground crew would be waiting and watching along the sides of the runway to see if the guns had been fired on their airplane. They could tell if they were fired by looking at the leading edge of the wings where the gun barrels were located, and if the covers were missing, they knew that the guns had been used. Now they were anxious to hear the story of what had happened. On occasion they were disappointed to find that the guns had been fired just to make sure that they were working, or that they had been fired in order to loosen up a stuck wing tank that wouldn’t jettison.

Usually there was a jeep waiting to pick up the pilot and bring him to the operations room so that he could be debriefed and made comfortable. There was always a two ounce shot of whiskey if the pilot wanted it. After the debriefing I almost always went back to my hut and went to sleep. The reason for this was to get rid of the ringing in my ears from the continuous loud noise that the engine made.

Once in a while the air raid siren would wail and an announcement over the loud speaker informed us what the condition was. Purple meant that there was a buzz bomb or an enemy aircraft in the area. Condition red meant that it was directly over us and it was recommended that we go to a bomb shelter, which none of the pilots would do. If it was a buzz bomb, which it usually was, then we would listen to the engine, and when it would become silent we knew that it was on its way down. That was the time to get worried. When it hit the ground and exploded, we could tell approximately how far it was from us. Luckily, we were never hit by one.

At one time before I arrived at the base, it was attacked by a German fighter and the field was strafed.

ROLLS ROYCE MERLIN ENGINE

The heart or the Mustang of course was the engine. The very early models came with an Allison V12 liquid cooled engine which was okay for low altitude work, but was not very good for high altitude escort work, since it had only a single stage supercharger.

The B, C, and D models came with a Rolls Royce Merlin engine which was also a V-12 liquid cooled engine with a two stage super charger. The first stage was for low altitude work up to nineteen thousand feet, when the supercharger automatically shifted to the second stage for high altitude work. There was a manual override switch to prevent shifting into high stage. This would prevent the shifting back and forth between the first and second stages if the aircraft was being maneuvered at the nineteen thousand foot level with small changes in altitude.

The engine had to be sturdy enough to withstand the high manifold pressures of the supercharger without coming apart. The engine itself was dependable and powerful. If there were engine failures it was usually not due to the engine, but to one of the systems that controlled the various situations that the engine was put through. One of the most common failures was the automatic control for the radiator opening and closing.

This control was to keep the engine operating at the best temperature. It controlled the opening to the radiator by energizing a small electric motor that turned a screw jack. At high altitude the oil or grease on the screw jack would solidify due to the extreme cold at high altitude, since the screw jack was outside of the aircraft. If it locked in the wrong position, then the engine would overheat and lock up.

In later years when these Mustangs were used for racing, the engine was usually run at much higher power settings then what we had used; even with the “war boost” that could increase the manifold pressure up to 85″. Since we were usually over enemy territory the “war boost” was rarely used, since there was a greater chance of over boosting the engine and losing all power. That can be a rather bad situation in a single engine aircraft behind enemy lines. It could spoil your whole day.

Of course the Merlin engine was developed by the British for use in some of their aircraft, such as the Mosquito light bomber, the Spitfire, the Hurricane fighter, the Lancaster bomber, and others. The American Packard Automobile Company was licensed by the British to manufacture this wonderful engine for use in the P-51. Probably all of the Mustangs had the Packard Merlin Engine except the early models which had the Allison Engine.

These Merlin Engines were designated V1650-7. They had 1490 H.P., had double overhead camshafts, with 4 valves in each of the twelve cylinders.

There were over 150,000 Merlin Engines built during the war. In the postwar days it was cheaper to buy a surplus Merlin Engine than to do a major repair on one.

G-SUIT

“G” stands for gravity. 1 G is the force of gravity that we all feel when we are on the ground either sitting, standing, or falling. This is the force which keeps all of us and our belongings on the ground.

In an airplane we can change the quantity of the G forces by centripetal action. That is, we can make the airplane turn at various rates causing centrifugal forces to increase or decrease simulating the natural G forces that we feel on earth, but having the ability to vary the intensity. This can also be done when pulling out of a dive or doing a loop. If the loop is done inverted, then we induce negative G forces, which can make us weightless or increase the forces toward our brain. This is called red-out and can cause a blood vessel in the brain to rupture leading to a stroke which can be fatal, particularly if there is only one pilot in the aircraft.

This is the same concept that we use in centrifuges. It also is what makes our autos skid outward in a sharp turn.

A pilot making a turn in an airplane feels the increased G forces depending on the intensity of the turn. The more speed and the tighter the turn, then the more positive forces are felt. The forces are measured in multiples of one. At about 4 Gs the pilot begins to black out. This is caused by the blood being pulled away from the brain and into the abdomen and legs. Actually the blood is caused to become heavier, and since it is liquid it ends up in the legs and cannot flow toward the heart and be pumped to the brain.

Blackout is exactly what the pilot experiences. The pilot can hear, feel, and think, but cannot see. If the positive G forces keep increasing past this point, then loss of all of the other sensations can occur. This loss of consciousness can progress to death if the positive G force is intensive enough, and the duration is long enough. When the pilot experiences the blackout he will release some of the pressure of the turn allowing him to see again. In a tight turn, particularly in a combat situation, it was common to stay on the verge of the blackout, in an almost gray area to accomplish a tighter turn than the enemy.

The aircraft during the WWII period could not withstand G forces past the 9 G point, when wings, tail components, or other parts would separate and the aircraft would disintegrate. This saved the pilots from reaching the fatal amount of positive G force. However, there was a point past the 4 G mark where a pilot would want to go in order to out-turn an enemy aircraft in order to shoot it down. This brought on an invention called the “G-suit”.

The first G-suits were really a pair of pants covering the legs all the way to just above the waist. There were rubber tubes or bladders circling the inside of the pants. The outer covering was nylon with enough strength to contain the tubes when the pressure inside the tubes was raised. Water was used inside the tubes and one end of the tube was attached to a variable pressure source. As the G forces increased, the pressure was raised. This increased the pressure around the lower part of the body, which prevented the blood from being forced from the brain down to the lower body.

Later models of the G-suit used air pressure instead of water pressure. These were lighter and were really the first ones that were acceptable to the pilots. These suits enabled the pilots to reach about 9 Gs before blackout occurred. This was the type of G-suit that I was issued and flew with on most of my missions.

At first it was strange having something grab your legs and squeeze, and tighten more as the G forces increased, but it was not an uncomfortable feeling.

The only problem was that in order to empty your bladder it was necessary to go all through those layers of clothes to reach the necessary equipment to do it. There was a funnel under the seat attached to a tube leading out of the airplane. The funnel could be detached from the seat for the pilot to empty his bladder. I never was able to complete the process, and I always had to wait until we returned from the mission.

FORMATION FLYING
Most of the flying was done in formation. There were several types of formation; close, echelon, spread, etc.

We would take off two at a time in close formation and join up with another two to form a flight of four. This was done by the first two making a climbing turn and the second two doing the same thing, but making the turn a little tighter to catch up.

The four would then join another four and so on until a sixteen-aircraft squadron was formed. Three squadrons made up a group, and this is how we went into the war zone. Once over enemy territory we stretched out and flew a loose formation covering a large piece of sky.

This loose formation was relatively more difficult to fly since it was difficult to judge distances. When the lead plane made a turn the airplanes on the outer stretches of the formation had to either slow down to almost a stall if they were on the inside of the turn or use much power to keep abreast if they were on the outside circumference of the turn. If the turn was a tight one, then we did a cross-over, or a cross-under. With this maneuver the inboard aircraft would slide under the formation and end up on the opposite side while the outboard aircraft would slide over and end up on the contra-lateral side. It was necessary to pay attention at all times during this procedure to prevent a midair collision, which could spoil your entire day.

The only time to leave the formation was when enemy aircraft were in sight and we would engage them. We would still try to maintain a four-ship formation until the last minute. When this was no longer possible, then, if possible at least two aircraft stayed together to protect each other. Again, this broke up if two or more enemy planes were engaged.

Coming home we would break up into the four ship flights and form an echelon formation as we approached the runway. The four aircraft would peel off in turn and do a 360 degree approach as described elsewhere.

The most fun was flying a two-ship formation. The lead ship could do anything and the second ship would stick to him like glue. In a tight turn the second pilot would be looking up at the belly of the other airplane and if the turn was reversed the position wouldn’t change. It became automatic to fly this way, but it took some training to become proficient.

The pilot of the number two aircraft in the squadron formation had his radio switched to the bomber channel in order to keep in touch with the bomber formation. The procedure was to contact the bombers when we approached their formation and identified the proper box group that we were to escort to the target.

The pilot of the number two fighter would initiate the contact by calling the bombers with the following message: “Hello big friend this is little friend, are you on time, on course, and happy?” The bomber group would answer: “Hello little friend, this is big friend. We are on time, on course, but we ain’t happy.”

Occasionally the number two would be ordered to leave the formation and get closer to the bombers in order to better identify the box that we were to escort. That would cause the bombers to open fire at the number two fighter mistaking the mustang for a German fighter.

OXYGEN=LIFE

Oxygen is required for human life to be sustained. At sea level the air that we breathe contains a sufficient percentage of oxygen. This percentage is approximately 20%. As the altitude increases, the air becomes thinner and the atmospheric pressure decreases so that not only is the amount of oxygen decreased, but the pressure that is necessary to push the oxygen into the blood stream also decreases.

At an altitude of 12,000 ft. it is necessary to use supplemental oxygen in order to maintain normal brain function. As the altitude increases, the oxygen supplement must also be increased. When the altitude reaches beyond 40,000 ft. even with 100% oxygen, the pressure of the atmosphere is insufficient to push the oxygen into the blood stream, and brain function cannot be maintained. If this condition persists, permanent brain damage may occur, and death will occur. At higher altitudes this threat becomes more of a certainty.

I was on my first combat mission over the European continent. We were over occupied France at 25,000 feet, about an hour into the mission when I noticed that my oxygen regulator was stuck in the open position and my oxygen had completely run out.

I called the squadron leader and told him about the problem. He told me to continue in formation until I began to see black spots in front of me, and at that point I was to descend quickly and head back to England.

The mission continued for another hour, and although I noticed an increase in my rate of breathing, I did not see any black spots, and so I continued on with the mission until it was completed and we returned together to England.

The reason that I was not sent back earlier was because there was great danger in traveling over enemy territory alone.

When we landed my aircraft was examined and I truly was totally out of oxygen.

I believe that my brain never did recover completely and that is the reason that I cannot remember names or shopping lists.

ANOTHER CLOSE ONE

The Mustang was designed with an internal fuel tank in each wing. These tanks held 90 gallons each. There was a gauge for each of these tanks in the cockpit. There was also an 85-gallon tank behind the pilot in the fuselage, with no gauge*.

To further increase the range, a 105-gallon tank was slung beneath each wing where ordinarily a 500-pound bomb could be carried. These tanks were constructed of either metal or pressed cardboard. They were released by pressing the bomb release button with the thumb. They also had no gauges. To better understand the size of these external tanks it must be remembered that the average home hot water heating tank is only 30 gallons. Also, a gallon of fuel weighs about 6 pounds, and therefore these external tanks with fuel weighed over 600 pounds each.

The weight of all this fuel along with the guns and ammunition was enough to cause a static charge of electricity to build up during takeoff power settings and travel from the propeller to the runway as the airplane raced down the runway during takeoff.

On a bright, sunny day we were leaving on a mission to Germany when I almost bought** it before becoming airborne. I was on the right wing of the element leader when we started down the runway picking up speed for takeoff. We had almost reached takeoff speed at over 100 MPH when suddenly the right wing tank dropped from the element leader’s wing and rolled directly across the path of my aircraft, spewing fuel as it rolled. It must have passed between my wheels without touching my airplane.

The interesting thing was that I had no time to become frightened and was only interested in contacting the element leader by radio to let him know what had happened before he left the ground, so that he would expect the airplane to handle differently on liftoff. The tower was also trying to contact him and we were blocking each other and neither of us did get to speak to him. However, he took off quite well and was able to fly the mission without the missing fuel.

I, of course had a rough time overcoming the shakes when it fully dawned on me what had almost happened to me.

How did we know how much fuel was left in each of these tanks? Good question! The procedure was that after takeoff we would switch to the rear fuselage tank until the fuel was used up and the engine would quit. Then, switch to one of the external wing tanks for one hour and then switch to the other external wing tank for two hours. Before the two hours were up usually the fuel in that tank was used up and we would switch to the other external wing tank until all of the fuel in this tank was used up, and the engine would quit again. At this time we would switch to one of the internal wing tanks and jettison the external wing tanks.

These episodes when the engine would abruptly quit due to fuel starvation that was extremely nerve wracking, particularly when this happened over enemy territory. The quietness was overwhelming.

* The reason that there were no gauges for these tanks was because they were added to these airplanes as an afterthought to increase their range.

** Bought the farm refers to an old rule during early aviation that if a pilot crashed on a farm, if he survived, he would be required to buy the farm if there was damage to it.

FLAK

Flak is the general term used to describe all forms of anti-aircraft gun fire. There are several forms: high altitude, low altitude, and now of course missiles. The low altitude flak was usually light blue while the high altitude flak was black. The smoke was the result of the exploding projectile that was shot into the sky as close as possible to the enemy aircraft. The exploding projectile would spew out variable sized pieces of sharp metal in all directions. If the explosion was close enough, then it could down the aircraft by causing structural damage such as tearing off a wing. If the airplane survived then the pieces of metal could penetrate the skin of the plane and would cause casualties among the crew, or start a fire, or put some of the equipment out of commission.

Flak was shot into the sky using different methods. It could be visually aimed using lead so that the projectile would be geographically at the same place as the aircraft, but might not be at the same altitude when it exploded. Therefore, the flak was shot up in patterns, covering a portion of the sky. It also could be aimed using radar. This method could be used when the aircraft could not be seen or obscured by clouds or darkness.

Most of the high altitude flak was shot up at the bombers. They made a better target since they were larger, slower, and not darting all over the sky. There also were about ten men in each plane while the fighters only had one man.

I remember escorting the bombers over Berlin. We would circle Berlin as the bombers would fly straight and steady over the target and drop their bombs. The first formation would fly over and a few black bursts would appear, and then the second formation would fly over and there were many more bursts. The third formation would enter the black cloud and there were explosions and we could see pieces of airplanes dropping out of the sky. After that, as the formations flew over and entered the cloud fewer and fewer of the bombers would come out of it.

We were looking for enemy fighter aircraft which were more deadly than the flak. I didn’t envy those brave souls who were in those bombers enduring those terrible minutes of heavy fire, and then if they survived, to still get shot at on their way home.

The wounded bombers were more in jeopardy than the others, since they were limping home alone and were usually much slower than the others and therefore were sitting ducks. Some of them were on fire and wouldn’t make it home without still more attacks. Leaking fuel and mechanical problems took a heavy toll also. It was no picnic!

The only experience that I had with flak was when we had left the bombers and were looking for an airport to strafe. Out of nowhere some flak came up. I thought that I had been hit when my airplane almost jumped out of the sky and flipped over on its back. However, when I returned home no damage could be found.

The Mustang did have a vulnerable spot, the engine. If a rifle bullet or a piece of flak hit the engine it could knock it out, since the engine was liquid cooled and if the coolant leaked out the engine would overheat and stop. Since we only had one engine that would be the end.

The German airports were very well protected by low altitude flak, and the stakes were high. If there were aircraft on the field it was easy to shoot them up and score several kills without dog fighting and figuring out lead. We were not encouraged to attack airports, but the temptation was there. After the experience that I had with the flak I wasn’t too unhappy that I was never again on a mission that found an enemy airport.

Every afternoon when I returned from a mission I would walk over to the mess hall for some lunch. Then I would go to my hut for a nap that I knew would cure the ringing in my ears caused by the engine noise. The officer’s club was just off the hallway leading to the mess hall. At the entrance to the club was a sixpence one armed bandit, and I routinely would put a sixpence in and pull the handle down and head for the mess hall.

On one occasion I put the coin in the slot and when I pulled down on the lever I found that it was stuck. I hit the machine on the side to make sure that the coin was digested, and when I did, some coins spilled out. I hit it again and more coins came out, and I continued to hit it and suddenly the Jack Pot let loose pouring coins all over the floor. I picked up all of the coins and decided that I would quit before I emptied the entire machine, but I hit it one more time and the other Jack Pot came out. I walked away with my pockets full of coins.

That evening I was walking into the club when one of the ground officers who was half loaded came up to me and asked to borrow some money for a drink. Instead of giving him some money I took him over to the machine and showed him how to get some coins. He thought that was great, but he decided to speed up the process. He picked up the machine and dropped it on the floor, splitting it open. The coins all came out at once.

I was really impressed!

Bob Sweeney, who was the radio officer for our squadron, was one of my roommates and good friend. He was always complaining about the fact that only the pilots received medals. He felt that since he had been overseas for such a long while, there should be a medal for being away from home. I offered to make room in my aircraft for him to fly a combat mission with me so that he could possibly become eligible for a medal. He smiled and said that he did not want a medal that badly.

One day we ordered a jeep from the motor pool with a fifty caliber machine gun mounted on it. We each took along our Colt 45 semi-automatic pistols, and had the driver take us to a deserted spot on the English Channel. There was an abandoned concrete pill box(gun emplacement) on the shoreline which we used as a target.

We took turns firing the fifty caliber gun and found that the recoil was so great that you couldn’t fire off more that two rounds and still keep the gun aimed. Sweeney was a great shot with the Colt. He bet that he could hit a bird in flight, which I told him would be impossible to do. Sure enough he hit the next bird that flew by. I wouldn’t bet him again. I felt sorry for the bird! Now I wondered how I would feel shooting at a human being, which was the reason that I had trained so arduously for so long, and had come all this way to England to do. I dismissed this thought with the excuse that I would be shooting at the enemy, not at another human.

Sweeney then asked if I had ever been on the jeep obstacle course which was nearby. When I told him that I had never been on one, he ordered the driver to take us there. The driver seemed reluctant to do so, but he complied with the order and away we went.

The fifty caliber gun took up so much room, that Sweeney and I had to sit on the steel rear fenders of the jeep, instead of the regular seat. This was a mistake! The obstacle course was designed to keep the jeep airborne for most of the ride. Every time that it landed my fanny took a beating. Holding on for dear life, I couldn’t believe that Sweeney had done this before, and had chosen to do it again. We spent most of the time suspended in the air, and when we came down on the steel fender, the fender was already on it’s way up to meet us. I came close to getting bounced out of the jeep several times. I was sore for a week. I was also worried about the condition of any offspring that I might have in the future.

ABORT

We were going to Germany today, on a routine escort mission. I was to fly the number 4 slot in our flight, which made me tail end Charlie.

As usual I had to make one last dash to the latrine since this was to be one of those long missions. I ran back to the airplane where the ground crew was waiting for me and jumped into the cockpit getting everything connected and ready to start engines. I just about made it when the time was up and I began the startup procedure. First do a cockpit check, then make sure the prop pitch control was full forward, then crack[slightly open] the throttle, then prime the engine using the hand pump, then switch on the magnetos, then turn the starter switch and as the huge prop was turning wait for the engine to start. As soon as the explosions began, push the mixture control from the idle cut-off position to the automatic rich position and grab the throttle handle to adjust the engine speed.

As soon as the engine was idling smoothly, unlock the brakes, turn on the radio, and wait for your flight to taxi past and take up your position on the taxi-way and taxi to the runway.

Line up on the right wing of your element leader, and as soon as he starts down the runway pour the throttle to it in order to keep in formation with him as we pick up speed for takeoff. With the extra tanks on, the take-off run was fairly long, and at lift-off the runway was almost used up before we were airborne.

As I lifted off on this mission, the control tower called me to tell me that there was black smoke pouring from my engine. This was a bad time to have engine problems since we were just off the ground and just beginning to pick up speed. I acknowledged the call and asked for advice. I was told to drop my external fuel tanks over the water {English Channel} which was now underneath, and return to the field for a landing. I was to abort the mission, which was the only abort that I had while I was with the group.

I landed and taxied to the revetment where the airplane was parked, and shut down the engine.

The crew chief ran out to the airplane and asked me what I thought the trouble might be. I had no idea of what the problem was, and turned the airplane over to him for a checkup. He and his crew began an immediate inspection to check all systems for the problem. About an hour or two later I returned to the airplane to see if they had found the difficulty. I was told that nothing had turned up to explain the black smoke.

Later in the day when the group had returned to the airfield and I was discussing the problem with my flight leader and some of the other pilots I recalled that I was nervous about getting back from the latrine on time and was rushing to start my engine and could have done something wrong. We walked over to one of the aircraft and I sat in the cockpit and went over the starting procedure. When I pushed the mixture control to the automatic rich position I saw that if I pushed too hard on the handle that it could easily be pushed into the full rich position instead of the automatic rich position.

I checked with the crew chief and some of the other mechanics and it was their opinion that taking off with the mixture control in the full rich position could cause the problem. It was decided to try a take-off in full rich to see what would happen and when this was done the black smoke appeared and when the control was returned to the normal automatic rich position the smoke stopped

I was upset with myself, but when we flew a tough mission the next day I had forgotten all about my stupidity.

STRAFING

On occasion, after an escort mission, we were allowed to descend to ground level for some strafing. As long as we were in Germany we were encouraged to shoot at anything that moved, particularly if it was a train.

Almost all airports were military, and all aircraft were considered military. However, the airports were well protected. The Mustang was vulnerable to anything fired at it, even rifle fire. Therefore we were not urged to look for airports, but if we did come across one we could strafe it, and get credit for any aircraft that we destroyed.

I was only on one mission when we did find a target on the ground. This was a military truck on a single lane road. We were a flight of four, and we clobbered that truck. We made about three passes at it and that poor truck was junk when we left.

Strafing also had another problem. Since we were basically escort fighters, our missions were at high altitude, somewhere at about thirty five to about thirty six thousand feet. If we were to do any strafing, then we must by definition get down to ground level in a hurry. This was tough on both pilots and aircraft. The engines would cool down too much during this fast descent causing increased wear on the engines. The pilots would need to keep clearing their ears all the way to ground level, and then find a target to shoot at.

The fuel that could have been used to get us home during a long descent, when gravity would assist the engine in pulling us toward England, would be wasted on a fast descent. Also, after a long mission the pilots would also be tired and really not ready for more action, particularly if a target could not be found quickly.

The ninth air force pilots were actually the people who did most of the strafing.

So much for strafing!

RELEASE TANKS

On most escort missions the external wing tanks, one under each wing, were used to extend the range of the Mustang. These tanks held 105 gallons of fuel in each one.

When the tanks were fully loaded, the airplane was not very maneuverable. Therefore, if enemy aircraft were in the area, the order was given to drop tanks. Usually this order was given when the squadron or group was in a spread formation with a great deal of distance between aircraft. The tanks were controlled by the bomb release button on the top of the control stick.

On this day we were on a mission that took us over the North Sea eastward to a position north of Berlin and to then turn south to Berlin. We entered a cloud early in the mission and flew in tight formation on our course. The mission continued, still in the cloud for what seemed about an hour, but was probably much less, when the recall signal came to cancel the mission. At this point we were probably over enemy territory, possibly the island of Heligoland. This spot was famous for very intense and very accurate radar controlled flak.

The group leader ordered us to drop tanks and head back to base. We were still in tight formation when the order was given. However, at this signal the lead ship made a quick left turn to head back to base and the formation came apart. No one knew if there was someone above or below when almost simultaneously everyone pushed the tank release button and all of the almost full fuel tanks came tumbling down.

This caused a few moments of sheer terror as sphincters tightened and everyone expected one of the tanks to come through his canopy.

When nothing did come through, it was now necessary to worry about a midair collision.

I completed the 180-degree turn and headed down. The altimeter showed about 15,000 ft. and was winding down. We were all still in the cloud and keeping eyes peeled for anyone coming from above or the sides. Of course we were also worried about the flak from the enemy. I was in a sweat and couldn’t wait for the minutes to go by so that I would be out of this bad situation.

At last someone announced that he had broken out of the clouds at 500 ft. The tension decreased somewhat and it was a relief when I reached the 500 ft. mark, and sure enough broke out of the clouds. There now was no danger of a midair collision, but we were still in enemy country, so back to normal alertness, which was about 50% of what we were experiencing before.

Before long I saw two aircraft ahead of me in the distance. It was possible that they were enemy, but when I caught up with them and found that they were from my squadron I tacked on to them and we flew back to England together

The weather was still crummy and we found that our field was temporarily closed, so the flight leader located an English fighter base that was in the clear. We decided to land there and wait for our field to reopen. It was a grass field and it was a novelty landing on the soft grass. It was almost impossible to feel the touchdown. When we taxied up to the flight line I saw that the individual who was directing my plane was a female, and a pretty one. She guided me to park and then signaled me to shut down the engine and immediately climbed up on the wing and proceeded to undo my safety belt and my parachute and then to help me out of the airplane. I was amazed!

I saw that the others in the flight were being treated the same way. We were then escorted to the officer’s club and offered drinks and sandwiches. The girls were extremely pleasant and I asked my escort if the English pilots were also treated this nicely. She looked surprised and replied affirmatively.

We were asked if we intended to stay the night and I was hoping that it would be necessary for us to do that, but when we checked the weather we found that it would now be possible to continue to our own field. Bad news!

The girls escorted us to our aircraft and of course helped us into the cockpit and adjusted our safety belts and parachute harnesses and invited us to return any time.

I began to wonder if I should ask for a transfer to the RAF.

Upon returning from a mission one day, one of my friends in our squadron asked me to sit down and talk to him. He was sweating and it was not warm out so I anticipated a problem.

He was on the verge of tears when he told me that he had shot down an aircraft. I congratulated him and wondered why he was so upset. He told me that he thought that he had shot down a Folke-Wolfe 190 but now he wasn’t sure. He felt that it could have been a P-47.

I asked him if he had seen any of the aircraft markings, and he said that he had not.

That was only half of the story. The other half was that a couple of weeks before he had definitely shot down a British Mosquito that he thought was a twin engine Messerschmitt. He had been reprimanded and told to make sure of the identity the next time. Now he was worried that his combat film would come back and show that he had done it again.

I never did find out what his combat film showed, since the following week I was shot down.

The Turpitz

The German navy after WWI was limited in size, both in number, and in the size of any warship. Because of this, when Hitler came to power, in order to build battleships that could compete with the world class powers, the Germans built five major ships of limited tonnage, but with superior armor and armament. These ships were called “pocket battleships”, and they were deadly.

The names of these ships were, the Bismarck, the Gneisenau, the Graf Spee, the Scharnhorst, and the Turpitz. Each one of these ships had the power to change the course of WWII by patrolling the North Atlantic and attacking the large armadas of cargo and troop ships that were delivering goods and men to fight the war when the United States entered it in December of 1941.

The destroyers and other patrol ships assigned to protect the convoys were incapable of doing any harm to a ship as powerful and as heavily armored as these ships were. They could destroy an entire convoy of hundreds of freighters and their escorts in an hour or two.

The only strategy that the allies could use to protect themselves was to track down and engage each of these ships one at a time with enough of their own battleships to destroy them. This was not easy, since they were scattered around the world and when found were powerful fighters.

In September of 1944, when I was flying combat missions out of England, the allies had already sunk four of the five pocket battleships and we were told to keep our eyes open for the remaining one, the Turpitz. It had been damaged during a battle, and was somewhere in a safe harbor being repaired. It was felt that the repairs were probably complete, and that it would be ready to enter the North Atlantic at any time.

We were on a mission one day in mid-September flying from our base on the east coast of England eastbound over the North Sea to a point north of Berlin, and then heading southbound to Berlin to meet and then protect the bombers. This diversion was supposed to throw the Germans off our track so that they would not identify the target.

We were in a tight formation climbing through two layers of clouds. We had broken out into bright sunlight and were approaching the turning point when I happened to glance down. There I could see the coast of Norway through a hole in each of the cloud layers that had lined up to give me a glimpse of the ground. What I saw in that instant was the coast with the famous fjords and a large ship in one of them. I automatically called in over the radio, “Greenhouse red four, battleship at nine o’clock low”.

The group leader swung around with everyone following and began looking for a battleship, but all that we could see now were the clouds below us, the top layer, or the bottom layer, but no one was able to see the two holes lined up, including myself.

We continued on our way and joined up with the bombers and watched them bomb Berlin, losing a good number of bombers to the flak.

When we returned to England, and were debriefed as usual, I had some explaining to do when my turn came. Two debriefing officers had me alone in a small room challenging my claim to have spotted a battleship. They insisted that it would have been impossible for me to see a ship from the altitude that we were at, particularly since we were on top of two layers of clouds. I answered that I had excellent vision, did not smoke nor drink, and that I had paid attention when we were being trained to spot aircraft and naval vessels.

They told me that if I insisted on sticking to my story that they would be committed to report the questionable sighting to higher echelon. A reconnaissance plane, probably a British Mosquito would be sent out that afternoon to take photos, and that if the pilot were killed it would be on my head.

I did stick with the report and two days later after a mission, when we were all relaxing in the officers club, reading the “Stars & Stripes”, when I read out loud that the battleship TURPITZ had been sighted and photographed in a Norwegian fiord.

I was shot down a couple of days later, but after the war I researched the incident and found that later that month the British sent 26 Lancaster bombers to bomb the Turpitz, and that they did get one hit on the bow which disabled it. In November they sent another 26 Lancasters, but were unable to hit it. Again in December they sent the Lancasters and this time they did sink it.

The ship sank, rolled over on its back, and is still lying in one of the Norwegian fjords. I read somewhere that the Norwegians had built a platform where visitors can see the ship’s bottom in the clear water.

Dr. Soila, a radiologist at the hospital where I presently work, was on a trip to Norway recently. He discovered the Tirpitz Museum in a small town near where the Tirpitz had been sunk. Dr. Soila is from Finland, and he asked me to accompany him on his next trip to his home, so that he could show me the museum.

PRISON CAMP

The ambulance train took us north to Hanover. We were placed in a garret with five other wounded prisoners, and I had my first taste of prison. This was a makeshift en route prison where there were only wounded British Paratroopers. I was the only American. The building apparently was the home of a high official in the Nazi party, which had been borrowed to keep some of the POWs incarcerated until transportation could be arranged. On the other hand it could have been the home of a displaced Jewish family.

We were all wounded and none of us could be considered ambulatory. One of the British officers had five bullet holes in his left arm. what a mess! There were all types of wounds, but no doctors. I had my leg in a splint and my face was bandaged with paper towels. My left wrist was badly burned, my neck denuded, and my face was constantly in pain from the burns and wounds. I smelled of cordite.

We remained in this garret for five days, when some guards came for me and put me on a civilian train to transport me to an American prisoner-of-war camp. The Germans were always very precise about these things.

We were parked at the Hanover station waiting for the train to start when a woman with two children came in and sat down opposite me. I was sitting next to my two guards who were armed with rifles. My clothes were torn and covered with dried blood, so it was obvious that I was their prisoner.

The woman looked out of the window and pointed to some buildings that had been bombed that night and she looked at me and said that I was responsible for that. I answered that no, I was not responsible, but that Hitler was. This conversation was in German, some of which I could understand, and my answer was in broken German. The woman shrugged and reached into a bag that she had with her and took out a small green apple for each of the children and a third one for herself. Instead of eating the apple she looked at me and apparently felt sorry for me. She reached out her hand with the apple and handed it to me. I pushed it back to her, but she insisted on my having it, and since I was hungry I ate it. I watched the children eating the apples and saw that they ate the entire apple including the core, and so I followed suit and did the same thing.

There were no more apples in the bag.

The train left Hanover and began traveling southbound. We passed areas where military operations were ongoing. At a town called Fallenbostle there were some Tiger tanks being loaded on to flatbed railroad cars. I was taken off the train at this point and put in a wagon and brought to a concentration camp where there were mostly Russian prisoners, who were all debilitated, very thin, and appeared to be much older that they really were.

I was given a spot on the floor in a large room filled with wounded British paratroopers. A German medical corpsman was going from prisoner to prisoner with a large syringe that had a long needle attached to it. He would feel their forehead and if he thought that they were feverish he would give them a dose of a red dye that was in the syringe. He would shoot it into their thigh and it would turn bright red. When he came to me I pushed him away and he didn’t argue. The same needle remained on the syringe for each injection.

I was now able to hobble around with my leg still in the splint, and since the guards didn’t prevent me from doing so, I visited the next barracks. When I entered the building there was a very bad stench and I was about to walk out when one of the wounded prisoners called to me and asked if I could help. I walked into one of the rooms and could barely make out triple-decker bunks three deep going around the room. Each bunk had a body in it. Some were dead and some were definitely dying. The smell was terrible, but the sounds were worse. The men were reaching out to me for help. My eyes were getting accustomed to the dark and the sight was horrible.

There was a bucket of soup just outside of the door and they had no way of getting to it. I brought the bucket into the room and began to dish out the soup in whatever container I could find. When there were no more containers I tried to feed some of the men with the spoon that was in the bucket. I began to get sick and when I couldn’t stand it any longer I went back to my spot on the floor in the next barracks thankful that I was in much better shape than those poor dying men.

Every day more and more wounded prisoners were brought in. I realized that the operation had failed and that my chance of getting out of here in a hurry was not to be.

I was kept at this camp for two weeks and at the end of that time I was taken back to the railroad station and put on an eastbound train, with two guards and another American prisoner from Texas. We traveled for a couple of days and found that we were now in Posen, Poland. We changed trains here and were taken to a prison camp in the Polish Corridor. The town had two names, one was German and the other was Polish. It was a camp for American ground officers. The name of the town was either Shubin or Alterbegun. It was a small camp with less than 1,000 prisoners. The name of the camp was Oflag 64.

We arrived at night and were brought to the kitchen and given some oatmeal for our first meal in almost 48 hours. It was at this time that I first learned to enjoy oatmeal. I could have eaten a barrel of it.

The camp was in good condition and it was the first time that I saw prisoners who weren’t wounded. I was given the bottom bunk in a fairly large and clean room. The mattress was made of the usual excelsior in a guinea sack. I don’t remember the number of men in this room, but I even had a locker to put whatever belongings that I had into. So far, so good.

The following day the new prisoners were lined up against a wall and were asked what their religion was. The man next to me answered Protestant, and I nodded my head, indicating to the guard that I too was of the same religion. I knew that my dog tags indicated that I was Hebrew, but since no-one had looked at them I felt that it would be prudent to try to hide my religion. At this time we were also asked to read some of the rules of captivity. One paragraph said that if we were found speaking to a women we could be sent to a civilian jail for life. I had no idea where we would find women to speak to.

There were always preparations being made for escape. There was an escape committee, and rules to follow if we did have an idea of how to escape. The first prerequisite was to be able to speak German fluently. Then there was much red tape to go through if the idea met with the approval of the escape committee.

We received some Red Cross food every other week. When we received the Red Cross food, a can of food from every package was put in a special escape bank to be used to help anyone who would be able to pass all of the requirements for escape. Actually there were two escape banks, one smaller than the other. The Germans were led to believe that the smaller of the two caches was the only one and they were allowed to find it. This threw off the guards into believing that they had found the food cache, allowing them to relax somewhat, and taking the pressure off of the prisoners.

Here we received the regular prisoner of war rations from the Germans and also half of a parcel of Red Cross food per week. This was no feast by any means, but it was sufficient, although everyone was still hungry.

My wounds were healing, but the paper bandage on my face was becoming putrid and when I pushed on one side, the pus would run out the other side. I was afraid of what I would see if I took off the bandage, but finally I knew that I had to do it. My face was a mess. There were areas of dead flesh and bright red areas that were raw. I had seen burn wounds before and I realized that I would probably be severely scarred for the rest of my life. My leg was still in the splint. A few days later, I removed it and found that I could not bend my knee. However, my face was healing and the oozing had stopped.

The senior American officer at the camp came by the barracks and interviewed me. I told him that I was not a paratrooper as the Germans thought, but a fighter pilot. He told me that he had ascertained that when he saw what I was wearing.

He wanted me to go to the German commanding officer and to tell him that I was a pilot and to act indignant that I had been placed in a Ground Officers [Wehrmacht] camp instead of an Air Force [Luftwaffe] camp. He predicted that the Germans would send me to a Luftwaffe camp as quickly as possible. If they were to move me as predicted, then I was to contact the American senior officer at the Luftwaffe camp as soon as possible and tell him that the food situation at Oflag 64 was very bad, and that if a Red Cross representative from Sweden or Switzerland were to visit there, that he should be told of the problem.

I did as ordered, and I was brought to the German commandant’s office. I told him that I was a fighter pilot and that I was indignant that I was not in a Luftwaffe prison camp. He snorted and made some notes and dismissed me.

As predicted, the next day I was brought back to the commandant’s office and told that I was to prepare to leave immediately. Two guards were summoned and we were on our way. They marched me to the train station where we boarded a civilian train again and headed for Berlin. In Berlin we traveled for a while on an elevated train and I could see much of the city. It was totally bombed out! There was not a building standing as far as the eye could see. The elevated train tracks were repaired with new wood wherever I looked. It was total destruction. There were men still working on some of the sections.

Sometime during the day the train stopped at a station where we disembarked and entered a beer hall to wait for a train connection. Here there were many soldiers also waiting for trains. They were almost all sitting around drinking beer and eating large pickles. One of my two guards went to the counter and came back with a large beer and pickle for himself and for the other guard. They were enjoying the rest and the beer and the conversation. An SS trooper came to our table and turned toward me and started a conversation with me in German. I indicated that I could not understand much German and I asked him if he spoke French or English. He did speak a little of each and so we began a conversation using the three languages and some hand signals.

He was seventeen years old and had been in combat on the Western Front where he had been wounded, losing one eye. He was now headed to the Eastern Front and he was certain that he would not survive the war. He also reassured me that “for you the war is over”. This seemed to be a refrain that was used by the German soldiers and I heard it over and over again.

The SS trooper gave me his toothbrush and some Deutschmarks to show his friendship. He also asked my guards why I wasn’t drinking beer and eating a pickle. They shrugged their shoulders and said that I was a prisoner and should not be given good German beer. My new friend yelled at them and apparently threatened them, since one of the guards jumped up and ran to the counter and brought me my beer and pickle. The beer tasted great and I thanked him. He told me that before the war he had worked as a cabin boy on a ship and that the ship had made a stop once in New York. He had not been allowed off the ship, but had gone out on the deck, watched the traffic on the wharf, yearning to spend time there, and possibly live there. He said that if he survived the war that he would try to live in New York City. All of this I had not expected from an SS man. When he left he cautioned my guards to treat me well or he would get back to them.

When he left they refilled my beer glass and asked me if I wanted another pickle, which I refused. Early the next morning we boarded another train.

We were heading southwest and soon were out into the countryside again.

We arrived at the Luftwaffe camp in the middle of the night, where there were searchlights glaring all around the perimeter. Many guards were walking around, each with a powerful German Shepherd on a leash. It was a gloomy, frightening scene and I was tired, hungry, and dejected. I was placed in a holding unit until the morning and then I was assigned to a room in one of the barracks.

The next day I sought out the senior American officer and told him about the problem at Oflag 64. When he heard of the food that they were getting at Oflag 64, he told me that I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. He said that the food here was much less. Also, he told me that there had been no visits from any of the neutral countries for quite a while.

So much for my mission!

This camp was much larger than the Oflag 64, having at least 10,000 prisoners. Also, the officer’s compound was inside of the main compound, making escape that much more difficult. The camp was located south of Berlin, near a town called Sagan, and its designation was Stalagluft III.

At this camp we lived in barracks. Most rooms had five triple-decker bunks and housing fifteen men. Each room had a small potbellied stove. However, we had almost no fuel and used what we had to warm our food. The bunks each had a guinea sack containing excelsior for a mattress. There was no bedding, and the mattress also contained lice. The mattress rested on seven wooden slats.

It was here that I met Leonard Koos, one of my roommates. Our friendship developed and lasted until Lenny died a couple of years ago of Leukemia.

Lenny was born and raised in Oklahoma. Because of the big depression he could not get a decent job, and was unable to go to college. He joined the CCC, the government sponsored Civilian Conservation Corp, until the war began. At that point Lenny joined the Army Air Corps and became a bomber pilot. He was a co-pilot on a B-17 Flying Fortress based in England. He was shot down on his fourth mission by German fighters and was badly wounded. There were at least one hundred pieces of shrapnel embedded in his right side. Every once in a while a piece would come to the surface and he would pick it out.

From the time that I arrived at Stalag-Luft III we became devoted buddies. On our return to the states Lenny told the Army that he was from New York so that we could spend some time together before he returned home for good. After he went to Oklahoma to visit his family, he returned to New York and stayed with my family until we were sent to Fort Dix, New Jersey for our discharge.

When we were interviewed for our discharges Lenny had a problem. We were both in a line facing a sergeant who was filling out the forms necessary for discharge. Once mine were completed I waited for Lenny. The sergeant told Lenny that he was not eligible for a discharge since he did not have enough points. We both argued with the sergeant but he kept telling us that he was only following orders. Finally it dawned on me that of course Lenny had been wounded and that he had never received a Purple Heart. In fact he had no idea what a Purple Heart medal was for.

The sergeant needed proof that Lenny indeed had been wounded, so I told Lenny to pull up his shirt sleeve and show the sergeant the scars and if possible one of the pieces near the surface. He did this and the sergeant called the colonel over who made me swear that Lenny had been wounded. He issued the medal immediately. Since a Purple Heart medal was worth five points, it gave Lenny enough points for his discharge.

My family had received my Purple Heart along with my Air Medals at a ceremony at an Army Air Force base in Long Island during the period that I was in prison camp.

It was necessary to fly five missions to receive an Air Medal, and Lenny had been shot down on his fourth mission, and he never received the air medal. Somehow it does not seem fair that after going through the suffering and the ordeal that Lenny had, that he was never given the medal.

When Lenny was about to return to Oklahoma he told me that he intended to find a bride and would bring her to visit me on his honeymoon. Sure enough, Lenny and his new wife drove to New York on their honeymoon and went directly to my parent’s home. When he found out that I was in Philadelphia at the University of Pennsylvania, he drove immediately to where I was living that same day.

I was studying for an exam in my room when I heard a pair of boots coming up the stairs followed by a knocking at my door. There stood Lenny in civilian clothes. We went to dinner and I was happy to see that he had married a beautiful and intelligent woman. I knew that they would always be happy, and they were. They had five daughters and spent the rest of their married life in Oklahoma.

Back to the POW camp!

The other men in the room were bomber pilots and fighter pilots. Each had a story about how they happened to end up in a prisoner of war camp. The stories were all interesting and I always looked forward to hearing about them. The senior officer in our room was Bill Taylor who was flying a P-47 Thunderbolt and had engine trouble on the way into enemy territory. Since he was the lead ship in a flight of four he felt that he had to keep the flight together. On the way out of Germany his engine finally gave up and quit, thus he became a prisoner of war.

Two others, Ed Gaines and M. H. Brown were in a two ship P-38 formation very low somewhere over the north sea. They were so low as a matter of fact that their props touched the water and they went in. The water was very shallow, but Brown didn’t know that and he immediately inflated his dinghy and began to paddle toward England. Gaines stepped out of his airplane and found that the water didn’t reach his knees. He turned to Brown and asked him where he was going. They were captured almost immediately.

The other men in the room were: Bruce Armstrong, Charles Baker, who was Lenny Koos’ pilot, Ted Bushnell, D. H. Laing, Robert Phillips, Robert Silver, Lewis Vance, Ken Wisner, Don Allen, and Charles Hall.

The day always began with the roll call, “appel”, in the courtyard behind the barracks. The “appel” was repeated again in the afternoon before dark. It was a formal ceremony with the senior American officer standing out in front of the entire prisoner formation, and with each barracks chief in front of his own formation. We all stood in formation with German guards stationed in front and behind us. We stood at attention and the German commanding officer strode out of his office and approached the formations. He was escorted by a couple of his junior officers. As he approached the Senior American Officer, he shot his arm out in a “Heil Hitler” salute, and was answered by the American with a regular hand salute which he held until the German returned it with a similar hand salute. Then the German guards would begin to count us, one guard behind us and one in front, marching and counting together and then comparing notes at the end of the column. Most of the time they would quickly agree on the count, but every so often they would not agree and an argument would start. “eleph”, “nein, svelph”, “nein, eleph”. Then they would begin all over again. When it was cold out, it was torture standing out there shivering with very little clothing on, waiting for them to complete the count. Of course there were always the dogs on a leash in case of trouble. On several occasions when some of the prisoners tried to upset the counting by sneaking into different columns the Germans threatened to turn the dogs loose. They would reach down to the dog collars and watch their commanding officer for the nod that would be a signal to release the dogs. This never did happen while I was at this camp, but I was told that it did happen in the past, with some casualties.

After the count we could walk around the compound for our exercise. The perimeter was eight tenths of a mile around. We would try to do at least ten times around each day. Either before or immediately after the walk we would have a cup of hot water with one thin slice of bread, if there was any. We spent much of the day trying to keep warm. At noon we were given a cup of soup made of dried leaves and twigs. Once each week the soup was made from some type of cereal, and it was delicious; but only one cup was allotted per prisoner.

Again in the afternoon we would walk around the compound and later on we would gather in small groups to find out the news from the BBC. This was obtained from a small radio which one of the prisoners constructed from parts brought in piecemeal by a guard who was bribed with cigarettes. Several of the prisoners would mingle with each small group and from memory whisper the news and then slowly walk over to another group and do the same thing.

The barbed wire fence surrounding the officer’s compound had a raised platform about every one hundred feet. There was a small shack on each platform with either one or two guards in the shack. The guards all had a pair of binoculars, a rifle, and a machine gun mounted on the platform. There was a single strand of barbed wire running around the compound about fifteen feet inside of the main fence. The area between the two wires was “Verboten”. If a prisoner was caught in this area he could be shot without warning. If it were necessary to retrieve something that fell into this area it was necessary to get the attention of the guards and to get their permission to enter and quickly pick up the object and get back again. The guards would have their rifles ready with a bead on the prisoner.

There was a small library in one of the buildings with books that had been apparently sent in by the Red Cross. The books were all censored by the Germans. I remember reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn which had many deletions particularly when the Germans were mentioned in derogatory terms.

On occasion, about every two months we were marched to a facility where we undressed and were marched into a large shower room. We had exactly two minutes of warm water followed by one minute of cold water. We had small hand towels to use as washcloths, and after wringing them out, to use for towels.

While this was taking place our clothes were put into a fumigating closet.

It felt good to have that shower. It really raised our spirits and we marched out of there smiling and joking around. It took about a week for the lice to start bothering us again.

At night when the lights were turned out we would be very quiet so that we could hear the footsteps of the guards as they patrolled the compound. We would all be waiting for a change in the pattern that might mean perhaps we would be liberated.

Some of the guards who spoke English were assigned the job of crawling under the barracks to possibly hear of any escape plans. These guards were called “ferrets”. One day one of the ferrets poked his finger through a knothole in the floorboard apparently to make himself more comfortable. One of the prisoners saw the finger and quietly crushed it with his heel. The finger turned blue, but the ferret didn’t make a sound as he slowly slid his finger out of the hole.

Some days we would see the bombers flying over on their way to bomb some target and I would watch the guards to see how they handled this. None of them said a word as they too stood looking up at the bombers.

A tunnel was being built for escape, and we had to split our bed slats in half and donate the split pieces to the escape committee. The reason to split the slats was so that when the Germans would count the slats there would be seven for each bunk, which was the correct number. The slat inspection was to see if we were building a tunnel. As long as the number was correct they were satisfied that everything was “kosher”. Meanwhile escape was always on the minds of the prisoners, and also on the minds of the guards.

As the winter wore on we had some snow storms. The spirit of Xmas was in the air, but nothing changed.

My only pair of socks had long since worn out and my feet were always cold and sore, and also always dirty. There was an extra pair of pants called the “communal pants” and they went from one prisoner to another so that when my turn came I could wear them and rinse out my own pants. I could use them until my pants dried, and that usually took a few days. Meanwhile the communal pants never did get washed, and of course they were too large for most of us, but it was better than nothing.

There was also a problem with shaving. I had one razor blade, and it lasted for the entire time that I was a prisoner. There was no hot water, and no shaving cream, so shaving was an experience. The American senior officer insisted that we shave every day to keep our moral up and to show the Germans that although we were prisoners, we were still soldiers. To sharpen the razor blades we would place the blade in a glass of water and with one finger press the blade against the side of the glass and rub it around.

Of course my underwear also wore out after a couple of weeks went by.

It was the simple things that I always took for granted that now became major problems.

This life went on, hungry, dirty, and always cold. Then, late in January the Russians marched out of Warsaw and entered Germany. Now we knew that we would probably be liberated. We were told by our commanding officer to remember the word “tovarich”, which translated to “comrade” in Russian. We were told to put our hands up and use this word when the Russians marched in. This never did happen as you will see.

Meanwhile we knew that we had to make preparations to march out of the camp as soon as the Russians came close. We realized that the Germans would keep us as prisoners as long as possible. We increased our walking to build up our stamina. We usually walked two at a time. I walked with Lenny and most of the time we talked about food. We would visualize walking down any street in the States and entering a grocery store. We would limit ourselves to a nickel and try to decide how much food we could get to fill our stomachs for the nickel. I felt that probably either rice or cereal would be best. Lenny thought that beans might be better.

We also talked about religion. Lenny was Catholic and so he spoke about Jesus and the many miracles that he performed. I spoke about the history of the Jews, and about the many rituals and holidays that were observed. It seems that at this moment in our lives that we seldom spoke about that very important subject, women.

The Russians finally reached the Oder River and at this point were only about forty miles from the prison camp.

For a few days we could hear cannon fire and were told by the Germans that the Volkstrum* were practicing. Of course we knew what was happening from the homemade radio that we had. We were able to listen to the BBC news reports almost daily.

The walking was increased to 8-10 miles per day. This was not easy because of the cold and the lack of food. Burning up calories was a luxury that we could ill afford. It was easier to do in the morning when we felt stronger, but even then it was a real chore. My knee was benefiting from the walking and I was able to bend it more easily.

*The Volkstrum was a unit made up of all the men who were too old to be conscripted into the regular army. They were equipped with some old guns, and anything else that could be used as a weapon.

One Saturday night, January 27th at about eleven in the evening, the guards came in and ordered us out of the camp immediately. We were allowed to carry anything that we wanted including food from the storage room. I grabbed as much high calorie food as I could carry. I placed the food inside a shirt that one of the prisoners had discarded and carried this on my back.

We left the camp in somewhat of a gay mood, not knowing what was in store for us, but relieved to at least be out of the camp. It was snowing and bitter cold. We were tired to begin with, but at least this might be a chance to escape, or perhaps the Germans might be sending us to Switzerland to trade for some German POWs. Or they might line us up in the middle of the night and kill all of us.

Without stopping we marched all that night and all the following day. At about seven o’clock in the evening we were allowed to stop for about thirty minutes. We were able to find some sticks of wood and some paper and a match. I started a small fire. I decided to make a warm drink to warm us up and also to give us some needed energy. I found a small dirty bucket, cleaned it with some snow and made a cocktail using one pound of margarine, one pound of sugar, and a bar of chocolate. I added some snow to dilute it. I shared the drink with my buddy Leonard Koos and within minutes we felt the warmth go through our bodies. The second thing that I did was to remake my pack. I threw away the shirt and put the few belongings that I had in the center of a blanket that I had found. I then wrapped the blanket around this, tied the ends of the blanket, and then wrapped the blanket diagonally around my body as I had remembered seeing in an old WWI movie. This was a much better system and it also provided some warmth.

We started marching again with renewed energy from the rest and the cocktail. It was now very dark and very cold. At about this time the horses that the guards were riding began to die, one after the other, leaving the Germans to continue on foot. They soon became edgy and at one point when we were in a wooded area they heard noises in the forest, and thinking that some of the prisoners were escaping they began to fire their rifles indiscriminately. I quickly jumped into a snow drift face down and hoped that I would survive. After what seemed liked an eternity of shooting it quieted down and I decided that it would be safe to climb out of the snow. I found that there were two other prisoners in the drift on top of me.

Sometime during the night we reached a crossroad when a German halftrack drove up, and thinking that we were part of the army, asked for directions to get to the front lines. One of the prisoners in perfect German gave them directions 180 degrees from where we knew the front lines actually were. They thanked us and barreled off in the wrong direction.

Lenny and I were toward the end of the column of at least 10,000 men. As the line moved along, it accordioned. The men at the front of the column continued at a steady pace, but the men behind would close up the column and then stop to let the column open up again. This effect increased the further back you were in the column. Therefore, we would stop for a few minutes and then walk fast to catch up. We had been told by the Germans before leaving the camp that stragglers would be shot.

Now the shoes that I was wearing developed holes in the soles and the snow was pressed into the shoes and turned to water. Of course I had no socks, and whenever we stopped I could feel the water freeze and when I began to walk I could feel the ice breaking up. My feet were now my biggest problem.

My other immediate problem was that I was falling asleep on my feet. Whenever we stopped I would fall asleep and twice I fell over and Lenny had to kick me and force me back to my feet. It felt so good to lay there and fall asleep. It was very cold and I had very little clothing. Falling asleep was deadly! If left alone it would lead to death by freezing. Apparently this was catching, because I soon had to do the same thing to Lenny. We both probably saved each other’s lives by sticking close together. We realized this and decided to use our belts to make a connection to each other.

The German guards were on horseback when we began the march. During the night the horses had all died, from the cold and the difficulties of the march. The guards were now very antsy. Although better dressed and fed, they were suffering. On occasion a German jeep would drive up and pick up a couple of the guards and return with fresh ones.

At 6 AM on the second morning we entered a small town called Muscau and we were allowed to find shelter. Some of us entered a small pottery factory where we immediately lay down, took off what was left of our shoes and fell asleep. What I didn’t know was that we were asleep on the concrete floor that was just above the oven and that the oven had just been turned on. I awakened in a sweat with terrible pain in my feet. The floor was burning hot. I tried to awaken Lenny, but he refused to move, so I dragged him to a safe place away from the oven and went back to a much needed sleep.

Later in the day when I awakened and tried to put my shoes on I found that either my shoes had shrunk or my feet had become swollen. Of course it was the latter and so I left the shoes off. I now noticed that the shoes were completely worn through and that my feet were frostbitten.

The Germans now decided to continue the march and we were ordered to assemble in the street. After much agony I was able to force my shoes on. It was a great effort to walk, but I had no choice. The American Senior Officer asked the men who felt that they could continue, to do so. The rest of the men would remain behind. Lenny and I decided that it would be prudent to continue although my feet were in terrible shape. We felt that since there were so few of us in this group that we would fare better and possibly the men who remained behind might be executed.

It soon became dark again and it was very cold. My feet became a huge problem. Every step was agonizing. We marched most of the night, but stopped for about an hour sometime before dawn. I found that we were next to a barn, so I crawled in and bedded down next to a cow and tried to sleep. The cow kept me warm and I thought that I might be able to remain there indefinitely, but in a little while the Germans again made us continue the march.

The Germans used this rest period to bring in new guards, whom they transported in their VW jeeps.

We kept marching until late in the afternoon when we arrived at a railroad siding and were forced into boxcars. We had marched 62 miles since leaving Sagan. There were fifty of us in each car with no room to sit down. We finally found that by forming five lines we could all sit down at the same time on the lap of the fellow behind each of us.

The train left the siding and began a long trip mostly southbound. There was almost no food at this point and no water. We traveled day and night in this position for over 48 hours, with many long stops. We were not allowed out of the boxcar except for one stop next to a farm. We all ran out into the field, pulled down our pants, squatted down and fertilized the farmers field while he and his family happily watched.

When we were again forced back into the train we realized that the odor was unbearable. All of us were wet and filthy, but glad to be alive. The food situation was critical, but there was nothing that could be done about it. We were all soaked from urinating since we only stopped that one time. Lenny was sitting behind me and whenever he urinated he would smile and tell me that I would feel warm in a few minutes when the warm urine would reach me. I told him that I was sorry that I couldn’t return the favor.

On the third day we stopped and were marched a few miles and left in a barn to rest. Suddenly an airplane was overhead and we heard the screaming of a couple of bombs coming down on us. The explosions were close, but not near enough to hit us. Lucky again!

We were then marched to a prison compound which was to be our new home for the remainder of the war. I was given a rectangular patch of ground about 2 by 6 ft. on the outer edge of a huge tent. This was to be my bedroom, dining room, and living room for the next few months. It was also my swimming pool whenever it rained.

This prison camp was located about twenty miles north of Munich and several miles south of Dachau. It was also across the road from a Folke-Wulfe aircraft parts factory.

The food situation was now becoming more acute. I felt that if help didn’t come soon, that I wouldn’t make it. I was starving!

Rumors were spreading like wildfire. There was a rumor that a Red Cross convoy of trucks was headed our way and that we would be eating very well in a week. This never happened and the hunger continued. A few of the prisoners went berserk. This was called “going around the bend”. Whenever this happened the Germans would quickly remove these men and we would never see them again. We would learn to recognize the symptoms and try to help these individuals to protect them. The rumor was that the Germans were executing them.

One day some American infantry men were brought into the camp and placed in our compound. They still had on their helmets and other combat gear, but with no weapons. I spoke with one of these men and found out that they had been sent out as a tank detachment behind the German lines. It seems that General Patton’s son-in-law was a prisoner at a camp about fifty miles inside the German lines and he wanted to liberate him. They succeeded in liberating the prisoners including Patton’s son-in-law. As they were going through a small town on their way back to the American lines they saw a German Tiger tank and they made a detour to dodge the tank, but the Germans saw them and after a brief battle ended up capturing the entire detachment. I found out that German Tiger tanks were much better than any of our tanks and that they were much feared by our tank people.

LIBERATION
Near the middle of April, Patton’s third army was approaching the camp and finally we could hear the artillery sending shells over the camp into the enemy on the other side of us. The artillery shells were coming closer and then the small arms began popping around us.

It was a Sunday when two Mustangs flew over and did victory rolls over the camp. I knew that freedom was near. There were some snipers shooting at the Mustangs, and the pilots knew it. They came back and strafed the area where the shots were coming from.

We were watching the church steeple in the town near us when suddenly the steeple exploded. About a half hour later an American flag was placed on what was left of the steeple. We were cheering, but it wasn’t over yet. A hail of bullets came into the camp and one of the prisoners was hit in the stomach. We were more careful then and took shelter in a slit trench that we had prepared.

Later there was an enormous explosion nearby. About and hour later a Sherman tank appeared and knocked down the barbed wire and came into the camp. The men in the tank told us to stay away from the tank since there was some shooting still going on and that the tank was one of the targets. One of the men also told us that the explosion that we had heard was the bridge over a river being blown up by the Germans. The tank was on the bridge when it was blown, but the tank was blown off the bridge and amazingly landed back on the ground without any casualties. The tank also was still intact.

We were still hungry and now the Germans were not around to give us food, and we had to forage for it. We found a farm and knew that the German farmers always buried part of the potato crop and covered the potatoes with layers of straw. We found such a cache and helped ourselves. One of the men found a medium sized pig and brought it into the compound. I volunteered to slaughter and butcher the pig since I had worked at a butcher shop on Saturdays and holidays while going to school. We then ate the first good meal in a long time.

A couple of days later one of my friends encountered a jeep with a carton of “C” rations tied to the front bumper. He asked the driver if he could spare some of the food, and the driver gave him the entire carton. I was able to get a large can of scrambled eggs out of the deal. I opened the can and placed it inside of my belt and ate the eggs continuously the entire day.

A couple of days later Patton himself came into the camp and stood right next to me and vowed that he would have us out of there in no time flat. I remember the look of disgust on his face when he looked around and saw the terrible living conditions. He remarked that he never again wanted to see American soldiers living this way.

Ten days later an endless line of trucks appeared and took us out of that hell hole to a grass airfield at a town called Inglestadt, to be flown out of Germany to France.

In order to load as many men as possible into each truck, the truck was driven forward a few feet and then braked hard. The men in the truck fell forward and the strap at the rear of the truck was disconnected and several more men were loaded on. This was done until it was impossible to load any more men on each truck.

On our way to the airport we traveled north on one of the famous German autobahns at a good rate of speed. Suddenly the trucks rear wheels locked and the truck slid to a stop. I almost had my legs amputated by the sudden stop since I was toward the front of the truck. We jumped off the truck and found that a couple of pistons had come through the side of the engine block.

The driver asked his assistant if he had checked the oil that morning and the assistant said that he thought that the driver had checked it since it was the driver’s truck. They began shouting at each other until they were reminded that we were possibly behind enemy lines and there might be snipers on this road. That quieted them in a hurry and we began to thumb a ride to the airport at Inglestadt. Another truck finally came by and when we told the driver that we were POWs he piled us into the truck and took us the rest of the way, but not before we made him check the oil.

The airport was a grass field with no marked runways.

Here we camped out for two nights waiting for the C-47s to arrive and take us to France and finally into friendly territory. The first afternoon a German Stuka dive bomber came over and we all ran for cover. There was an anti-aircraft unit on the field and they opened up at him with their 50 Cal. machine guns, but didn’t score a hit. The Stuka landed and three officers climbed out with their hands up.

Later that day an ME 109 came over with his wheels down, a sign of surrender, but they shot him down. The following afternoon a British Mosquito flew over and they shot him down too. Fortunately the pilot only suffered a broken arm.

Lenny Koos and I decided to walk into town the first afternoon to see if we could find our own transportation. We found instead an abandoned military warehouse and ski factory. We found tons of military hardware ranging from small arms ammunition to outboard motors. There were water flasks, medals, rifles, bayonets, and helmets. Also skis in every phase of production including all of the necessary bindings.

We found a duffle bag and filled it with all sorts of goodies and returned to the airfield. We were going to return the following day but we kept hearing rumors that the airplanes had finally found the field and would be landing momentarily. I had seen some empty trucks at the warehouse and I wanted to go back there and load one with the equipment and head for France, but there might be a problem getting fuel and getting shot by our own forces since the trucks were unmistakably German army vehicles.

The C-47s finally arrived and flew us over the Siegfried line and into France. You might have guessed it! I did get queasy in the C-47, particularly since I was sitting at the rear of the aircraft. I was afraid that my friends would notice that their fighter pilot buddy was airsick. Fortunately it didn’t get too bad and I made it without tossing my cookies.

We landed at an airport in Rheims and were transported to a makeshift camp where we were given a shower and some new khaki shirts and trousers, a set of underwear, a pair of socks, and a pair of shoes. The shoes were two sizes too large, but that made no difference; we were free men, and clean.

We decided to hitch a ride into town and we were the first visitors to the famous Rheims Cathedral since the beginning of the war. From there we went to a U.S. officers club, but were denied admission since we did not have any insignia on our clothes.

I told the guard to go inside and to find a Mustang pilot and to bring him out to speak to us. A fighter pilot was brought out and I explained to him that we were liberated POWs and that we had not been issued any insignia. He asked me what the manifold pressure and RPM were at takeoff for the Mustang and when I quickly answered 64 inches and 3,000 RPM he took the four of us to a PX. Since we had no money he bought us insignia, some fresh underwear, and a hat. We returned with him to the officer’s club and were ushered into a room where there was fresh coffee and two young women fresh from the States. They were volunteers and were happy to spend time with us.

We were offered a cigarette by one of the girls and we all took one. Only one of us smoked and he broke his cigarette in half and put one of the halves into his breast pocket. The girl was puzzled and asked why he had done that and why we were not smoking the cigarettes that we had taken. When he explained that he wanted to save the other half for later and that we had taken the cigarettes to give to him the girl began to cry. We told her not to fret since we were now extremely happy to be liberated and on our way home. Apparently this was the first experience that these girls had had with the reality of the war.

The other girl asked me if I liked classical music and when I answered affirmatively, she told me that she had two tickets for a concert for that evening and asked if I would go to dinner with her and then to the concert. I told her that this would be impossible since I didn’t have any money. She said that she realized that and that she would pay for the dinner.

We ate at a very nice restaurant, went to the concert, and then to her apartment. I took a great shower and she told me to get into bed while she showered. I was on a completely different wavelength and refused to take her bed and insisted on sleeping on the couch in the other room. I awoke early and since she was still sleeping I wrote her a thank you note and went back to the camp.

The following day we were brought to a camp in Le Havre to await shipment back to the good old USA. We were here for a month expecting every day to be brought to the harbor and on to a ship. I tried to telephone home, but it was useless. There were no lines available and although I tried to contact my family through the Red Cross it was impossible.

We were cautioned to refrain from going into town since the citizens of Le Havre were no fans of the U.S. Army Air Force.

It seems that when the Germans were occupying the city, the Army sent some bombers over with pamphlets that announced to the Germans and to the French that if the Germans would leave the city, there would be no bombing. The Germans did leave the city, but someone forgot to tell the Air Force, and the city was bombarded leaving many French people dead and the entire waterfront and port area flattened.

Here again the army tried to fatten us and we spent part of the day on mess lines. However, although we were so very happy to be free again, we were getting bored. We had no equipment to play baseball, or any sport, until we found a set of boxing gloves.

I had done some boxing, mostly with my father, and I watched some of the men boxing and decided to challenge the next winner. I boxed with about five men, having no trouble staying on my feet and getting the best of them. Then one of the men who had been watching us put on the gloves and we went at it. I knew at once that this fellow had done some boxing and was well trained. I was able to stay with him for a few minutes until he feinted and hit me with a one-two and I heard bells ringing and I found myself on the ground. I got up to continue, but my friends pulled me away and told me that I had done enough boxing for one day. I was thankful that I had gotten away that easy and I was grateful that they had put an end to my boxing career.

While here at camp Lucky Strike we were fed food that was easy to digest. We were encouraged to eat as much as we wanted. The Army was trying to fatten us back to our normal weight. They also served eggnog. There was a line for this, and it was here that I met my old buddy, Matthew Martin. Matt and I had become friends at fighter school in Sarasota. We spent a great deal of time together, going to town and taking our dates to the beach, etc.

We went overseas together and remained together until we went into combat. We were both at the same airfield at Leiston, but Matt was in a different squadron, the 362nd, the same squadron that Chuck Yeager* was in. I was in the 364th squadron.

Matt and I were to go to London together the day that I was shot down. When I knew that I was to fly that fateful day, I told Matt to call my date Terry when he arrived in London to tell her that I would be late. Terry had been able to get a hotel room for us and I was anxious to meet her there.

When I saw Matt on the eggnog line I pushed in behind him and kept interrupting the conversation that he was having with the fellow in front of him. He finally became angry and when he turned around to tell me to keep quiet, he did a double take. He threw his arms around me and the two of us danced around rejoicing in the excitement of that wonderful reunion.

Matt told me that while on a mission over Germany in January his engine had quit and he had bailed out. He was captured almost immediately. He also told me that when he found out that I had not returned to base the day that we were to go to London together he called Terry**, took her to dinner, and sort of took my place that evening.

Lenny Koos decided to go to Paris. I decided to wait for the ship. We had no money so we decided to sell some of the items that we had gotten from the German warehouse. The new soldiers coming from the States knew that they wouldn’t be able to get any souvenirs from Germany since the fighting had stopped, and they wanted to bring home a souvenir to show that they had been overseas. We therefore set up a display on a cot in front of our tent with prices on everything. Within fifteen minutes we were sold out and had enough money for both of us to go to Paris.

Lenny took off almost at once, and I again tried to call home, but no luck. If I could only speak to my family to tell them that I was alive and well, I could go to Paris.

In a few days the rumors of a ship coming in to take us home stopped and I decided that I would go to Paris. I had a ride on a jeep and was on my way.

The countryside was beautiful and I was beginning to relax and enjoy the trip. We reached Roen, which was about twenty miles from Paris when I spotted Lenny going the other way on a jeep. I jumped off my jeep and ran over to Lenny and asked him why he was going back to camp. He told me that it was certain that a ship had already come in and we were scheduled to leave on it. I was able to squeeze into this jeep and returned to the camp with Lenny.

Lenny had a great time in Paris and I was jealous, but then I was thrilled that we would be going home, and that was more important than anything else.

*Of course everyone knows who Chuck Yeager is and what he is famous for{breaking the sound barrier}. The Air Force made him a General and although he is on official retirement he keeps well informed on current aircraft and he still flies F-16 and other modern fighters. He is still in excellent condition and looks about ten years younger than his stated age.

**Forty-five years later at a reunion of our group in Georgia, Matt took me aside to tell me that he really didn’t make out with Terry as he had led me to believe.

HOME AGAIN

In a few days we boarded the ship and all of the officers with the rank of 1st Lieutenant and higher were assigned to state rooms and were assigned seats in the dining room. Since I was a 2nd Lieutenant and Lenny was the same, we were assigned to cots that folded down from the wall and we would eat our meals standing up.

I couldn’t wait for the ship to dock. This we did after about five days at sea. We came into Newport News, Virginia. As soon as I was off the ship I ran to a telephone and made a collect call home. My mother answered and she did not seem as excited as I had anticipated. It seems that she knew that I was alive and coming home from the information that she had received from the army.

She told me that she had received all of the mail that I had sent her. She also told me that I had been promoted to 1st Lieutenant about a week after I had been shot down. Too bad that I didn’t know about the promotion when we had boarded the ship to come home. I could have had a more luxurious trip, but then again I would have had to leave Lenny Koos.

I was home within a week and spent two months on recuperation leave. I had a great time and found everyone at home to be well and very happy knowing that I had made it.

While I was at home during this period the Japanese surrendered and at my mother’s request, my Army days came to an end.

BEHAVIOR

Looking back, I can understand some of the seemingly erratic and strange behavior of the pilots who had been with the squadron from the beginning. The daily stress of going into combat every day was enormous. No one wanted to admit that he was scared, for that would be unmanly. However, a good psychiatrist would have had a field day watching what was supposed to be normal behavior.

My flight leader, Stanley Shaw, was a good example of this. His daily routine was to fly a mission and return to base in order to get stoned drunk on anything that was handy. He would be out all evening and stagger into our hut and sprawl over a chair or on the floor and pass out. One of the ground officers in our hut and I would take his shoes off and throw him into his bed. His eyes were red and bleary and I’m sure that he had no idea of where he was.

In the morning he awakened with the same red eyes and swollen head. He would reach for his wine bottle and take a few swigs and that seemed to make him feel better and able to face the day.

We escorted him to breakfast and then to the flight line. He was poured into the cockpit and from that time on he became the great pilot that he was. He would on occasion be called on to lead the three squadrons into combat, and he never missed a checkpoint. He was extremely aggressive and had already shot down five Germans when I arrived at the squadron.

He was considered one of the leading combat pilots in the squadron, but he was never promoted to the rank that he deserved because of his heavy drinking.

This existence went on from day to day until he completed his missions, and then he seemed to return to a more normal way of life, even joining in with the rest of the squadron at mealtime and relaxing in our hut to read or write letters. The day that I was shot down was the day that he was scheduled to leave for home. He said goodbye to me and made me promise to be careful and stay out of trouble. I wonder what his thoughts were when he learned that I did not return from that last mission.

When he left England for the states, that was the last that anyone ever heard from him to this day. Joe de Shay, a hangar chief from my squadron and now from south Florida, who discovered that I was alive, also was able recently to find Stanley Shaw’s widow. Stanley died fairly recently and I wrote a letter to his widow.

Most of the old timers had quirks and seemed very strange. The new replacement pilots all seemed more normal. It was probably just a matter of time until the peculiar behavior would set in.

Some of the behavior I am certain was provoked by superstition. Thinking that if a change was made that it would change their good fortune to be alive and they would be killed.

I know that I had the feeling that if I wore a different pair of shoes that my luck would run out. Therefore, although I had several pairs of shoes I would only wear the same pair on every mission. We would get away from reality. It was sort of living in suspended animation until the war was over.

I suppose that everyone has a lucky charm. Here it was your life that was on the line, and therefore the charm bit was a great deal more serious than using it to get a good grade on an exam.

I did spend numerous sleepless nights after the war reflecting on some of the incidents, fantasizing what would have happened if I had zigged instead of zagging in each instance. I had some cold sweats thinking of dying if it were not for a very small difference in time, position, or thought process that changed the outcome of the episode. On the flip side, I wonder if instead of following the instructions of my flight leader to climb above the clouds, and instead had flipped my aircraft over on it’s back in what we called a split S, and into a dive which might have put me in a position to shoot down two more aircraft, I might have returned to base. I might have saved the pain and anguish of getting wounded and spending those awful months in the prison camps. I would also have enjoyed flying the remaining missions and returning home as a hero.

I did have the ultimate pleasure of returning home and continuing my life.

–POSTSCRIPT-

It is now over fifty years since the war. Some of the scars are still there. I have some pieces of shrapnel in my head, particularly one piece which is embedded in the lower rim of my orbit, about half an inch from the socket. My feet are holding up pretty well considering what I put them through. The swelling is still there, particularly my right ankle. I still have pain when the weather is bad, but all in all, I am doing quite well physically. The flashbacks are still there, but I have learned to cope with them. On occasion I get a violent one, but I feel lucky to be without worse after effects than these.

I also feel that the experiences made a better man of me. I am probably more tolerant of our former enemies than most of the people I know. I realize that the soldiers were fighting for what they thought was right without knowing all of the political background. They were fighting for their country, and they were leaving the politics to the professional politicians. Sounds kind of screwy, but I believe that we did the same thing, even though we had the benefit of probably knowing more of the politics than they did.

We were killing off the most productive, the best physical specimens, the bravest, and probably the most intelligent on both sides.

These are the scars that still hurt. We may not have had some of the problems that face our planet today if some of these men had survived. We may have killed a Solomon, or a budding Einstein, or some other well endowed individual who could have left us with a great invention or priceless art form. We also could have killed Jerome Jacobs and anything that he might leave to posterity.

We almost never kill the worst people involved in these wars, the perpetrators. We were never certain that Hitler was dead, and Hirohito was still alive at the end of the war. There are still some bad ones around from more recent wars.

I believe that one of the difficulties that was almost as bad as the living conditions was the fact that we did not know when if ever we would get out of there. In a civil prison there is a sentence, and the prisoner can look forward to leaving the prison when the sentence is over. As a prisoner of war you are at the mercy of the enemy, and there is no guarantee that there ever will be any freedom. This was particularly true when there was a rumor that Hitler ordered all of the Jewish prisoners killed, and that if the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe hadn’t interceded this possibly could have happened.

The hunger was probably the worst problem. There never was a minute during the time that I spent there that I was not hungry. The hunger overshadowed all of the other physical and mental agonies that we encountered. It was relentless and probably still has left a mark on my behavior.

I have spent all of the years since the war trying to help mankind instead of doing my best to obliterate it. I sleep well at night now, and sometimes even during the day. That wasn’t always the case. I had many months of sleepless nights when all that I could think about was the war. I don’t know if it was due to the nearness of death or because of guilt feelings for what I had done, or both.

The cost of the air war is unbelievable. The fuel for one Mustang carrying 500 gallons was about $1500. Multiply this by the 750 fighters in the sky each day and the 1000 or more bombers burning over four times this amount of fuel. Add the cost of the ground crew including the mechanics, the armorers, the support personnel, and of course the air crews and their training, and the cost of the equipment itself and the price is staggering.

This money could have easily supported the health care for the nation for many years, or could have been used for so many other humanitarian things.

I have written this material for my children and their children. There is some importance in knowing about your ancestors. I miss not knowing about my own. I also want my descendants to have a love for this country and know that at least one of their ancestors had put his life on the line for it. They should also know that if I hadn’t made it back, they might never have been born.

For anyone else who might read this true story either in this or some future generation I hope that there might be some historical value in what I have written.

A few years ago we had the fiftieth reunion of the 357th fighter group at Long Beach, California.

My old buddies Ozzie Howes and Matthew[Jack]Martin were there along with some other of my old friends, and of course Chuck Yeager and Bud Anderson were present.

Naturally Ozzie and Matt and I spent much time together reminiscing and renewing our old friendship. It was great!

There also was a surprise for me! While on a bus transporting the group to a small airport in Chino where a dozen Mustangs were on display, I overheard a conversation between three of the men sitting in front of me. They were talking about a video tape that they had seen in the hotel that morning. It seems that while we were in England during the war one of the ground crew had “borrowed” a 16mm gun camera from one of the grounded Mustangs and had been busy filming some of our day to day operations. One of the scenes showed two Mustangs taking off together in the usual formation. The aircraft on the left dropped it’s right fuel tank in front of the aircraft on the right. They were amazed that the aircraft on the right had survived and they were applauding the pilot of that aircraft for remaining cool and continuing on with the mission.

I tapped one of the men on the shoulder and explained that I was the pilot of that aircraft and that I remembered the incident clearly. I also explained that I had no other choice but to continue on my way particularly since I had not hit the tank and that I considered it a good omen and that nothing could kill me that day if it had not already happened.

That evening at the reunion I was introduced to the man who had taken the footage of the event and he congratulated me for living through the near catastrophe. He told me that the footage would be part of a movie that he was making and that I would receive a copy of the tape.

A couple of the men also remembered the Tirpitz story and I felt good about that.

The men of the 357th are getting older. In a few years it will all be over except for some of the books and movies, and there will be no more personal experience stories to be heard. This is another reason for me to write as I have done.

At the last Group reunion in Myrtle Beach, four rebuilt Mustangs with our group’s markings on the nose were flown in from different parts of the country and were to fly together in formation as we did when we were in England during the war. Chuck was to fly the one named after the Mustang that he flew in combat; Glamorous Glen.

Bud Anderson flew Old Crow, the Mustang that he flew in WWII.

Before allowing any of the aircraft to be started, Chuck did the pre-flight on all four of them, checking them with love and respect. I was impressed with his knowledge of the aircraft, even after all the years away from them. He knew every nut and bolt in the Mustang, even knowing hiding places in the airplane that the present owners did not know about.

The Air Force should be congratulated for promoting this man to General. They certainly got their money’s worth!

One more final note:

Having spent some time in a prison camp I can fully appreciate the much more inhumane and brutal treatment that the prisoners in the Japanese, Korean, and the North Vietnamese camps suffered. Also, the amount of time spent by some of the prisoners in all of these wars in some cases was counted in years, not months, as in my case.

I truly don’t know how they survived. These men and in some cases women should be treated with all of the love and care that they deserve.

Oh Yes!

I did try to contact Ann Glover when I arrived home, but I could not find her. I know that she had married and had left Sarasota sometime during my internment. If she had sent letters to me to my address in England, the letters probably were returned MIA, Missing in Action.