In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

some short tales...

"I'm with the air force, not the infantry!"
After forming the 432nd Fighter Squadron in the year 1943, the men of our group left on a ship from Amberly Field, Australia, heading towards Port Moresby, in New Guinea. When we arrived off the shore of Port Moresby, we got into an LCI, or Landing Craft. At that time, it was mid afternoon. The man driving the LCI told us all to make sure to duck down for the landing. He also said to make sure we were wearing our helmets, and that we were carrying our guns. We approached the sandy, golden beach, with coconut trees, and extremely thick shrubbery leading to the jungle. We could hear many loud, screaming voices, which we could not understand. We assumed it was the Japanese, and that we were in an invasion. I was trembling with fear, and I remember saying to a buddy standing next to me, " Hey, we are in the air force, not the infantry!!". We finally landed, and the front of the dull gray LCI dropped open for us to get out. Much to our surprise, we saw an estimated amount of 30-50 natives spread out across the beach. They were yelling loudly at us, waving their arms. It was their way of greeting us to their land. I asked a friend named Murray where the Japanese were, and I was told that they were about 20 miles inland. We passed by the natives, to load trucks to our destination of Dobodura Air Strip.

Close Call at Dobodura Air Strip
While at Dobodura Air Strip, we were bombed and strafed by the Japanese at least 2-3 times per week. I assumed that they had an Air Strip on the other side of the mountain towards the East, where the sun rose each morning at about 5:00 AM. I was crossing the strip to get to a P38 that I was assigned to work on that day. I was walking through the middle of the olive green, metal air strip, just as the sun was rising that day. I saw four of my buddies to the side of me hiding in shrubbery, farther to the side of the Air Strip. They waved to me to lay down, and were yelling to me to lay also. I followed their directions immediately. Right after I laid down on the Air Strip, something happened that was of great surprise to me. A Japanese Mitsubishi Zero, with it's easily visible Rising Sun design painted on it, was shooting at me. The shooting lasted less than 30 seconds, but bullets had landed 2-3 feet on both sides of me. I got up and ran towards my four friends on the side after the zero had passed overhead. As I was running, I noticed that my knees were shaking. I felt so scared, yet happy to have come out alive, all at the same time. I thanked them with much gratitude, once I reached them. They told me that I was extremely lucky that I didn't get hit, or even killed. I knew that this was very true, and I was ever so grateful.

Piss Call Charlie: A Pilot's Fantasy
On the East side of Dobodura, about 10 miles or so, stood a mountain. This mountain could have been 8 miles high. Every single morning, we were strafed by a Mitsubishi Zero at around 5:00 AM. ( around sunrise ) It aimed at our planes, and also aimed at us. It was a big nuisance, and we called it Piss Call Charlie. One day, a pilot was fed up with this particular plane. He decided that he would shoot that zero, and stop it for good. I believe this pilot was Joe Forster. So, bright and early at 4:30 in the morning, he took off in one of our P38's. It was a shiny, silver plane, which had yellow propeller noses. He bravely circled the skies above us, waiting for the Zero to arrive. We could see our P38 chasing the Japanese Zero. The P38's guns were rapidly blasting at the Zero. They passed the Air Strip, and began to climb. Our pilot got a direct hit at it, and put an end to all of the future "Charlies".


Pete Madison's Narrow Escape with Death
On a fighter sweep from Biak, Maj. Thomas McGuire led Hades Squadron over the harbor at Manokwari, Vogelkop. Spotting a small freighter, he ordered the Lightning's down in a strafing run. When queried about releasing belly tanks, the Major replied in the negative. The freighter would take nothing to finish and the patrol could continue. His men complied.
A P- 38 encumbered with 165 gallon drop tanks was a fearsomely heavy thing that in combat had two disadvantages. A single tracer bullet hit in those gas-laden containers can turn an airplane into a fireball. Young lieutenant H. N. "Pete" Madison graphically discovered the second liability.

Rolling in on the freighter, Madison focused on its bridge, now covered in tiny winking flashes his API rounds. This ship grew larger in the lieutenant’s bullet proof windshield when he decided to pull out of his dive. As the pilot pulled back on the steering yoke, the Lightning shuttered and groaned as the tanks’ full weight fought the pullout. Furthermore, Madison was still on cruise control settings, engines nowhere near requisite power. Instead of its characteristic zooming climb the ship sank lower and lower, the Japanese freighter now blotting out his forward vision. As the P- 38 barely cleared the bridge, a mast surged into view and Madison braced for a crash.

The noise and impact stunned the lieutenant as the right engine grazed the mast, the propeller breaking free and smashing the cockpit, Plexiglas shards badly cutting his head. Slamming into the mass flipped the Lightning over as it cleared the ship. Despite the pain, Madison chopped power on his good engine, righted the craft, and set out for home.

Squadron mate Lieutenant Harold W. "Hal" Grey escorted Madison out of the target zone and at 300 feet above the ocean they flew towards Hollandia. Running low on gas, the wounded Lightning made a belly landing on recently captured Wadke Island. Seeing no one tumble out of the smoking craft Lt. James A. "Jim" Moreing landed and ran to the stunned Madison whom he found callable he filling out a form five, "Report on Aircraft Condition." He had been lucky.

[bobbysocks]

The Split-S that Failed
By Col. H.B. Reeves

The 431st FS launched eight P-38's from Clark Field early the morning of March 28th, 1945. We, along with other P-38's from the 475th FG, were to escort a Group of B-25's whose mission was to strike Japanese shipping along the China coast. As a result of the great distance to the target, it was necessary to carry maximum fuel. Additionally, we had been given a secondary mission of glide bombing. For this mission, we were loaded with a 2,000 General Purpose bomb on one shackle and a 300 gallon fuel tank on the other. This was the heaviest load for takeoff that I had experienced in a P-38, and it turned out to be a piece of cake; I had plenty of runway left when I broke ground.
I was the element leader of the last flight (#3). Shortly after takeoff, a wing man up front experienced mechanical difficulty and had to abort the mission. It was necessary to move my wingman forward to fill the empty space, leaving me as Tail-end Charlie. The mission went as planned and after the B-25's cleared the target, we made our bomb run releasing at 4,000 ft. We then escorted the bombers toward home to about 30 miles offshore. As we had not seen any enemy fighters, we requested a release from the bombers. We received an okay. At this point, we turned back for a fighter sweep down the French Indo-China coast to the south. Twenty to thirty minutes later, a radio call sounded "BANDIT" and the fight was on. My flight, down to 3 P-38's, stayed at about 10,000 ft., while the others engaged the Japanese fighters at 15,000 to 10,000 ft. We swept across the area of Can Rahn Bay without seeing an enemy aircraft. Disappointed, we turned toward our base (Clark Field) and reduced power for economy cruise. We were a long way from home.
We no sooner got cruise condition set when I noted in my rear view mirror three Japanese fighters (HAMPS) at shooting range, their wing and cowl guns blazing. I yelled "BANDITS" on the radio and kicked hard right rudder as well as hard forward yoke. This action rolled me almost to an inverted position. I managed to get full power (Max RPM, 60 inches of MANIFOLD PRESSURE and full rich mixture) as I completed a diving turn to the right, coming up to about where I began the evasive maneuver. I was looking for the Japanese fighters. I saw my flight leader who was engaging a HAMP and his wingman was in trail behind and below him. Suddenly, another HAMP came into view and was lining up on #2 P-38. As soon as I noted this HAMP, which was climbing rapidly and trying to close on #2, I maneuvered to get into a trailing position. I was rapidly closing on the HAMP. He was 1400-1500 ft. above me and 1600-1800 ft. ahead of me. I continued to close rapidly on him and when I was nearing firing range, he did a rapid half roll, and started into a split-S.

Note: This was a typical attack maneuver used by the Japanese and was often effective. A HAMP would complete a Split-S, then roll out and climb to a level astern of his target.

Things happened rapidly within the next few moments. The HAMP'S diving flight path was bringing him directly in front of me. I lowered my nose to get a lead. The HAMP was in a vertical dive and our two aircraft were closing rapidly. I was looking at the top side of the HAMP as I started going down. I was essentially in a right side up position, but I began to lower my nose to get off a short burst. Both aircraft were at about the same altitude when I fired. I observed flashes on his canopy and wing roots just before the HAMP passed from my view. Immediately, I broke right to look for him. Instead of the HAMP, I saw the Japanese pilot in his parachute. My turn took me right past the parachute, and I could see that the pilot's head was hanging.

My flight leader and his wingman were engaged with three more HAMPS. I kept my speed up and climbed to join them. I was nearing them when a HAMP suddenly appeared from the usual afternoon cumulus. I promptly latched on to him and closed to firing range. I fired two fairly long shots, and splashed him. He was burning and smoking as he hit the low-lying hills. We turned for home and reduced speed.

We had gotten further and further from home and had several minutes of high fuel consumption during the dogfight. As we coasted out at about Can Rahn Bay, we slowed to cruise speed. We kept our heads on swivels as we didn't have fuel for another fight. We discussed the kills we had made and when we were about 15 minutes out, we fired all remaining ammunition to lighten the aircraft weight and give us increased mileage per gallon of fuel.

After landing at Clark Field and filling out the Form 1, I noted the sortie had been 9 hours and 25 minutes. That's a long time to sit on the folded one-man dinghy.

[bobbysocks]

a link to the war diary of james waymire a gunner in the 323nd Sq of the 91st heavy bomb group. has the original diary and a typed rendition of it.



https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&p...li&hl=en&pli=1

[bobbysocks]

A Few Words about Thomas McGuire
by Major General Franklin Nichols

When I graduated from flying school in April 1941, I was assigned to Wheeler Field, Hawaii to fly fighters. I was elated, as this was my first choice and I arrived there ready to be a gung-ho fighter pilot and enjoy living it up in Hawaii. Then in December 1941, the Japanese changed my life forever and we were playing a different game. It became a matter of survival--- kill or be killed.

In August of 1942, I volunteered for the Fifth Air Force in Australia and joined the 7th Fighter Squadron, 49th fighter group en route to Port Moresby, New Guinea, flying P-40s. Initially, I was a wingman, then a Flight Leader, and then Operations Officer of the squadron. I hoped that I would become the Squadron Commander of the 7th Squadron, but that was not to be.

In March of 1943, Colonel Hutchison, the Group Commander told me to pack my bags. I was going to activate a squadron, in a new twin-engine P-38 Fighter Group, being formed in Brisbane, Australia. Starting with experienced cadre from the 49th Group and the balance of the squadron, new personnel from the United States, we were to have the 431st Fighter Squadron combat-ready in three months. I was walking on air. This was a chance to form a squadron using my ideas and my objectives and this is when I first met Tommy McGuire. He had recently been assigned to the 9th Fighter Squadron, of the 49th Group, and was reassigned as one of my combat-ready pilots, and he joined me in Brisbane. McGuire had little combat experience and no victories, but he had been in the Alaskan theater. Though I didn’t know it at the time, he was one of the few pilots in the Pacific who had been trained to fly p-38s back in the States, and he was highly-qualified in this type of aircraft.

At first I thought he was just another fighter jock and I welcome him and turned him over to Captain John Hood, my Operations Officer. Two weeks passed before I had my first serious conversation with him. John Hood came to me with a problem of assigning McGuire. He should have been an element leader but none of the Flight Commanders wanted him. They all said that "he talks too much." It was strictly a matter of personality conflicts. I told John to send Mac to see me and I would try to resolve this petty personality problem. Mac didn’t know that there was a problem, so I told him I needed an Assistant Engineering Officer who was highly qualified in the P-38 to test fly all the new aircraft arriving in the squadron. He would okay each plane or recommend proper maintenance for it. Since I was beginning my flying transition into the P-38, I also told McGuire that I needed an experienced P-38 instructor pilot to check me out and get me combat ready in that aircraft.

We met the three month challenge of achieving combat-ready status and we proceed to Port Moresby the latter part of August and on the day after our arrival we flew our first combat mission. We were flying out of twelve-mile strip for a month, and waiting for our new strip to be completed across the mountains in the Buna area. In late September we finally got the squadron together as a complete unit. Our combat results had been outstanding. We had been on several successful air-to-air combat missions. and our number of confirmed victories was rapidly growing. McGuire’s talents as a fighter pilot were soon evident and he was one of the first members of the group to be an ace, shooting down five enemy aircraft. With long-range P-38s we were able to escort the bombers to new Japanese airbases at Wewak, Kabul, and Hollandia, and our air-to-air opportunities had increased considerably during the period and Mac became one of our leaders in confirmed kills
On 16 October 1943, I received a call in the evening from the Fifth Fighter Command telling me to report to General Wurtsmith the next day. I caught the courier early the next morning and arrived at his office about 10 o’clock. He explained that I had been selected to return to the states for one month’s leave and said another month would be approved if I wanted to stay longer. He wanted to award me the medals I was due, that day, so I could return that afternoon to make arrangements for change of command of the squadron and take care of details for my departure. I was elated but also sad that I was leaving the best job I ever had with the finest squadron any commander ever had.

Late that afternoon I caught the courier and returned to the squadron. I was met at the airplane with the news that my squadron had been involved in some heavy aerial combat defending American shipping in Oro Bay. The good news was that the 431st Squadron had made a big air-to-air interception of a large bomber and fighter force with great results. The bad news was that McGuire had been shot down after he had destroyed three enemy planes.

Later that evening we learned that McGuire had been picked up by a PT boat twenty miles off shore. He had "borrowed" my airplane, since his was in for repairs, and he had bailed out of the burning craft after being wounded. It was that he survived as his parachute had become entangled and opened just before he hit the water.

There were standing orders that no one would fly my airplane without my permission. McGuire had taken it anyway, knowing that a maximum effort was important to protect our forces. I was glad McGuire had survived but I was upset that he had taken my plane. The next morning I headed to the hospital where I planned to ream him out real good.

I learned that McGuire had been repeating over and over, "My God, Major Nichols is really going to be mad at me for losing his plane." He was right, but he had broken ribs, shrapnel wounds, severe burns, and his eyes were bloodshot, and when I saw how badly he was injured I could only console him. I told him how proud I was of him for shooting down the Japanese planes and surviving. I said, "To hell with it, I don’t care about the airplane." Of course I was lying about the airplane but it made him feel better.

I was convinced this was his last combat mission and he would not fly combat for a long time, if ever. In fact, when I left in a few days for my trip home to join my wife in San Antonio, I met Tommy’s wife, Marilynn, for the first time and I assured her that he would never fly combat again. I told her I was sure he would be coming home after his recovery. How wrong I was and how mistaken I was with his motivation to remain and fight the war to it’s very end. He would be one in a million and my hero.

I will never forget the last conversation we had when I visited Mac at Hollandia. I was a Lieutenant Colonel with the Fifth Fighter Command and he was now a Major and the Squadron Commander of the 431st Fighter Squadron. He told me, "Colonel Nichols, I remember when we started out in Brisbane in 1943, you had a goal to make the 431st the best fighter squadron in the Army Air Force. My goal is the same as yours." He gave his life making that goal possible.

[bobbysocks]

This account is the story of James Reasman's time in the 27th Fighter Bomber Group

Northern France

We landed at an airfield at St. Dizier. Our quarters were tents located on the grounds of a fairly large chateau. The senior officers and the Officer's Club were in the chateau itself. Some new pilots were there waiting for us. One said his name was Dave and that he had been an instructor in P-47s for two years. As we were talking and getting settled in our new quarters, a Jug from the 86th came over and buzzed us in a welcome wagon gesture of sorts. The plane had a shark's mouth painted on its nacelle. I suspected it was my Irish friend, Reilly. He did a pretty good job and he shook the hell out of our tents. But the new guy, Dave didn't seem to be impressed.
"What's the name of our Engineering Officer?" he asked.
"Captain "Pappy" Devin."
"I think I'll see him tomorrow. Maybe he has a plane that needs a test hop. Something like that requires an answer." My new friend and I took off for the chateau to eat dinner and forgot our conversation.
The next evening during our usual pre-dinner bull session, Dave said he checked out a plane and buzzed the 86th.
"They won't forget that buzz job for awhile," he announced.
"Oh, yeah" What did you do; blow a couple of tents over?"
"No," he replied, "I buzzed them inverted."
I thought maybe he went down the runway upside down or something like that. A few days later I visited Sgt. Ed Gregg and found out what Dave did.

"Honest to God, Jim. I looked up and saw this belly tank coming at me with an airplane hanging from it. He got everybody's attention then came back and did it again and to make sure no one missed it, he did it again."
"You mean here or out on the runway?"
"Here. I swear he pruned that tree there. Then he went into a sharp climb doing a couple of rolls and then he came back down the runway and did the prettiest eight point slow roll right on the deck that anybody ever saw."
That was the end of the buzz jobs and Dave had a nickname, Dangerous Dave.

The Germans were being compressed so their armament was denser. Captain Wasserman, our G-2, maintained a map to chart our missions and the map showed the gun emplacements. Each 88 gun emplacement was a red dot with a red circle of about 3" diameter indicating the range of that gun. The war front was an almost solid line of red circles. German 88's were a pilot's worse fear. It could throw a charge up to over 10,000 feet with a black cloud that looked like a figure eight. I don't know about the other pilots but, in my case, when I heard eighty-eight, I flinched. And I flinched for at least five years after the war was over.

Captain Wasserman's map showed a solid line of three inch circles, except for one area where the circles were close but didn't touch. That became our corridor to fly behind enemy lines. Maybe the circles didn't touch but we always received one single lone solitary shot going through that spot and it was always close. So close that we nicknamed it Annie Oakley.

Other outfits used the same corridor. On day as we approached it,, a flight in front of us got its welcoming shot. The radio crackled, "oh, oh. Annie got me. I am returning to based. Blue Leader, take over the mission."

When we went through, we received our one shot greetings, too.

At first, our missions were similar to our missions in Italy. Hit behind the lines at supply centers and distribution points. Every once in a while, we would get a peachy keen escort mission. Our air superiority was so overwhelming t this point there were seldom any problems. I had almost seventy missions and had not seen an enemy plain flying yet. That was soon to change.

THE mission was composed of four flights, sixteen planes. We were going on a dive-bombing mission and it was led by Major Joe. A short time after crossing the bomb-line and after receiving our ceremonial blast from Annie, one of the pilots noticed enemy aircraft circling overhead. It appeared they were about to sweep down on us. Major Joe gave the order to arm our bombs, drop them, then form a Luftberry. A Luftberry manuever is strictly defensive. The planes fly in a circle so that every plane's tail is covered. If an enemy plane is foolish enough to get on one of the planes, there was a plane in position to shoot him down. That the theory anyway.

I found myself looking back at my tail and each time I did, I was that big beautiful engine nacelle. SO I relaxed and looked around. Damn! 180 degrees from me was a Messerschmidt on the tail of a P-47. At the same time, Major Joe screamed over the radio, "Kill him. Kill him. Get that son ofa bitch."

Nothing happened. The ME peeled off and joined his friends. Soon they were gone and we returned to base.

At the de-briefing, Major Joe was furious. I never saw him so angry. And the sad part, no one saw the ME except Joe and I. Joe looked at me and asked, slightly incredulous, "You saw him, Reasman?"

"Yessir, but he was opposite me. You didn't want me to break formation, did you?"

"Hell, no." He looked at me with new respect. I think I emerged from the doghouse at that moment.

Search and destroy missions were on the increase, especially when there was an overcast at a few thousand feet. On one such occasion, our mission was composed of three flights and the overcast was about two thousand feet, a very dangerous height. At that altitude, the Germans were able to throw everything at us; 88s, 40s, 20s, rocks and mess kits.

One of my favorite flight leaders, Pappy by name, was directing the mission. By the way, anybody over 25 years of age was called Pappy or some other antiquated reference to reflect his ancient achievement.

We found a train in a wooded area with very discernible white steam coming out of the engine. Pappy sent one flight down and three 88s opened fire. I think it was a set-up with the train as bait. Two of the guns were at the rear of the train in a heavily wooded area. One gun was directly under meat the head of the train and was located in the backyard of a house. The gun was protected by a ring of sandbags. I asked Pappy for permission to put the gun out of commission.

"Roger, Blue three."

I told my wingman to wait until I pulled off the target before he came down and I would protect him when he pulled off the target. Down I went and poured those eight 50s into the gun emplacement. I pulled off to the left and watched my partner do the same thing. I circled watching the gun. It didn't move.

Soon Pappy gave the order to hit the deck and we buzzed back to our lines safely.

We moved again; this time to Nancy, France. Actually it was only near Nancy. Our airfield was on top of a little knoll. The runway was steel panels or mesh. The hump in the runway was so extensive that when you landed on one end you couldn't see the other end. On a mission we aborted, probably due to bad weather, we landed with our bombs. The tower was usually about a good third of the way down the runway. When I landed, the tower started to scream so loud that I couldn't understand them. As I passed the tower, I looked over at them and saw the reason for their panic. The 500 pound bomb on my right wing had fallen off and was doing a creditable job of imitating a porpoise. All I had to do was goose the throttle a little and get away from it. The poor guys in the tower could only watch and pray it didn't go off. If it had, the tower would have been blown to bits.

We heard of an incident of a P-47 landing with its bombs, the bombs dropping off and exploding; destroying everything of the Jug behind the canopy. I was told the pilot came out OK but was deaf for two weeks. I wonder how he is today.

Our whiskey ration came in and I was very disappointed. It was two bottles of Black and White Scotch. I didn't like whisky much and that applied especially to Scotch. So I took one of the bottles down to the line. I was climbing into the cockpit to get ready for a mission. The crew chief or the armament chief would stand on the wing and help the pilot with the parachute, the acrobatic straps, the safety belt, oxygen mask, etc. When I was all comfy, I handed the chief the bottle of Scotch. I looked past him at the armament chief and he had a horrified look on his face. What did I do wrong?

The next day, the armament chief was helping me into my outfit. "You know, Lieutenant, when he gave that bottle to the chief I just about shit."
"I noticed. What the problem?"
"The chief is an alky."
I groaned. "It turned out OK. I'm proud of him. He took it back to the barracks and gave everybody a drink. You are a popular man down there."

The plane I was assigned had seen better days. When I got back safely from a mission, I was not only glad the Germans had not shot me down but the plane was in good enough condition to get me back. The skin had scorched streaks on it and the aluminum was heavily oxidized. A beauty queen it wasn't. The next week, that plane was polished to a high gloss. It sparked. Major Joe complimented me on how good it looked. He was puzzled by my nonchalance. I told him I didn't know what happened. I guessed the crew decided to shine her up. He walked away, shaking his head. Of course, I didn't tell him about the Scotch.

We took our laundry top a nearby village. We drove up with dirty laundry (and soap) and picked up clean laundry. The village was a farming community. In France, the farmers lived together, a throwback to the fuedal days when they lived together for defense reasons. The barns were on the first floor or ground level and the living quarters on the second floor. It made for very odorous living quarters.

We were informed we were moving again; this time into Germany. We were to be the first Army Air Corps unit across the Rhine. We were cautioned that the move was "Top Secret."

The day before the move I went into the farming village to pick up my laundry. Of course, I had no dirty laundry to leave.

The young woman asked, "No lange?"

"No."

"Departe' Allemayne?"

I gave her a noncommittal shrug.

She wagged her finger at me and smiled, "No fraternize fraulien, eh?"

So much for top secret moves. She was right. In Germany we were not to socialize or otherwise with the Germans. I took my clean laundry and left.

[bobbysocks]

This account is the story of James Reasman's time in the 27th Fighter Bomber Group

Germany

On the return of one of our missions, we ran into a flight of B-17s circling. They wanted to know if we were their escorts and we replied no. They pleaded with us to take them in but our flight leader said he would call for permission first. Permission was granted and back in we went. The escort was uneventful. We landed. Two missions and one landing; a helluva lot better than one mission and three landings.

The German Wehrmacht was retreating rapidly. There was a problem, however. They would abandon a town but when our ground troops entered, the citizens of the town would use their weapons to snipe at our troops and kill a few. A tactic was developed of setting up loud speakers on the edge of town and requesting the major to come out under a white flag. Some of my missions involved flying over towns that were reluctant to send out the mayor. The town would be informed by loud speaker that the P-47s overhead would come down and strafe them if they didn't surrender. Sometimes they gave up and sometimes we strafed. They always eventually gave up with no loss to our troops. P-47s were feared. The German propaganda told their citizens that the American pilots were Chicago gangsters!

On these missions, we were always given a secondary target in case the town surrendered. One time, our secondary target was reporting to a ground communications unit for instructions. Another procedural wrinkle was assigning a pilot to the front lines to work with the ground troops and tell us what the ground commander wanted accomplished. Our troops were waiting on one side of the river getting ready to attack a very picturesque little town on the other side that was nestled between two hills. The liaison pilot instructed us to strafe the two hill tops because there were guns up there. One flight took one hill and the other flight took the other. I could not see the telltale wink of enemy guns firing so we just strafed the hills at random. It was getting dusk and we asked for final instructions before returning home.

"Yeah, give the town a good going over. We are going across pretty soon."

It seemed a shame to strafe that town. It looked like a picture postcard. We flew over our troops, went across the river and set a few buildings on fire.

Another secondary target was very interesting. We showed up at a fairly large town. There were a few multi-storied buildings. To the south of the town, on a hill were three of our tanks. We watched the tanks fire and looked at the town and saw a building disintegrate. And then we spied a German tank leaving town. It was huge and painted "bad guy" black. It tired to make it across an open field; a very bad mistake. Twelve P-47s did a round robin on that tank. Our efforts seemed futile. I know I made at least three passes myself. Then one of the armour piercing bullets rattled around inside that tank and set the ammo off. Whoom…whom…whom. It didn't go all at once but time after time. I am sure our tanks saw it from up on the hill. That made me feel very good.

I don't remember my 93rd mission but I remember landing and seeing the field encircled with A-26s. When I shut off the engine and the crew chief climbed up to help me out of the cockpit, I asked him what was going on. He told me the A-26 outfit could not land at their field because it was weathered in. As soon as it cleared, they would be taking off.

After the debriefing, I went out to look over the A-26s and their crews. When I graduated from Basic Training, most of the class went to single engine. I was hoping I would find an old Aviation Cadet buddy and I did.

Red Ramsey and I had boarded a troop train together in Pittsburgh, Pa. and had been together through Basic. I invited him up to the Officer's Club for a drink. We were sitting at a table recalling some of our Cadet good times when Ellis, the assistant Operations Officer walked up.

"Reasman, Joe wants to see you right now."

"What the hell for?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask him!" And he gave me that crooked grin.

I asked Red to wait for me and as I approached Major Joe's office, I saw six other pilots waiting there. What the hell; a secret mission or what?

"Are they all here, Ellis?" Joe asked.

"Yessir."

Joe had a big smile on his face and announced, "Men, I am proud to tell you that you are now First Lieutenants." And then he handed out silver bars for our collars. He didn't need to bother with me, I had polished my gold bar so much and so long that it was already silver. At least, it wasn't gold.

I returned to the bar to a celebration. Promotions always meant a party and the drinks were on the promoted. At least, I got to share expenses with six other guys. I do not remember much after that. I just barely remember going to bed at two in the morning, very inebriated. Guess who was awakened at five by the German wake up call? You guessed it. Me and two other very hung over brand new First Lieutenants. The Operations Officer had to be sadistic.

I slept in my GI shorts, swung out of bed and put on my GI brogans. I walked around in the chilly morning air, I poured cold water over my head, I brushed the fuzz off my teeth and when I dressed, I walked to the briefing room. I hated coffee then but I crank a couple of cups. Somebody told me it would wake me up. I didn't.

My 94th mission was a three flight search and destroy. I really was beyond caring. I would just play follow the leader and hope to hell we didn't find anything. At least nothing noisey.

But we did. A train. Didn't they know enough to hide when it got light? Down we went with guns blazing. Oh, oh. The sides of two of the cars dropped away…Flak cars and they started to return fire. I head never seen flak cars before but when somebody shoots at me I have a tendency to want to shoot back. Soon the guns were not firing at us. I don't know what was in those cars to warrant two flak cars to guard them but nothing exploded or burned. We returned to base. At the debriefing, one of the new First Looies said he blacked out leveling off for a landing and I believed him! Thank God, I had no more missions scheduled and I hit the sack.

One day, a few of us were sitting around the Pilot's Ready room when Captain Wasserman walked in. "I need four volunteers…You, you, you and you, he pointed. One of the "yous" was me. We followed him into the briefing room.

"You are to go on an escort mission. You won't get credit for a combat mission but you can log combat time. You are to meet a B-17 full of VIPs here," he pointed to the map, "And escort it up to the front lines. Just go where they go." He didn't know who the VIPs were…political, military, entertainers or what.

The Old Prospector was leading the flight and when we joined up with the B-17, he put me and my wingman on the left wing and he and his wingman on the right wing. The front is very easy to see. It was a solid line of smoke and dust across the face of Germany. The B-17 headed Northeast. I very dutifully kept my head on a swivel. We were protecting a precious cargo and I didn't want any surprises. When we were about ten miles from the front, the B-17 did a 180 and flew back to where we came from. "Hey," the Old Prospector yelled, "The front is back that way." Then he ordered me to cross over and join up into echelon right. "OK, follow the leader."

He started to do barrel rolls round the B-17 and then we did a loop off the right wing and then a loop off the left wing. Oh, Lordy, I thought. I don't know who those VIPs were but sure as the Good Lord made little green apples there was a very high ranking officer aboard and he was probably flying that damn boxcar. We were going to catch hell when we landed.

We didn't. But we gave Wasserman a good laugh when we told him what happened.

The rumors were flying about the end of the war but there were a few scary missions in store. On one mission we caught a German convoy in a valley between three hills. The approach to a strafing run was difficult. We would pop up over a hill, give a quick squirt from our guns and pull off. We were in more danger of hitting a hill or each other in the close confines o that valley. One of the planes popped up and gave a quick shot when he realized he was shooting at an ambulance. But it wasn't an ambulance. It was full ammo and it damn near blew the pilot our of the sky. At the debriefing, he claimed his engine quit for a second and so did his heart.

The next mission was an escort, usually a milk-run but not this one. Our three flights met a large group of B-26s. Our leader placed one flight to the right of the group, one flight to the left and his flight at six o'clock high. Dangerous Dave was my wingman. After dropping their bombs, we started to return to our lines. Somebody called out, "German jets six o'clock low!" Right under us. I started flipping up on my wing, knowing Dave could take care of himself no matter what I did. I saw a wing fly off a B-26 and another bend away from the group. Parachutes came out of two planes. I still didn't see the attackers. Then Dave cried out, "Let's go, Reasman."

I did a split S and directly in front of me was a German jet. I fired. I missed. I dropped my wing tanks and pushed my throttle to the fire wall and hit the water button. That damn jet left me like I was standing still.

By this time Dave and I were below the cumulus clouds and we started to climb up through them. When we broke free, I saw a P-47 ahead of me and he started to turn toward us. I thought Maybe those jets were coming back. I turned for a quick look, saw nothing and, when I turned back, a parachute was floating down through the clouds. What happened? Who was it? Why was it? I saw no flak and there was no radio message. When I rejoined the flight, I saw it was the leader's wingman who was missing. Damn!

At the debriefing, we tired to spot the general area all this happened. Since I was lost most of the time I wasn't much help. I didn't know that when a pilot went down, a team was sent to that area when it was captured, to find out what happened. A few weeks later, the area was captured and Wasserman sent two teams to investigate. They found out nothing. But Wasserman came up with a brilliant idea. A lot of Polish DPs (displaced persons) were in the area, used by the Germans as forced labor. So he sent Lipiarz, our only Polish speaking pilot

The Polish DPs knew and led Lip to a Catholic church yard and showed him the grave. The pilot had been killed when he landed. A tragic story to end a tragic mission.

[bobbysocks]

Checkertails - Part 1 - The Legend of the 325th Fighter Group

This is Part 1 of a Two-Part Documentary detailing the story of the 325th Fighter Group "The Checkertail Clan" who fought in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations.

This has taken 3-years of research, which has included the discovery of new, never before seen footage and photos supplied by the surviving members of the now Legendary Fighter Group.

Created using WW2 footage, archive photos, the footage and pictures detailed above, as-well as interviews filmed in the US with surviving Veterans, this is Part 1 of a comprehensive history detailing the exploits of "The Checkertail Clan".

http://blip.tv/file/4433167

[McQ59]

Great Bobby
Checkertailstory is ab fab!

[bobbysocks]

On August 19, 1942 Flight Officer Hollis "Holly" Hills, an American serving with No. 414 Sqn of the RCAF, took off from Gatwick in the pre-dawn darkness, as "weaver" (wingman) to Flt. Lt. Freddie Clarke. Flying at wavetop level, the glow from the searchlights and AA fire at Dieppe permitted him to stay with his leader. Once over the target, they were promptly separated; both returned safely. On the second mission that morning, they saw a huge dogfight filling the sky over Dieppe, and Hills spotted four Fw 190s off to their right. With his radio out and unaware of the German fighters, Flt. Lt. Clarke left himself open and was hit. Then Hollis caught one of the FW's with a deflection burst. It started smoking and flaming, then the canopy popped off. Hollis fired again, and the plane fell to ground. He headed for home, shepherding Clarke as he went, dueling another Fw 190 for miles. In his fight with the Fw's, he lost sight of Clarke. After that, Hollis flew home uneventfully, to a dinner made rather somber by Clarke's apparent loss. But next morning, Clarke re-appeared over Hollis' bunk, smelling of seaweed; he had ditched off Dieppe and been rescued. He had witnessed and could officially confirm Hollis' victory over the Focke-Wulf, the first of many aerial victories for the Mustang. And Clarke had the dubious honor of being the first combat Mustang to be shot down in the war by the Germans.

I joined [the Royal Canadian Air Force] in June 1940 and was called up for enlistment in September of that year. Due to problems in the starting of the Empire Training Scheme, I did guard duty until preflight training and selection for aircrew started for me in mid-December at the Hunt Club in Toronto. I finished that and was accepted for pilot training.

I reported to #7 Elementary Flight Training School mid-January 1941. There I was trained on Fleet Finches, graduating in March. It was then on to Service Flying Training School at Dauphin, Manitoba, on Harvards [North American AT-6, called Texan in the U.S. Army]. We were the second class at the station. I received my wings and was designated a Sergeant Pilot on 22 June 1941, the day Hitler invaded Russia.

I was able to swap orders with an 18-year-old who wasn't too interested in going abroad and obtained his overseas posting. Via rail and ship I arrived in England in August. OTU followed at Old Sarum in Wiltshire on [Westland] Lysanders and [Curtiss P-40] Tomahawks. It was then on to RCAF Squadron 414 at Croydon (Greater London).

We trained and did some OPs in our Tommies, hours and hours of practice fights [against] Spits and Hurricanes from the operational squadrons at Biggin Hill, Kenley, and Redhill. There was no better way to get proficient at airfighting other than the real thing with bullets. We got Mustang Mk Is in June 1942, getting our battle experience with them at Dieppe in August of that year. I got a FW-190--that was the first enemy plane for the Mustang. I also did some train busting and photo missions in the bird.

I transferred to the U.S. Navy November 8, 1942, and returned to the States in December on the Queen Mary. I was send to Jacksonville, Florida, for indoctrination as a naval officer, having been commissioned as a Lieutenant j.g., then on to Miami for air gunnery training. We flew Brewster Buffaloes and Grumman Wildcats. After the first hop as a student, I spent three months there instructing the instructors. [With the war only a year old, probably Holly was the only pilot at Miami with combat experience.]

I did a one-year carrier-based tour in the Pacific Theater in VF-32 (with them I got four Zeroes), then VF-150 and VF-97 till war's end.

I am the only fighter pilot who flew in the two greatest air battles of the war: Dieppe in 1942 and the Great [Marianas] Turkey Shoot in the Pacific in 1944. The thing that I am most proud of is that in my 25 years as a military pilot, I brought back everyone I took out, wartime or peacetime.

-- Commander Hollis H. Hills, USN retired

[bobbysocks]

Big Yank’s Crew Story

The following is excerpted from the book, "483rd," by Donald Stern, Turner Publications, Paducah, Ky, 1994.

The second Unit Citation was for a March 24, 1945 mission. It was called the longest mission flown in Italy, 75 miles beyond Ruhland to the capital of the Fatherland, Berlin. The target was the Daimler-Benz Tank Works which had been assembling heavy and medium tanks for direct shipment to the Russian front. The bomb pattern was accurate in spite of an attack by 16 ME-262 German jet fighters. In the ensuing battle, we were credited with the destruction of six jets against the loss of only one Fortress, the Dailey/Dean crew of the 817th.

The following is an account of the Berlin raid told by the air crew of the plane, the "Big Yank", 840th:

The 483rd is the only Bomb Group in the entire Air Force to be credited with having shot down three German turbo-jet fighters (Me-262) on one mission by one plane, and is the only Group with an aerial gunner to be credited with having shot down two Me-262's. This is the story of the gallant crew that was the Group’s tail-end Charlie in the Big Yank on the Berlin mission on March 24, 1945 and who won these honors for us and helped to earn the second Presidential Citation awarded to the 483rd Bomb Group (H).

Two days before the Berlin mission, the Group had bombed some oil refineries at Ruhland some 75 miles southeast of Berlin at just about the usual limit of the B-I7's range. During the Ruhland mission a direct flak hit on one of the squadron's planes had set it aflame and It began to weave all over the sky, out of control. Lt. Strapko couldn't see the flaming plane or have any way of knowing what was happening except for the reports being given by the gunners in the rear of the plane. The prompt and accurate comments by the gunners made it possible to keep out of the dying plane's path.

Before each mission, it had been the crew's custom to gather in an informal group on the hardstand and exchange a few stories and do some kidding. It was no different for this mission to Berlin, and the fellowship between each of them seemed to release same of the tension that everyone felt. And to add to this day's powwow, Big Yank's Crew Chief, Irvin Davis, found a Lincoln head penny on the hardstand and gave it to (Pilot) Lt.William S. Strapko for good luck. Strapko gave the penny to co-pilot Clair Harper for safe keeping. It was a comforting feeling to each of them that they shared respect for each other and had confidence that each would do his job well when the occasion demanded it, regardless of stress or distraction.


With "take-off'. crew activities followed the normal routine that each position demanded. But in the back of each man's mind there was this thought that "we are in the most vulnerable position in the formation and we can expect little protection from those planes nearest us ." Or, " we are the choice target for fighters." Perhaps even both thoughts passed through their minds, but such thoughts tend to keep one on his toes throughout a mission.


The flight to Berlin proved to be routine and uneventful until they began to approach the target. When they were about 15 miles from the target, the pilot warned everyone to be especially alert for enemy fighters and to hope that none showed up. P-51s formed their escort and were nearby, but some of the German fighters broke through the P-51's surveillance screen and dived on Tail-end-Charlie just as it turned toward the target, the most vulnerable position of the mission.


It was no wonder that the German fighters were able to get through our fighter screen, they were Me-262 turbo-jets and for a second they would be a dot in the sky , the next moment they would be a speeding ball of fire with bullets and cannon spitting out lead at their target. As was the usual case, these Me262's had waited far behind and high until the Group was committed to the bomb run, where the pilot must fly as straight and level as he can to get the bombs on target. There are no maneuvers or evasive action possible once the plane is committed. The plane and the crew are at the mercy of the flak and everything else the enemy can throw at it.


Alert as the gunners were, four of the Me262's came at the Big Yank so fast they caught the gunners by surprise. They were in echelon flight, and dived past the plane, swept under it and circled around in a large circle to begin their second pass and attack. By this time the gunners were ready and as the fighters slowed a little in order to avoid over-shooting the plane, the gunners poured their bullets into the flight path of the Me-262's.


The gunners kept up a running account over the Intercom of what was taking place. Tail gunner Lincoln Broyhill saw two Me-262's in echelon approaching his position and let go as they came within range, the first Me-262 turned away at about 200 yards, he said, "I had seen my tracers going into his fuselage and I'm sure he was badly hit. The minute the first fighter turned away the second came boring in, and I had to keep my guns going, and again at about 200 yards, it turned away and began to spiral down. My guns then jammed because they had been going too long."


About this time, co-pilot Clair Harper, who says he was doing what every co-pilot does at such a time, praying and feeling like he should open his window and fire his 45 out at anything that came into sight, glanced over to his left and saw an Me-262 heading straight for the Big Yank. He yelled to the top turret gunner, Howard Wehner, who, already pumping lead into one Me-262, turned his turret towards the incoming fighter that appeared to be headed for a collision with the Big Yank.


Harper then hollered to the pilot. "Bill, he is going to ram us! " There was little Strapko could do but brace himself for the expected crash, By this time Wehner was firing at the fighter and at about 150 feet, the Me-262 reared up and exploded. Wehner had destroyed his second Me-262 and Harper said later that he could actually see the German pilot's eyes before it was destroyed.


The other gunners had all been very busy keeping the swarms of jets away from their plane, so much so that no one really had much time to be sure that it was his firepower that knocked a plane out of the attack. The bombardier was keeping his eyes glued to the planes ahead so that he would be able to drop his bomb load upon command of the lead bombardier The navigator was busy with his usual assignments, none of which can easily be reflected in relation to what was taking place and at such a rapid pace.

How each man felt during this attack, only he knows, but Lt. Strapko, summarized his feelings with, "it's difficult to express the human personal side of events such as these because each of us had his job to do. Some required quick responses, others, like myself had it) sit and listen to the intercom to what was going on, and in my case, being preoccupied with keeping the plane under control, keeping information and in good position during the bomb run, and not being in a position where I could do anything to avoid the attacking planes."

He added, "I'm sure that the personal and human side that has been related here was experienced not only by our crew members, but by every crew on the mission, the fright that was inside of each of us, our thoughts, hopes and prayers when it was over, was a common feeling shared by all."

After the bombs had been dropped on the Daimler-Benz Tank Works, they came home, the crew calm and composed and ever alert until they were once again safely back in Italy. The fuel tanks were practically empty when they arrived at home base, in fact some of the Group's planes had to land at alternate bases to refuel before continuing on home.

The crew of Big Yank officially received credit for destroying three Me-262's and one probable. It shared in the destruction of six Me-262's and several gunners were credited with jointly knocking down a jet with the aid of gunners from other planes in the box. Lt. Strapko said it very well with: "Everything was very difficult that day while the attack was going on. Every man was fighting for his life and did not have time to keep score."


(On the one plane that went down, the Dailey/Dean crew, 817th, all 10 members survived as Pow's)