In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

Philip Wright in Mission 59 1/2.

March 10, '45 was my sixtieth mission. From now on I'd be eligible for rotation home. It was a happy prospect. What wasn't was a 2,000' ceiling and 5,000' thick cloud cover by no means great weather to be flying combat in.

Since I'd joined the 36th Fighter Group on August 1, 1944, a lot of good friends in the Group hadn't made it as far as I had. They'd either been killed or were missing in action. Among them were pals I'd had gone to flying school with: Jack Wyand, Harry Vibert, and Joe Schultis. Others I recall missing from the pilot's roster of the 23 Fighter Squadron were Don Smollen (K.I.A.), Pit Cole (K.I.A.), Jack Teagarden (K.I.A.), and Don Dreifke (M.I.A.).

But the biggest loss for all of us was Major Albert E. "Easy" Miles, our squadron commander. His chute caught on the tail of his plane when he had to bail out. He went in with his plane. "Easy" Miles was one of the bravest men I have ever known.

The mission today is an armed reconnaissance in an area north of Frankfurt, Germany. My friend and roommate, "Maggie" Magnuson, will lead the squadron of two flights of four P-47 Thunderbolts. I'm to lead the second flight of four.

"Stay the hell away from the Remagen Bridge!" the briefing officer had told us.

The capture of the Remagan Bridge three days earlier had been unbelievably good fortune, and 1st Army was doing everything possible to protect this first bridgehead over the Rhine.

"There is a 15 mile no-fly zone around the bridge and any plane, and I mean any plane-Allied or German, that comes into this zone, is going to be shot down. So stay the hell out of there," he had repeated.

We took off from our Belgian base, and flew east-south-east over cloud cover. Not until we were well into Germany could we see ground through occasional holes in the overcast. In one of these, Maggie spotted a marshaling yard. He radioed the rest of us that he and his wingman were going down and take a look. The two planes of his second element tacked on to the four in my flight. We circled overhead at 10,000 feet and watched Maggie and his wingman dive down and disappear through the hole. Shortly, Maggie radioed up that he'd spotted some locomotives and that the rest of us should come on down.

I radioed my strung-out bunch to follow me and dove down through the hole and pulled out at 1,500' heading north. I saw the marshaling yard and lined up on it, made my bomb run, and released my two 500 pounders, then broke away in a steep 90° left-hand climbing turn. I looked back to see the havoc I'd wrought.

Terrible! My bombs had landed in some peasant's field and blasted a nice big hole in it.

In order that I wouldn't get run into by the planes following me, I climbed back up into the clouds again, made a 180° turn, and came back down out of the clouds and tried to find the locomotives.

I was flying was a brand spanking new P-47D30RA - my plane had been grounded for maintenance. A new plane has the smell of a new car, and I babied this cream-puff along like an old man out for a Sunday drive while I looked for the locomotives. At the same time I was thinking about the marvelous rest leave I'd just returned from in Cannes on the Riviera.

"Ker-thunk." The plane was hit! I didn't even know I was being fired at. No flak, no tracers, no indication of any enemy fire at all.

Aluminum skin over the wheel well on left wing was buckled up. Inside was a raging fire. Every pilot's reaction to such an emergency is to check his controls, and I kicked the rudder pedals. WOW-the fire just spread the length of the wing.

What to do? I could fire-wall the throttle and try to go back on the deck and pray the fire wouldn't get so bad I'd have to bail out. If it did, there wouldn't be time to gain enough altitude to jump. Another problem was, I couldn't remember if there was a bulkhead between the wing root and gas tank under the seat. If I guessed wrong-Blooey!

Then there was the Ramagen Bridge. I guessed it was about 70 miles due west of my position, and if I made, it I'd be shot down by our own people.

My next option was to go up through the 5,000' of cloud cover on instruments, then head for the lines. At least I'd be able to jump, if the plane didn't blow up first. But I was a lousy instrument pilot, and with the plane on fire, I would be watching the fire and not my instruments. No way.

The next choice-jump! The decisions took less than 10 seconds before I started my bailout procedure. I ripped off my oxygen mask, ejected the canopy, and rolled the plane upside down, ready to drop out, exactly as the book said.

Problems: First, I hadn't rolled the trim tabs forward to keep the nose up, when the plane was upside down, and it kept diving towards the ground. Second, you just doesn't "drop" out of a plane going 150 miles an hour. That's no gentle zephyr, and it keeps you jammed in the cockpit. Third, upside down, I was kicking at the stick to keep the nose up, while struggling to get out against slipstream, and I saw I was still hooked to the radio umbilical.

Then pow! Out I went, like a cork from a champagne bottle. I had wriggled out just far enough for the slipstream to grab me instead of holding me in. It was the fastest I've ever gone anywhere, anytime - the radio umbilical didn't slow me down one whit. Forever etched in my memory is the image of the vertical stabilizer going right between my legs. The thought still makes me cringe.

Flight school didn't include practice jumps; from now on it would be on-the-job-training. At best, I was at 1200' and didn't dare observe the nicety of counting to ten before pulling the rip cord. I yanked it. The chute serpentined out and opened with a lovely "WHOOMPH." and had he been there I would have kissed Sergeant McElroy, our parachute rigger.

As the plane flew away-engine roaring-I suddenly felt like two people. One, a stranger, parachuting into Nazi Germany. The other, who was going to get back into plane and fly back safely to the base. This horror just couldn't be happening to me! When the plane crashed into the ground in a huge explosion, I knew I wasn't going back to the base-and I became one person.

Suddenly, everything became quiet-even serene. The first sounds to filter into my consciousness were of the birds singing beneath me. It was eerily disorienting, but beautiful. As I drifted down, Hollywood images of Germans machine-gunning defenseless Allied pilots in parachutes flashed into my mind- I waited?

I pulled on the parachute shroud lines, to control my descent, but I feared if I pulled too hard I'd dump the air from the chute and crash to the ground so I gave it up.

The ground was coming up faster, and I saw a barbed wire fence I might straddle. Then the ground blurred, and I was on it in a heap. I looked around to see that I was in the back yard of a large house on top of a knoll. The six foot hurricane fence that surrounded the property was ample proof that the best way into this place was through the top. Down the knoll I saw a small town.

We had been told in Escape & Evasion lectures that the first thing to do is to hide your parachute. If the Germans found it, they would have a place to start tracking you from. Okay, I gathered up the chute, took it into a shed near the back of the house, and crammed it down behind a woodpile. Outside again, I went around to the east side of the house and looked for a gate-no gate. I hurried back around the house to the west side to see if there was a gate there and came face to face with, what else, eight or ten German civilians on the opposite side of the fence.

Their leader was a wild-eyed string bean of a guy that had a Luger pointed straight at me. My arms shot up in surrender. We stared at each other, wondering who was going to do what next. They seemed as surprised as I was and nearly as scared.

They motioned me to go back around the house. I did, and when I was screened from them by the house, I took out my 45 Cal. automatic, threw a shell into the chamber, left the safe off, and shoved it back into my holster. I would go down with all guns firing!. When I rounded the east side of the house, where I had looked the first time, there was a gate big as life and the Germans waiting for me. Again, my arms flew up in surrender, and they took the forty-five.

We started down the knoll towards the town, with me out front like The Pied Piper of Hamlin with a gun in his back, I think every kid in town showed up. They hooted and hollered at me in the German equivalent of, "We gotcha, We gotcha!" Kids are are kids. In my best military manner-head up chin in-I tried to ignore them and the dour stares of the adults that had joined the parade.

That morning I'd given extra care to my uniform-boots and brass polished. I even wore a tie. If I was going to be their prisoner, at least I could be a proud officer and gentleman of the U.S. Army Air Force.

There was a a small factory at the edge of the town, where they led me down into a basement office. The room was maybe eighteen by eighteen feet with solid concrete walls. The first thing they did was make me strip off every stitch of clothing. They must have thought I was hiding secret papers or weapons. I did as ordered. However, standing stark naked in front of a bunch of people, to whom I'd not been properly introduced, lacked a certain propriety. But I didn't have much choice.

About now, they decided to unload my forty-five. This set off the damnedest brouhaha and commotion among them as none of them knew beans about unloading a Browning 45 Cal. automatic. I was the only person in the room who knew there was a shell in the chamber and that the safety was off. If that forty five went off, in this eighteen foot square concrete room, the carnage would be unbelievable. I wouldn't die with my boots on; I'd die with nothin' on.

Naked as I was, I desperately pantomimed how to unload the piece. They thought I was trying to get the thing back and yelled and cursed me. But I kept at it, and it finally dawned on them I was trying to help, and "we" unloaded the forty-five. It was a scene right out of a Three Stooges comedy.

When they found I didn't have any hidden weapons or secret documents on me, they let me get dressed and marched me over to the burgermeister's office. The kids of course, tagged along and continued badgering me. They were no longer amusing.

Of the four or so Germans in the burgermeister's office the Burgermeister was the kindest. If he hadn't been there, I believe the others would have made short work of me because of the devastation and civilian deaths that resulted from Allied bombing.

Two self-important uniformed officials came in and took over. I had no idea who they were or could I understand a word they were saying. But I got the feeling they weren't sure what to do with me, and I began saying, "Luftwaffe, Luftwaffe."

If captured, we had been told to try to get in the hands of the Luftwaffe-comrades-in-arms, that sort of thing. The next choice was the Wehrmacht, and most of all try to stay out of the hands of the Gestapo, SS, and the civilians. At least these weren't the Gestapo or SS, and the "Luftwaffe" suggestion might work. I must have said the right thing, for the leader quickly started to telephone.

He greeted the person at the other end of the line with a loud, "Heil Hitler," at the same time his arm shot up in the Nazi salute. I couldn't believe it. I thought this only happened in Charlie Chaplin movies. Whatever he said was Greek to me, as I spoke no German. But it seemed to have solved the problem.

I was dying for a cigarette, and with a lot of gestures was able to persuade them to let me have one. I sat ramrod stiff in the straight backed chair, and puffed away "by the numbers" in my best officer and gentleman pose.

The moment didn't last. A man in peasant clothing stormed into the room and began screaming and hollering at me. Then he smashed the cigarette from my hand. I had no idea what was going on. Through a little French, I finally realized he thought I had killed his wife and children. I couldn't have, unless they had been out in the middle of the field where my bombs had landed. No doubt his family had been killed at some point, and, for that, he was taking out his rage on me.

In French he yelled, "Pourquoi? Pourquoi?" (For why? For why?)

My only answer was, "C'est la guerre." (It is war.)

It was the wrong thing to say. He jumped on me, and beat on me with his fists. I didn't dare fight back and just curled up in a ball. The other Germans finally pulled him off and shoved him out of the room. I was damned lucky he hadn't captured me first.

The situation calmed down after he left, and I was turned over to an older man in uniform. I thought he was the town constable. He took me outside, picked up his bicycle and motioned me to come with him. The kids were still with us but had stopped their antics. We walked through the town, until he stopped at a house in the middle of a block. He leaned his bicycle against a low brick fence and went up the walk to a side entrance.

What followed was the greatest pantomime I have ever seen. The constable stood outside the door in profile to me, apparently telling an unseen wife that he had to take this vicious "Terraflieger" to the airfield in Giessen, and that he would be late coming home for supper. But it was just as obvious from the look on his face and the lecture he was receiving that she didn't believe one word of it. She must have yelled that all he wanted to do was to go to Giessen, get drunk and chase girls.

He argued back furiously, while pointing down the walk at me, but staring straight ahead at her. Didn't she realize the importance of his mission and what a hero he was? Finally this shrew's face pops out from behind the door, like a Jack-In-The-Box, she craned her head to see the "Terraflieger." Pop-eyed he'd been telling the truth, she jerked her head back into the house as quickly as it came out. The constable turned and strutted back down the walk full of himself, muttering, "Boy-did I ever tell her!" I didn't understand a word of what they said, but I didn't have to.

The constable shoved the kids aside. He mounted his bicycle and motioned me to get going. I trotted along slowly, as he did S-turns to keep from falling off the bike. The kids had tired of the game and quit. I said the hell with running and slowed to a walk. The constable got off his bicycle, and we walked out into the beautiful German countryside-alone.

The constable was an older man, and I gave a thought to overpowering him and escaping. But he kept the bicycle between us and his Luger on the far side. He knew what I was thinking and was prepared for any tricks I might pull. If I tried it one of us was certain to be killed. If I did escape, I had no food or anything else I would need to survive. It was seventy mile trek to our lines. The risk wasn't worth it.

We plodded along silently into the late afternoon sun. Each deep in his own thoughts. In about an hour I guessed, my watch and all my other possessions had been liberated back at the factory-we came to an airfield in Giessen.

The constable turned me over to the Luftwaffe and without ceremony they dumped me into a cell. My sixtieth mission was incomplete and all hopes for rotation home- shattered.

EPILOGUE

Greycliff, Montana is a quintessential wide spot in the road. No post office, one retail store, and a few occupied houses. Greycliff is not a place to expect extraordinary coincidences to take place.

In the summer of 1992 my wife, Joan, and I were playing tennis at a friends ranch outside of Greycliff. One of our doubles opponents was Martin Siebert, a native of Germany, and pastor of the Congregational Church in nearby Big Timber. After the match, I mentioned to Martin that I had been a fighter pilot and P.O.W. in Germany at the end of World War-II.

"Where were you shot down?" Martin inquired.

"Near Giessen," I told him.

"That's not far from where I was brought up," he answered.

I told Martin in 1984 that. we'd tried to locate the town (I never knew the name of it) where I'd been shot down, but we were unsuccessful. I believed it was about five miles northeast of Giessen.

Two weeks later Martin introduced me to a visiting young German couple who lived very near the place of my capture. I told them how I had parachuted into the back yard of a house on top of a knoll, and about my capture, and trip to Giessen. I believed the town was roughly 5 miles northeast of Giessen.

A month later a letter arrived from my new German friends. In it were photos of "my house" exactly as I remembered. Included was the current owner's name and address, Prof./Dr. Albert Spitznagel of Staufenberg-Mainzlar, plus names of several people who remembered the incident.

In response to my letter, relating the events of that day and my excitement at discovering the site of my "downfall," Prof. Spitznagel invited my wife and myself to spend a weekend with him and his wife, Gisella, at the "house on top of a knoll." We could not refuse and in February of 1994 we went.

Their hospitality was fabulous and included a reception for us to meet many of those who remembered that March day in 1945. They included the burgermeister's son, Willie Krieling, one of my "kids," Friedrich Zecker and the current deputy burgermeister, Reiner Mehler, and a reporter from the Giessen newspaper to record the events.

But the belle of the ball was Hilde Schmitt. Hilde was then the twenty-one year old housekeeper/governess for the family of "the house on the knoll" and told the following,

"...I don't know why I didn't go back into the house with the rest of the family, when the 'all clear' sounded. Suddenly, I saw a man - bent over running - along the fence and hedge. It was clear he was the shot-down pilot, and I ran up behind him with a pick-axe! Then other people came up the hill and captured you."

At the reception, Hilde and I discussed how fortunate it was I didn't see her, when she followed me with the pick-axe. I had my forty-five, and if she had threatened me, I might have shot her. That would surely have been curtains for me when I was captured. The next day Hilde invited us to her home for champagne and cake. We continue to exchange Christmas cards.

The story was published in the Giessen newspaper on Monday morning and was read by a young man, Andreas Dort. He immediately called the Spitznagels, missing us by 15 minutes. He was livid.

Andreas' grandfather had retrieved a section of my plane using it to cover a wood pile. His grandmother had made underwear from my parachute.

Andreas had grown up obsessed with the plane and its pilot. Over the years he had collected many parts of my plane from the crash site. Now his pilot had come to Mainzlar and he had missed him! Andreas' story also became a feature article in the Giessen paper.

He wrote me that he wanted to send me pieces of my plane and parachute. After a lot of bureaucratic haggling with the customs department, the package arrived with the cherished mementos.

In his covering letter Andreas wrote, "Please don't be angry because the pieces are in bad shape. They are very old. And only you know, what a sh*t big crash you've done."

Another letter from Andreas told about how he found out who the constable was:

"Dear Phil,

"On Tuesday Sept. 5th a man from Staufenberg visit me in the Burgermeisterei. We talk about some official things. Then he said: are you the man, who found some plane-pieces? I said: of course, what's happened?

"He like to hear our story, because he was a 10 year old boy from Daubringen, than you have been going like a POW across Daubringen behind a bike!

"Then he said: in front of the pilot was the police-officer, Mr. Hahn from Lollar. I thought, whom the (to f*ck) is Mr. Hahn? So I call the son from Mr. Hahn at that same minute. I explain him the problem and he said, it's real possible, that his father was the right man. He knows by himself (1945 = 13 years old) a story like this. I demand from him a picture from his father and told him, that you will be crazy, if you can see the man in uniform and he was the right one. He will call me at the weekend, then I get the photo. The house where they are live in 1945 is real like this today. I take some pictures from it and send them prompt to you."

In March of 1997 we visited Andreas and his wife, Claudia. They gave us a super time and we have become great friends. In addition to visiting the crash site and finding some more small parts of my plane, we met a neighbor of Mr. Hahn's. He remembered my being at the Hahn house and confirmed that Mrs. Hahn was a real, "battle-axe."

All this is a tale the result of a tennis game at that "wide spot in the road," Greycliff, Mont.

[bobbysocks]

part of the war we never think about but should

Dogfights over Belgrade - The First Day. Pt1 yugo pilots stories

Furious because a small nation resisted the almighty German war machine Hitler ordered the attack on Yugoslavia. In Hitler's 'Order 25' the role for Luftwaffe was clear: the destruction of JKRV (Jugoslovensko Kraljevsko Ratno Vazduhoplovstvo - Yugoslovian Royal Air Force) and the bombardment of Belgrade.

For Operation 'MARITA', against Yugoslavia and Greece, the Luftwaffe dropped 1090 aircrafts (Luftflotte 4) and Germans were supported also by additinal 660 Italian and some Hungarian planes. JKRV was able to resist by totally 470 first line aircrafts, but only 269 planes were airworthy modern types. In first day of attack Luftwaffe concentrated mostly on Yugoslavian airbases, destroying a part of JKRV force before take off. But soon Yugoslavian pilots appeared in air...

The German attack came at the wrong time for the 102 eskadilju, 32 vazduhoplovne grupe as witnessed by its CO Mihajlo Nikolic:

".....In Mostar we were supposed to be relived by the Fighter Scholl from Nis. While waiting for them our planes were turning ready for their 100hrs check, because they all had from 110-130hrs flying time. The Me 109E had the Daimler Benz 601 engine, and the only repair shop for these engines was in Zemun. So on Saturday 5. April in the evening we landed on the Zemun airfield. The airplane of August Kovac engine failed while still on the runway, and the others were practically unflyable. But we were immediately included in the 51. vazduhoplovna grupa, which flew IK-3, but only had six of them-three each squadron. That night we were called by the CO of the unit Rupcic and gave as the following order:

- At dawn tomorrow morning you will patrol over the border part Vrsac-Bela Crkva where German tank units from Romunia are anticipated."

A member of these tank units, a tank gunner, describes the Major Diner StG 2 attack on a mountain pass fortification:

"A fine coating of dew covered the vehicles. Only a thin strip of slowly lightening sky above the mountains heralded the start of a new day. It was 5 am on the morning of 6 April. We looked at our watches. Fifteen minutes to go. As we adjusted our binocular, a pale dawn light started to seep down the hillside in front of us. The mountains behind rose out of a milky white morning mist. One more minute. There! To the west a machine gun rattled briefly. Then a muffled explosion. A few seconds of complete silence, then the whole front erupted into noise. Our own light flak units added to the din of the artillery.

Despite the racket, my ears picked up the thin drone of aircraft engines, growing louder every second. I knew from experience what it was, and pointed the glasses upwards. Sure enough, the dim shapes of approaching Stukas. Now they were circling above us, the dark red pin-points of their position lights plainly visible beneath the shadows of their wings.

They slowly began to climb, breaking into the clear light of the new day. More and more aircraft joined them as they headed towards the ridge of the mountains immediately to our front. One last circle, as it to make double sure of the target below, and then the first Ketten went into their dives. Even from here we could hear the familiar nerve-shattering howl of their sirens. And then the first bombs fell. The tiny black specs rained down on the enemy positions. The noise of the explosions echoed back unseen clefts in the mountains as Staffel after Staffel attacked. Soon pillars of yellow-brown smoke were staining the pristine whiteness of the high snowfields."

While Stukas of StG2 were attacking enemy positions and Me 110 were attacking all airfields in the general direction of the attack, a large formation of bombers from II./KG 4, KG 2 and KG 3 was joined by the fighters from II/JG 77, III/JG 77 and III/JG 54. A Yugoslav fighter-pilot during the Zerstorer run said: "When we were watching, almost all, of our fighter airplanes burning our CO said:

- It really is war. We will get paid double".

The approach of the bomber formation to Belgrade went really quiet, and only when the noise of multiple aircraft engines was reported from the hills surrounding Belgrade JKRV's response late due to the failure of the early warning system.

Kapetan 2. klase Mihajlo Nikolic:

"In the morning 6. April 1941 I took-off as first, with my wingman Milodrag Boskovic to follow the order. We returned after 50 min, when we landed we started to eat some sandwiches when from the office burst our CO giving us the sign to take-off. When we were strapping in he radioed us that German airplanes crossed the border at Subotica and were flying from South to Belgrade.

The officer ordering Nikolic to take-off was the CO at Zemun-Adum Romeo. 16 planes took-off.

The first was the IK 3 squardon of kapetan 1. Klase, who was escorted by narednik Dusan Vujicic. The second pair consisted of kapetan 1. razreda Todor Gojic his wingman was narednik Milislav Semiz. Dusan Borcic was leading the third pair and his wingan was Bamfic.

Mihajlo Nikolic continues

The IK-3s flew first because they got the information earlier, we followed them with seven Me 109E (there were ten, but one was unserviceable, and two were on patrol).

It was a clear day with a bit of haze and scattered clouds so we flew towards Sava river. When we were in the air, I looked back from habit and I saw that my wingman Milodrag Boskovic in confusion forgot to pull in his landing gear. I called him via radio but to no success, and only when I opened my landing gear, he cleaned out his gears and joined fighting formation. At first we saw nothing, then we spotted our planes diving into something. When we got closer, the sky immediately went black from German airplanes, and we flew into this turmoil not ever dreaming that Germans had an umbrella of fighters above us. First we saw the Stukas flying in groups of seven. There were so much targets that we didn't have to chose anything. I attacked one group from the left and bellow, but immediately the right side of the group descended for the gunners to have a clear shot. This was a trained tactic, but the group didn't break. We made a couple of runs, but didn't pay attention if there was any results. A little later I noticed that a Stuka was starting to burn, The group immediately-as being ordered-broke fearing an explosion.

Then I noticed that the He 111 were coming. I made a turn and told Boskovic that we are going for a group from behind because they are defended from the top and bellow. I started my attack carefully choosing my position, all concentrated in aiming...from nowhere a blast in the cabin and a German fighter almost rammed me with his wing, coming from the left.

My wingman didn't even saw him. That fighter got a good shot in me, but I to squeezing the trigger gave full left rudder and fired at him. The cabin was already filled with smoke. The fuel tanks are behind us and they could catch fire, we were told to put the fire out with a quick dive, I managed to do that, but when I wanted to apply throttle the engine did not respond. I don't see or hear Boskovic (I never saw him again). I started to chose where I will land, and between the villages Sakule and Baranda I notice a clearance with some stock on the left and right a field. I chose the field and I belly-land. I open the cabin and I notice there is blood on my flying suit, I got shot in my left leg."

In fact Boskovic wasn't found until 1955, when he and he's Me 109 were recovered from Dunav river near the village of Kovilj which is about 2min flying time in general heading towards Belgrade to the place that Nikloic crash-landed his Messerschmitt. Some parts of his Messerschmitt are kept in the Yugoslav air force museum, including the DB 601 engine.

The other pair of JKRV Me 109’s were Miloš Žunič and Džordžem Stojanoćem.

The pair closed in on the He 111’s, one bomber was shot down by Žunič. The pair quickly turned to the fighters and defended themself untill they ran out of ammo. Me 109 flown by Žunič was hit a couple of times, and he bailed out. He came to earth dead. His wingman survived.

The flight of IK-3’s lead by the talented aerobatic champion and flight instructor Savo Poljanec from Maribor soon reached the first wave of enemy bombers.

Poljanec lead the group on to the bombers but they were seperated because of the German Me 109 diving on them. Poljanec was now alone and fighting with the guns of 27 bombers. The experienced aerobatic pilot made an immelman turn and came back down the side of the formation concentrating on the right bomber of the last three. Just before the bomber was engulfed in fire the tail gunner watched the victorious Poljanec climb over the formation. Then on the alititude of 6000m Poljanec noticed that a formation of German Me 109 fighters were preparing an attack on him. Poljanec evaded the first fighter, and then started a high speed pursuit, with a couple of short bursts from Poljanec the Me 109 began lossing altitude and was aparently out of control. His joy was to be shortlived because in the next moment, he was attacked by the next fighter who was following him closely all this time. Poljanec felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder and his engine started to quit. Seeing there was no point of proceding, he shut off his engine and started spinnig. The trick worked since the enemy fighters sure of their kills started climb again. His spin became uncontrolled now and only his great experience as an aerobatic pilot enabled him to exit this spin, and this only at minimal altitude. Poljanec was now flying his bullet ridden IK 3 towards Zemun trailing a glycol trail behind him. Just before landing he was strafed by a Me 110 and one of his shell exploded behind the seat that Poljanec was ocupaying. But all in all he managed to land safely and was immediately put in hospital.

Worth mentioning here is that Poljanec in a IK-3 flew a lot of mock dogfights against Yugoslavian Me 109E usually flown by Boris Cijan.

Over another part of Belgrade, over Senjak the second pair consisting of podporočnik Borčič and Bamfič, was looking for a good fight, but they didn’t find any enemies, so they separetad to increase their chances.

Borčič flew toward the Rumanian border and then returned to Belgrade. Over Zvezdara he caught up with 20 Do 17’s enemy bombers that was heading towards the centre of the capital. He attacked the last three and sent one Do 17 in the Danube river. The same scenario as happaned again as with the Poljanec. The German Me 109’s were diving on him, but Borcic gained just a spot of advatage, so he could shot down a Me 109E. Now he was alone, and German fighters were trying to encircle him, but they weren’t suceding untill Borcic run out of ammo. He was shot down on the banks od Danube 15km nort of Belgrade. His last fight was observed by a lot of spectators in Belgrade city. After the war the remains of his IK 3 was lifted from the river, and it revealed that no big ‘white 10’ was worn on the fusleage, but just a little ‘black 10’ on the rudder.

His wingman Bamfić was also fighting with the Me 109s over Batajnica. His IK 3 was alo badly damaged, and he was coming in for landing, but was bounced by two Me 109s. To avoid certain death Bamfic was forced into a series of steep turns, with his wingtips almost touching the ground. He crash-landed near the airfield. His IK 3 was completly destroyed during the landing, but Bamfić was not hurt.

Vujičić had to return to the airfield due to cooling problems.

The pair Gogić and Semiz shot down a Stuka.

A pilot of the bomber stream piloting one of StG 77 Stukas was lucky to avoid Yugoslav fighters:

"After the Green hedgerows of the Normandy countryside, the warm browns and greys of the local landscape were still unfamiliar to our eyes. The morning sun was glinting off the peaks of the Transylvanian Alps at our backs as we were approaching the unmistakable silver ribbonod the Dunav, the frontier between Rumania and Yugoslavia. The hazy outlines of a large city appeared in the distance-Belgrade!

Below us the first few burst of enemy flak. But nothing to worry about. Those of us who'd been through Poland and France had seen much worse. The city is much clearer now. The white tower-like buildings bright in the morning sun. The Staffeln opens up as pilots prepare to dive. Our target is a the fortress which gave the city it's name. Perched high above the promontory where the Sava joins Dunav, it couldn't be missed.

I felt the jolt as our bomb was released. We leveled out and turned back for base at high speed, ready to prepare for the next mission. As we retired I saw the fortress ringed in smoke and flames. Fires had also been started in the royal palace and the nearby main railway station. Soon smoke hung over the whole city like a great grey shroud.

On 6 April 1941, during the first mission of Luftwaffe's I.(J)/LG 2 - low-level attack against the base of the 36th Fighter Group base at Rezanovacka Kosa at Kumanovo shortly after 6:00 am - the Bf 109s of this unit got involved in a dogfight with the Hawker Fury biplanes of 36th FG above this airfield. Without any reported losses, I.(J)/LG 2 (equipped with Bf 109 E-7) made the following claims of Hawker Furys: Lt. Geisshardt - 4 Furys (victories Nos 14-17), Olt. Clausen - 3 Furys (Nos 6- and Gefr. Quatember - 1 Fury (No 3).

During the first mission of JG 77 - escort to the raid against Belgrade - between 07.30 and 08.40, 56 Bf 109 of JG 77 were involved in furious dogfights with Yugoslav fighters. Oberleutnant Erich Friedrich of Stab/JG 77 claimed a Yugoslav Bf 109 as his third victory. In II./JG 77, the following pilots claimed one Bf 109 each: Olt. Jung (his victory No. 3), Ofw. Petermann (7), Lt. Zuzic (1), Fw. Ftröba (3), Olt. Patz (1), Fw. Köhler (2), Ofw. Petermann (. And - in III./JG 77 - Olt. Schmidt one Bf 109 (No 1) and Ofw. Riehl one Ikarus IK-2 (No 2). No losses were reported by JG 77 during this mission.

After a short brake with some refreshments Yugoslav pilots, anticipated the next raid on Belgrade between 10 and 11am.

Under the command of Gogić now six planes took off. They attacked the bomber formation, but the resistance was much better then during the first raid. The Me 109E flown by Karl Štrebenk a native of Zagorje on Sava river, was badly damaged, but Štrebenk was able to land safely. After landing he discovered that his airplane was had 80 bullet holes. Determined to get his revange, he begged the CO which was Rubčić at the time, to let him use his plane to go and pursue the Germans. After a short argumnet since Rubčić said that it was no point as the Germans are already attacked by the fighters from Prnjavor, but all in all Rubčić allowed Šterbenk to use his plane. Štrbenk flew right in the gagle of German and Yugoslav fighters. The Germans noticed the special marking carried on the CO’s plane so they concentrated all the eforts on Štrbenk. With the combined efforts of the pilots with well over a year of constant fighting. Šterbenk stood no chance. He crashed on the Glogonjski rt.

During the second mission of JG 77 - low-level attacks against the Belgrade area - Lt. Omert claimed a Bf 109 (No 1), while another eight Yugoslav aircraft were claimed destroyed on the ground. During the same mission, Olt. Hans-Ekkehard Bob of 8./JG 54 claimed the only victory by that unit - a Bf 109. During this mission, Olt. Heinz Duschle was shot down by ground fire and crash-landed in Yugoslav territory. He was hidden by German Yugoslavs and later returned to his unit. No other German BF 109 was reported lost during this mission.

I.(J)/LG 2 flew another five low-level attacks against airfields in the Niš area during the day. Three of its Bf 109 E-7 were repotted shot down by ground fire.

During one low-level attack against the Yugoslav airfield at Laibach, the Bf 109 piloted by Oberfähnrich Hans-Joachim Marseille was hit by AAA, but Marseille managed to return the aircraft to base.

The CO of the 142 eskadrile 32. vazduhoplovne grupe 6. lovackoga puka Milutin Grozdanovic also took-off from Prnjavor airfield with his Me 109 with code number 52 that morning:

"At 6.30 we were overflown by a large formation of German bombers. There was more then hundred of them. When we saw this we immediately jumped in our aircraft which were ready from three o'clock in the morning. We took-off and followed the German formation in pairs. We caught up with the German formation in 2 -3 minutes. Me and komandant grupe Danilo Djordjevic, Bozidar Ercigo and Radoslav Stamekovic attacked the bombers. There was so much bombers that we attacked a bomber each. We had two cannons and two machine guns.

We flew over them then we dived and tried to get as many hits as possible in the bombers cabin. We attacked one bomber after another until we spent all of our ammo. Then we dived to the treetops and escaping enemy fighters and one by one returned to the airfield. We didn't even pay attention if we had shot-down somebody and after the attack we didn't have any losses.

After a short break at about 10 o'clock we flew again and again attacked the bombers. There were so much bombers some returning from Belgrade some flying to,my god there were so much bombers. When I was returning I saw a group of 60 - 70 Stukas. I separated from my group and attacked them because I was faster and had more ammo. I closed in to 20 - 30 meters so I didn't even have to use my gunsight. We had so high goals we didn't even watch if we shot-down somebody, we just kept attacking till our ammo ran out. When I run out of ammo I made a low-level escape to the airfield to reload the airplane and to give others a chance to fly."

The JKRV's communication system was insufficient so that some squadrons didn't even know about the war. Blenheim's pilot Ivan Miklavec, a member of 8. bombardeski pulk 215. eskadrile stationed at Topoli explains:

"A solider slams opens the door and starts screaming at us: - Did you hear? Belgarde was bombed...The Germans attacked us!

I stood up and asked: - Who told you that?

- Radio Belgrede we heard it on the Caproni ( the only radio was in one of our school Caproni).

Then in a second the airfield came alive. Alarm! Airman in readiness, mechanics, bombs, ammunition!!! Short commands resounded. I look up in the clear Sunday sky, in to the sun-the blood is boiling in our vanes. After the first salvo of orders and news there is silence. Everybody is doing their work and preparations without much speaking.

Sunday, the first war day passed in take-off readiness just in case we were attacked. We loaded our planes with 100 kg bombs and with machine gun ammo. In the afternoon the first two machines took-off at 13.30 with a recon mission over Graz. They bombed a station in the way back and returned safely.

At 5 o'clock in the afternoon we received the order for take-off, but regretfully for tomorrow. Komandir Jovičić explained the mission for us, we were to bomb road and railway bridges around Klagenfurt. Jovičić surprised us by saying: We don't have much ammunition, but we will use the one we got the best we can. To make sure the bombing is accurate and to avoid enemy fighters I suggest that we attack at 300m. Do you agree? We all accepted the dare suggestion. At 20.30 we were surprised by another mission order, the first was called off. We were to bomb the a railway section and station Feldbach in Austria. Take off before dawn, we were to meet at the airfield at 3 o'clock in the morning. So tomorrow is the day..."

Ivan Miklavec describes his story later on, but for most of the pilots 6. April was the day.

The mission against Graz railway station was executed by the best JKRV bomber pilot Karl Murko.

The group commander ordered Murko to head straight to Maribor on the altitude of 2500m, then follow the railtracks to Graz. From the height of 300m he should drop his four 100kg bombs onto the railway station.

His mechanics checked his Blenheim and loaded it with bombs and amunititon.

The Blenheim was piloted by Murko, his gunner was Malešić and the bombardier was Pandža. They took off at 13.30 in the afternoon.

Murko didn’t agree with the route he was ordered. He flew towards Maribor at the height of about 300m, He then turned towards Austria and then proceded uo the valley of the river Raba. When he overflew the railway crossing Gleisdorf, he descended even lower, so he was virtually huging the ground. He was sure that if he was higher he would be spotted by the AAA and fighters from Thalerhof (Miklavec proved this was right-see the second day). Without any resitance he closed into the suburbs of Graz and climbed to 700m. With the railway station in sight, he put his Blenheim in a shallow dive to increase his get-away speed. He released the bombs hitting the tracks with two bombs, the third demolished a building with food suplies and the fourth one missed. Just before reaching Maribor Murko was attacked by a German Me 109E, but the shots from the gunner Malešić and the low flying by experienced Murko prevented the Me 109E to get any real hits. The Me 109E probably low on fuel turned for home. Later mehanics discovered only 2 7.7mm holes in the tail of the Blenheim.

Another known pilot was shot-down that day. Knight cross holder Oblt. Herbert Ihlefeld was brought down by Yugoslavian AA. The pilot landed near Nis, and got slight head injuries.

The Germans continued their attacks against Belgrade through the day and till about 11 o'clock in the evening. Four hours later narednik Miklavec woke up.