In their own words...

[bobbysocks]

the real dogs of war... has nothing to do with airplanes but interesting nonetheless.

The Red Army trained as many as 50,000 dogs before and during the early part of the war. Dogs proved themselves paricularly valuable during the severe Russian winters, when they located and dragged wounded soldiers from the front on sleds.

A wounded man's chance of survival in the extremely low temperatures of Russian winters, depended largely on how rapidily he was discovered and then transported to a first aid station. Dogs alone could travel in the deep snow, which bogged down motor vehicles, thus improving their chances!

During one battle, near Duminichi, in between attacks, a german shepherd named Bob, located sixteen wounded men, who had crawled into shell holes and ditches. Bob, when he came across a soldier, would lay down beside him, until the wounded man took some dressing from a medical kit strap on the dog's back.

And in one sector of the front, a team of sled dogs, in five weeks, carried 1,239 wounded men from the battlefield and hauled 327 tons of ammunition.

White Samoyeds, were found particularly useful for winter operations and were used to pull white-clad Russian marksmen on sleds close to enemy lines undetected. Plus six dog teams transported machine guns in sleds and two dogs teams were used to pulled soliders on skiis into battle.

The Russian military also trained suicide dogs, during WW II. The dogs (half staved) were loaded with explosives, and trained to seek out food under moving tanks; a trigger device attached to their backpacks, would depressed causing an explosion capable of cutting through the steel under belly of the tanks.

In one day, alone, on the Izyum sector, these canine tank busters destroyed nine tanks and two armored cars. So feared by the Germans, that as soon as they heard the barking and saw the running dogs, they would frantically turned their tanks around and head back towards their own lines, for they knew from experience what was in store for them.

One Russian correspondent stated that "the dogs have saved thousands upon thousands of lives on the Russian front." And he was right!

The German High Command also entered into a secret pact with Russia, to establish other military facilities across their border, in Russia; airfields, training schools, and various war plants. In return for the use of Russian soil, they were to train Russian officers in the art of warfare!

Also at that time, the Army High Command formed an alliance with Hitler, seeing in him, an opportunity to eliminate the Treaty and rearm the military. The National Socialists, then formed their own training camps, where members were secretly trained in military tactics by the army (SA K-9 Units were also formed), under the guise of being public work units.By the time, the Nazis and Adolf Hitler were in power, these units simply traded their shovels for rifles and became the new German Army.

In the ten year period leading up to World War II, Germany trained at many as 200,000 dogs. The Berlin dog paper Die Hunderwelt told of a grand recruiting rally held in that country, adding another 15,993 Shepherds, Dobermans, Airedales, and Boxers to their K-9 army. The dogs were trained as sentries, scouts, guard and messagers.

In 1939, when Hitler launched his blitzkrieg against Europe and Poland, Germany K-9 Army units were there as well, organized and trained as thorough as the Luftwaffe or armored forces were. Once occupied, the K-9 units were used for policing the cities; and the Jewish ghettos and camps create by the Nazis.

The use of large dogs gave the Bahnschutz (Railroad Police) increased effectiveness during patrols of train stations, waiting rooms and railway cars. As early as 1923, the Reichsbahn began a systematic program of training dog handlers as well as dogs.

Schäferhunde (German Shepherds), considered the most loyal and least temperamental of the large breeds and the easiest to train, composed over 90 percent of the Diensthunde (service dogs) in the Bahnschutz.

While on duty a Bahnschutzstreifer (patrolman) normally would accompanied the Bahnschutz Hundeführer (dog handler) and his dog. This allowed the handler to keep the dog on the leash while the second patrolman could perform routine duties such as checking identity papers. When a arrest was warranted, the Streifer handcuffed the suspects while the Hundeführer controlled the dog.

The Reichsbahn operated a breeding farm and training facility for Diensthunde (service dogs) in Röntgental near Berlin.

The leader of the school, was Reichsbahninspektor Langner, who was an experienced World War I dog handler and trainer; he recognized the importance of matching the appropriate handler for each dog.

He sought handlers who were, above all, Hundefreunde (dog lovers), and spent as much time training the Hundeführer as he did the Diensthund.

Each of the 700 teams of dogs and handlers underwent yearly re examination by Reichsbahninspektor Langner, and teams, that were incompatible disbanded. The K-9 training methods developed by Langner became recognized worldwide.

As noted, these same Railroad K-9 Units, were used later on by the SS during the deportation of millions of prisoners to the concentration and slave labor work camps, as well as POWs!

On November 26, 1944 - Dr. Aaron Kuptsow, a B-17 radar officer, was shot down and then captured by German farmers, This is a brief account of what it was like for him!

"We had a force march, which I think was about 17 kilometers. That was the worst experience of my life. I was still wearing my flight boots, and by the time we reached the station, my feet were bloody and raw! I think we had three policemen and two german shepherds walking with us.The march to Frankfurt was quite an experience, the guards and dogs kept us in line, the dogs nipped at us, or the guards prodded us with their guns if we slowed down."

Ousseltria, Tunisia - Allied troops held the western edge of a little valley, and the Germans and Italian forces the eastern side. The battle went back and forth, with each side trying for a knockout blow.

An American lieutenant and two sergeants were sent out to scout the enemy positions. After edging their way slowly to the eastern side, they suddenly spotted a pure white dog, about fifty feet ahead of them. The dog stood as silent as death. He didn't bark or growl a warning as a sentry dog would. Instead he stood there like a statue, head erect and tail straight out behind him. As if he was pointing!

The silents was broken by machine gun fire, hitting one of the men, both his legs shattered. The others had to leave him.

Later, a well armed patrol was sent out to find him, again near the eastern edge of the valley, the white dog appeared again. When the group finally reached the spot where the wounded man had fallen, the man was gone. To all appearances the dog had hunted him out and returned to the Germans, who found him first.

Other white dogs, were later observed, in the Ousseltia Valley, where groups of three or four would prowl through the British and American positions, pointed, then returned to their line. Apparently the German snipers were using them to point the enemy!

Towards the end of the African Campaign, both the German African Corp and Italian armies were forced to abandon most of their dogs during their rapid withdrawal in the North African desert.

The Nazis used so many dogs during the war, that by the end, there wasn't hardily any breeding stock left in the entire country.

[bobbysocks]

DETAILS Of MARINE CORPS ACE PAPPY BOYINGTON'S LAST COMBAT FLIGHT

It was December 1943. The Battle for the Solomons had reached a furious level and was intensifying daily. Rabaul, the Japanese "Pearl Harbor," at the northern end of the Solomon Island chain, had to be neutralized before the Allied march toward the Japanese homeland could continue.

A key factor in the neutralizing process was Marine Major Gregory "Pappy" Boyington, the swashbuckling CO and his hastily-thrown-together band of casuals and replacements who were blazing a heroic record across the South Pacific skies. Calling themselves the "Black Sheep," as a wry nod to their questionable origin, they had already downed a total of 76 Japanese planes by 25 December 1943. By usually giving him the first shot and protecting him while he scored, they had assissted Boyington in getting within reach of the US record for planes destroyed in aerial combat. That record, 26 planes, was jointly held by Medal of Honor winner Marine Major Joe Foss, for action over Guadalcanal, and Army Captain Eddie Rickenbacker from World War One. Boyington had downed 18 Zeros. These, with the six Japanese planes Boyington claimed from his service with the Flying Tigers shortly after Pearl Harbor, gave him a total of 24 (Editor's Note: Most sources do not allow Boyington the six AVG claims, narrowing his victories to two aerial victories and 2.5 aircraft destroyed on the ground).

We had seen the pressures mount daily on Boyington as he closed in on the record. The news media, already focused on the remarkable exploits of the Black Sheep squadron as a whole, descended on our little island of Vella Lavella in droves and dogged his every waking moment. They were in the ready room, in the mess hall, at the flight line and even in our tent where our Flight Surgeon, Dr. Jim Reames and I tried to fend them off. We recognized that he had enough pressures without the constant questioning: "Do you think you'll break the record?" "Are you scared?" "When will you break the record?" "If you break the record will you quit then?" "How does it feet to shoot down a plane?"

I told the most persistent, A.P. Correspodent Fred Hampson, that I would arrange an interview with Boyington for him if he would then leave him strictly alone. Hampson agreed and got his interview.

As some of us sat in our tent with Boyington on Christmas night, one of the Black Sheep pilots, Bob Bragdon, expressed a thought that was in all our minds:

"Look, Pappy, we all want to see you break the record but we don't want you to go up there and get killed doing it." "Don't worry about me," Pappy responded. "They can't kill me. If you guys ever see me going down with 30 Zeros on my tail, don't give me up. Hell, I'll meet you in a San Diego bar and we'll all have a drink for old times' sake."

On the 27th, Boyington got his 25th Zero to bring him one shy of the record. At the same time, the Black Sheep raised their squadron total to 82.

On the 28th, the Black Sheep shot down four more Zeros to bring the squadron total to 86 but Boyington did not score. The mission was costly for the Black Sheep as J.C. Dustin, Don Moore and Harry Bard failed to return.

Weather partially cancelled the major mission on the 30th but the Black Sheep added another Zero. Again, Boyington did not score.

After the mission on 30 December, Boyington went off by himself to sit and look at the rain. When we went to chow, Fred Hampson sat down across from us at the long table.

"Well, Pappy," he said. "What do you think? Are you going to get another chance at the record?"

"I don't know."

"Well, if you do, are you going to break it? Are you going to be satisfied with just one or two, or are you going after more?"

Boyington blew up.

"God damn it," he shouted, "why don't you guys leave me alone? I don't know if I'm going to break it or not. Just leave me alone till I do or go down trying."

He slammed his fist down onto the table, catching the edge of his plate and spattering food in the face of the correspondent, and then stormed out of the mess hall.

"I told you to leave him alone," I said to Hampson.

"Yes, I know you did, and I'm sorry," he said.

Deciding that Pappy was in no condition to fly on New Year's Day, Doc Reames and I cooked Lip a story about a mythical Zero down in the jungle and arranged for Doug White, a Marine Corps Combat Correspondent, and our own jungle expert, Bill Crocker, to take him out to find it and get some publicity photos. Doug and Crocker tramped what Boyington termed "a thousand miles" and brought him in at five o'clock ready to go to bed. He took a shower, stretched out for a "nap" and slept straight through until time to get up for the 2 January mission over Rabaul.

On that day Boyington led three other Black Sheep among a total of 56 Marine and Navy fighters on a sweep to Rabaul. The Black Sheep got one Zero but Pappy's plane was throwing oil and smeared his windshield so that he was unable to see.

When Pappy returned from Bougainville at five-o'clock all conversation ceased.

"Had a little tough luck up there," he said quietly.

"Do you think you should try to make that hop tomorrow?" Doc Reames asked.

"I'm okay," he said.

We got some sandwiches down from the mess hall for him and gave the thumbs-up sign as he rode away in the truck with Bruce Matheson, George Ashmun and Mack Chatham. The four of them took off for Bougainville for the early morning takeoff the next day.

On 3 January, Boyington led the flight of 44 Navy and Marine Fighters, including just the four Black Sheep, in a sweep over Rabaul. The battle was joined at 22,000-ft over Rapopo airfield with Pappy taking his four-plane division down on a flight of 12-15 Zeros. Boyington and Matheson each shot down a Zero and then, in the melee and the haze, the Black Sheep became separated.

Back at Vella Lavella, we expected the flight back before noon but long before that time the ready room was full of people wanting to know if Pappy had broken the record.

At 10 o'clock the first planes were back at Bougainville.

At 11:30, Matheson landed at Vella Lavella and brought the first word. He'd seen Pappy and Ashmun attack 15 Zeros and Pappy had brought one down. We cheered. Were there any more? Matheson didn't know. He and Chatham had had their hands full with another 15 Zeros; he'd shot one down and then Chatham's electrical system had gone bad and they'd had to return to Bougainville. Our squadron bag was now 90.

As time dragged on, other pilots came in. I talked to all of them. No, they hadn't seen either Boyington or Ashmun. I asked Operations to check all the other airfields: Munda, Ondonga, Treasury, to see if they'd possibly landed there. They had to be down somewhere, their fuel was long gone.

And then, gradually, it began to dawn on us.

Fred Hampson's report described it:

"The Skipper didn't get back!

"The news spread like a chill from revetment, to the ready room, to the tent camp on the hill. The war stood still for a hundred pilots and 500 ground crewmen.

"It couldn't be true. The Japs didn't have a man who could stay on the Skipper's tail."

But as the minutes rolled into hours and negative answers to our queries came in from all fields, we began to comprehend that Pappy and Ashmun were really missing.

The Black Sheep raged like wild men up and down the coasts of New Ireland and New Britain for the remaining three days of our combat tour. They shot up barges, gun positions, bivouac areas; strafed airfields, killed Japanese troops, cut up supply dumps, trucks, small boats. Every rumor of a sighting brought a horde of Black Sheep whistling down so close to the sea that their prop wash left white wakes in the water.

Aerial combat was incidental; they wanted to get down to look for the Skipper and George. Nevertheless, they shot down four more Zeros to bring the squadron total to 94* Japanese planes shot down in aerial combat, 35 probably destroyed, 50 damaged; and 21 destroyed on the ground. But it was a sad day for us when we returned to Espiritu Santo minus twelve of the pilots who had been with us such a short time earlier when we'd dubbed ourselves the Black Sheep.

Note: Boyington DID show up for that post-war party. At the end of the war he was released from the Japanese prison camp where he'd spent 20 months, flew to San Francisco and joined his squadron mates for the celebration he'd told us he would be there for, no matter what.

* Upon his release, Boyington reported that he had actually shot down three Zeros and that Ashmun had shot down one, thus raising the Black Sheep Squadron total to 97 planes.

[bobbysocks]

The ones on the wrong side of the war
the story of mr. Kuhn, who turned traitor twice, first on the dutch and allied cause, then on the german LW:

JOHANNES ANTONIUS KUHN
Johannes Antonius Kuhn. Born in Amsterdam on 15th November 1908 was destined to survive WW2. Having obtained his pilot’s brevet in 1932, he was applied in 1937 for a six-year posting to the KNIL. He was accepted on August 14th. In the colony the reserve NCO flew Martin 139 bombers, but in 1938 he was repatriated due to health problems related to the tropical climate. En 1939 he re-engaged for service in the ML. He started with the unit I-2 LvR (equipped with Fokker C-V & Koolhoven FK-51) before progressing at the end of 1939 to V-2 LvR (a fighter unit) to re-train as a fighter pilot. At the start of 1940 he was the pilot of a Douglas DB-8A. The Netherlands had 28 of these aircraft. It is amazing that they were in service as fighters as they were designed as two-seat bombers. A shortage of fighter aircraft had forced the Dutch to take this drastic measure. Kuhn’s (nicknamed ‘Bulletje’ by his colleagues on account of his short stature) involvement in the May 1940 actions was to be brief. On the 1oth May his DB-8A N° 392 was shot down near Pijnacker (probably by a Bf 110 of II./ZG1) Kuhn and his radio-operator NCO Staal were able to leave the machine but Kuhn suffered serious injury to a knee as a result of the crash landing. This meant long months of recuperation in hospital which then followed. In 1942 he was regarded as fully recovered and discharged on 15th October, having been declared as unsuitable for flying duties. That same year he applied to join the Luftwaffe. What was his motivation? In 1944 during interrogation by the British he stated that his German fiancée pushed him into making this choice. One suspects that this was purely an excuse.

Anyhow, in view of his prolonged absence from flying, the Luftwaffe were not going to let him escape the need for re-training! From October 1942 through to April 1943 he was at Flieger-Ausbildung-Regiment 63 at Toul (F) before moving on to the Flugzeugführerüberprüfungschule at Prenzlau. Subsequently at the start of January 1944 he moved to Schlachtgeschwader 101 (a ground-attack unit equipped with Fw 190 and some Hs 129s) based at Orly (F) After an interlude training at Quedlinburg, the Dutchman was transferred to Überführungsgruppe West, a ferry unit formed in mid-1943to fly new or repaired aircraft from factories to front-line units.

Überführungsgruppe West comprised 4 Geschwader. Kuhn belonged to the third. It Willie recognised that Kuhn had arrived at a bad moment. In the weeks preceding June 6th 1944 the ferry pilots had to accept the risk of allied intruder fighters spoiling for a fight. Many pilots were shot down due to this cause. When the ferried aircraft finally reached the airfields, they were then likely to become targets for allied bombers. After the invasion on D-Day 6th June, Überführungsgruppe West abandoned their advance bases and retreated to within the Reich borders. The quality of the pilots declined rapidly as a result of losses reaching 35/40%! Kuhn was particularly depressed as, being based at Langendiebach, he regularly had to take-off in He IIIs of TG 30 participating in supply flights for the German pockets of resistance on the Atlantic coast.

He decided to desert. To do so he had to wait for a favourable moment, which presented itself on 30th August 1944. On that day he was flying one of fourteen FW 190A8s being sent to reinforce JG 26 at Brussels-Melbroek. Kuhn was flying Werknummer 171747. Time was getting short. At 11:30 he took off for Belgium. He passed Aachen & Ostend and then headed west. Close to the many ships at sea he crossed the North Sea. So as not to run the risk of being shot down by British flak, he did not head for a known aerodrome, but managed to put his aircraft down in open country near Monkton in Kent. It was a good landing and his aircraft suffered only minor damage. It would receive the serial AM230 and would be displayed to the public many times; at Farnborough in 1945 , then going to the Science Museum in London in 1946. It was later scrapped.

As for Kuhn he remained a POW in Great Britain until 1949. In the 1980s he was given a friendly welcome by Dutch military aviation veterans. His peers managed to sponge over his ‘intermezzo’ in the Luftwaffe.

[bobbysocks]

Mosquito vs V! Story

ever wonder how the paint got scorched off the Mosquito?

BY DAVE MCINTOSH

The following excerpt is from Dave Macintosh's book, "Terror in the Starboard Seat, "published by General Publishing Co. Ltd., Don Mills, Ont. It is Mclntosh's personal account of his experiences as a 418 Sqn observer/navigator on Mosquitos and of his sometimes strained relationship with his pilot, Sid Seid. Seid was a Jewish-American in the RCAF whose main aim in life was to single-handedly win the war against Hitler. The story picks up on their 1944 encounter with German V-l buzz bombs.
Ihere was nothing very complicated about the V-l. It was a small glider with an engine in it and it was loaded with explosive. Jerry put enough gas in the engine to make it go to London. \Vhen the gas ran out. the bomb fell down on whatever — or whomever — was underneath. The thing understandably made the Brits very jittery. It did me too.
The launching pads were near the French coast from Le Havre to Boulogne. You'd think they would be easy to find and bomb, but they weren't. The only alternative was to shoot them down, preferably over the Channel where they could do no damage. There was little point in shooting them down over England because they were going to fall out of the sky anyway.
So away we went looking for flying bombs. Better than stooging around France, I thought, until I found out we'd be stooging around at 10,000 feet over France waiting for the bombs to appear.
SEARCHLIGHTS
The first night we set out for Beachy Head, from where we were going to make track for France. Near Brighton, a couple of searchlights snapped on. They picked us up right away. It was blinding in the cockpit.
"Jesus, tell them we're on their side." Sid said, crouching as far down as he could so he could see the instrument panel. This was old hat. I reached around and casually fired die Very pistol. A beautiful green flare shot out- But the searchlights didn't go off as : posed to do. Two more stung
i .'si deadly accuracy. Zap!
"For Christ's sake, vou must have the
wrong color," Sid barked. He started to take the airplane into contortions to get out of the lights but then resumed straight and level flight. "They'll think we're Jerries if we try to get away," he said.
Meanwhile. I was scrambling around looking for the code color chart. I had left the green flare in from our last trip and had forgotten to check the chart.
"C'mon. for Christ's sake." Sid said. This made me doubly nervous. I located the color key in the map box. Then I began searching for my flashlight.
Sid exploded. ""What in hell do you want a flashlight for? You can read a ten-cent pulp novel in here."
The chart said red and yellow for 10 P.M. to midnight. I was so unnerved that I looked at my watch to check the time.
Sid could read me like a book. "It's after ten o'clock and it's before midnight." he roared. Then he added: "If you don't get those lights off. I'm going to go blind." He was really alarmed.
I looked along the rack and couldn't find the right flare. I thought I was going to be sick. I started over. This time I found one. pinching my fingers getting the old one out, thrust in the new one and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. My God. was there another red and yellow flare? I thought not. I pulled the breach open, slammed it again, fired. There was a sound like a fist in a pillow. Two beautiful red and yellow lights soared out aft. The searchlights went out like a basement light clicking off.
"Sorry." I said. It didn't seem adequate.
Mercifully. Sid didn't say anything. I think he didn't want to betray that he had been scared too.

SUPERSTITIONS
The trip was a washout. We couldn't concentrate on anything after that, though it was really a very minor incident. We carried out a two hour patrol but didn't see anything.
The next night started out the same. I wore the same shoes as I had the first trip. I also peed under the port wing before takeoff. I stuck with these superstitions, though my feet got damn cold sometimes and the ground crew complained now and then about having to tramp around in my wet spots. A superstition is not a good one unless you stick with it through thick and thin.
I think I had always been impressed by the film in which Clark Gable got in flying trouble the moment Spencer Tracy forgot his habit of sticking his wad of gum on the cockpit before takeoff. I was not particularly superstitious before the war but I have been since. More than the ordinary orx^-. a black cat crossing your path, breaking a mirror, walking under a ladder. When I struggle out of my high-back rocker. I have to make sure it stops rocking before I leave the room. Never a hat on the bed. Happy is the corpse that is rained on. You name it — I've got it.
We took off, crossed the English Channel and took up station inside France
east of Le Havre. We were at about 2,000 feet. "Look out the back." Sid said.
I stayed like that for an hour. There was a real danger, sitting up in the open, that we would draw a Jem' night fighter. "Jesus, there's one," Sid said suddenly. He jammed the throttles forward.
I looked down. Sure enough, there was the red glow, the exhaust of a V-l. It seemed to be moving fairly slowly, poor judgement on my part. We went into a dive to get more speed. The Y-l was ahead of us. In the blackness, of course, all we could see was that small burning sun in front of us. Because the V-l was smaller than a plane, you had to get fairly close to get in a telling shot.
We were doing more than 350 mph by this time but we weren't gaining. In fact, we were dropping back a bit. In a minute or so, we had to face the truth that the damn thing was running away from us.

We had been warned about this too. Jerry mixed 'em up. He'd send one over at 500 miles an hour, which we couldn't catch, and then poop one off at 200 miles an hour. Whether this was deliberate or not we didn't know, of course, but it drove us crazy. We climbed back up to 10,000 feet: Sid was sore as hell. He took the two misfires as an affront to his flying ability.
Another hour went by and we were thinking of doing one more stooge before heading home, when we spotted a third doodlebug. "By God. this time." Sid said.
The speed went up as we went down. I looked at the clock. It read 350 mph. I looked out along the wing. It was flapping like a seagull working in a hurricane. My stomach gave another wrench. Christ, the wings will come off and we'll go straight in. I didn't take any comfort from what had happened to Tony Barker and Gord Frederick, his navigator. They hit the drink

was thrown hard against my straps because the cannons going off cut down the speed suddenly.
When the explosion came I thought I was going to be dead. The goddam thing went off right in our faces. I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of things whirling around outside the window. Black things and blobs of smoke.
"I can't see," Sid said.
"OK boy,"I said. "Just keep her like that. You can cut your speed though." He throttled back. After those hours of darkness, he had been blinded for a few seconds by the flash. Why we hadn't been smashed up from all that flying debris. I don't know. We had flown right through it.
" I got too close," Sid said.
"I noticed," I said. Now that I found myself in one piece and the props still going around, I wanted to laugh and natter and be Jesus H.(for Hannah) Christ in a blue bottle sitting on the mantlepiece. "Boy, I bet we saved the life of some limey in London reading his paper about how all the doodlebugs are being shot down by ack-ack guns," I babbled.
"Yes. you're quite a little savior," Sid said. But he didn't fool me. He was pleased he had finally made a score, no matter how small, in his Jewish war against the Germans.

"Russ said to go to 10,000." I said. Russ Bannock, our new flight commander, and Don MacFadyen, had worked out some tactics for the V-l. One of Russ's pieces of advice was to climb to 10.000 feet and wait there for the V-l launching. The height would enable us to gain our maximum speed of about 400 in a dive. "Look out the back." said Sid. We climbed to 10.000 feet and stooged around, my neck getting sorer by the minute.
"There's another bastard." Sid said. He banged the throttles forward and stuck the nose down. The sudden dive lifted me up hard against the straps and my guts came up with a thud against my heart. Down we went like a bat out of hell. We wouldn't be too slow this time. We weren't. We went screaming by the bloody thing before Sid could get set for a shot.

so hard the cannons pulled them through the floorboards of the cockpit and clear of the Mosquito. They got into their dinghies and a rescue plane picked them out of the Channel two miles off the Dieppe beaches. It takes all kinds.
Down, down, down. We were gaining some because the fire coming out the ass end of the V-l was getting bigger. The Mosquito was screaming in every joint. Sid had both big, hairy hands on the stick. When he began to pull back. I thought the wings would never stand it. But we began to level out and the clock said 400 mph. Sid pulled and pulled and she kept coming out of the dive. I tore my eyes away from the shaking wing and looked ahead. It was just like looking into a blast furnace.
"We're too close," I screamed. I shut my eyes as the cannons began banging away. I

we got one." was all he said. •: -:k the pistol," Sid said. I did, then turned on the Gee box and got a fix on our position. We were nearly home. That stretch at 400 miles an hour had helped speed things up.
I gave Sid a course: "Three-four-eight." Then I checked the IFF and the gas gauges.
"I bet we're all blistered." Sid said. He was talking about the Mosquito.
We drifted in over the coast and pretty soon our circle of lights showed up. He did a circuit and landed and parked. A flashlight bobbed around under my wing, the door opened, a ladder came up and with it a blurred face.
"Where in hell have you been?" ; -.-.-Hal.
"We got a doodlebug."
"From pretty close."
"That's been mentioned." Sid said.
I climbed down the ladder. Sid followed and took Hal's flashlight and played it on the wings and nose. There wasn't an inch of paint anywhere. The Mosquito was black. No roundel, no number, no letters, nothing.
What did you do, fly right up its ass?" asked Hal.
"Looks like," Sid said.
The truck with its little dim lights arrived and we rode back to the ops room. Sid reported to the IO.
A few minutes later, Pete came in smoking an enormous cigar. "One ceegar," he shouted, waving his smoke. He meant he had shot down a V-l.
"The son of a bitch," Sid said to me. "What'll he do if he ever shoots down a plane?" He was really annoyed.
The next afternoon, all the crews went around to have a look at our scorched plane and the CO said in the mess, "Don't get too close to 'em." I could have said that.
Sid didn't talk about shooting down a V-l. He talked about mistakes. "Jesus Christ. There we were going down like a stone in a well and my alligator sitting there with his balls in his mouth he's so scared and I'm fingering the old tit to get ready for a shot when we go tearing by as if that goddam thing had stopped to let somebody off. Then my alligator lectures me on tactics."
The bar laughed and roared. "Back up we go. with my alligator twitching like a dry leaf on the end of a dry twig in a dry wind because he's afraid a Jerry is going to come up our ass while we're trying to get up the doodlebug's ass. Well, we spot another, though my alligator here pretends he doesn't see it and says we should go home another way, like the three wise men. Well, down we go again. I don't know how you're supposed to tell how far away you are. I thought we were about 300 yards away when I fired. Jesus, we weren't three yards away. I'm going to wear dark glasses at night after this."
More laughter.
No other pilot talked like Sid did. The

others never admitted mistakes. They'd rather die than admit they had, for instance, overtaken a V-l without getting a shot in. Oh, they had heard of that happening to somebody over in 605 Sqn (our RAF equivalent). But that was all.
Except when describing a kill, most crews kept to themselves what went on in the cockpit. I was always interested in how the other navigators got along with their pilots and once in a while I found out.
One said his pilot gave him **** all die time in the air — a constant stream of instructions, complaints, invective about his navigation. But he didn't feel like retaliating because his pilot was so damn good he didn't make mistakes — he knew exactly what he was doing and what his plane could do every second the plane was in the air. It was uncanny. He added that he didn't speak to his pilot except in the ops room and in the plane. This must have taken some doing because, like the rest of us, they bunked in the same room.
Bill told me about his pilot: "Look, the guy makes mistakes. He puts us on the
wrong course sometimes. He's not one of your wonder pilots we have around here, with years of instruction. He made the course and he tries hard and he really flies pretty well. Do you think I'm going to hold him up to ridicule in front of the mess?"
I didn't consider that Sid was ridiculing himself or me. He was simply entertaining the Squadron. Besides, he was telling the truth while he did it, with a pinch of exaggeration here and there. I won't say he was the only one who told the truth. But he was the only one who broadcast it.

[bobbysocks]

Operation Airthief

By the beginning of 1942 it was clear that the capture of an airworthy Fw 190 would be of inestimable value to RAF Fighter Command. Yet in wrtime the aquisition of an example of the latest enemy fighter in an undamaged condition was a requirement far easier to state than to achieve. Nevertheless Captain Philip Pinckney, a Commando officer who was undeterred by the many obvious difficulties, put forward a proposal for 2 men to attempt to achieve by stealth what a battalion would not achieve by force: to steal one of the new German fighters and fly it back to England. For sheer effrontery the plan, which is reproduced in full below, can have few equals in military history. And it might just have succeeded.


MOST SECRET AND URGENT
To: Officer Commanding No 12 Commando
From: Captain Pinckney, E Troop, No 12 Commando

Sir,
I understand that as a matter of great urgency and importance a specimen Focke Wulf 190 is required in this country. I attach a proposal for procuring one of these aircraft.
....I have the honour to request that this, my application to be allowed to undertake the operation described, may be forwarded as rapidly as possible through the correct channels to the Chief of Combined Operations I further propose that the pilot to accompany me should be Mr. Jeffery Quill who is a close friend of mine, and as a well known test pilot of fighter aircraft is well qualified to bring back the plane. He is also young, active, a yachtsman, and a man in every way suitable to carry out the preliminary approach by land and sea.
....If Mr. Quill cannot be allowed to undertake this operation, perhaps a substitute could be made available from the Free French Forces. I am most anxious to be allowed to volunteer for this operation.

I have the honour to be
Sir
Your obedient servant
(signed) P. H. Pinckney

23.6.42

1) Object: to bring back to this country undamaged a Focke Wulf 190
2) Forces Required:
One MGB (motor gunboat) equipped with DF (direction-finding radio) apparatus, to carry a folbot (collaspable canoe) to within 2 miles of the coast of France.
One folbot equipped with wireless transmitter.
One officer of a Commando.
One specially selected pilot.

Method
3) Day 1
a) On the night of D1, the MGB, carrying the officers and folbot, will leave England after dark and proceed at best speed to within 2 miles of the French coast off a selected beach.
b) On reaching the beach the folbot will be carried inland and hidden in a wood or buried in the dunes. The officers will lie up during the following day.

4) Day 2
After laying up all day the officers will move inland until they are within observation range of a fighter aerodrome.

5) Day 3
a) On D3, the officers will keep the aerodrome under observation and plan the attack for the start of nautical twilight (ie, just before sunrise) on D4.
b) During the night of D3, the officers will penetrate the aerodrome defenses by stealth and will conceal themselves as near as possible to a selected Focke Wulf aircraft.

6) Day 4
a) At the start of nautical twilight on D4, when the aircraft are warmed up by the ground mechanics, the two officers will take the first opportunity to shoot the ground mechanics of the selected plane as soon as it has been started up. The pilot officer will take off in the machine and return to England. The commando officer will first ensure the safe departure of the aircraft and will then withdraw to a previously reconnoitred hideup. Should no opportunity to seize the aircraft have presented itself, the officers will withdraw to a hideup and make another attempt the next morning.
b) During the night of D4, the commando officer will return to the concealed folbot.

7) Day 5
a) After nautical twilight of D5 ot during the succeeding night, this officer will launch the folbot and be picked up by an MGB.
b) The MGB should be off the coast for two hours before nautical twilight on D5, D6 or D7 providing the weather is calm. If the weather is unsuitable, the Mgb should come on the first suitable morning. The ooficer after launching the folbot will paddle to a pre-arranged bearing. the MGB, making due allowance for the day and consquent set of the tide, will proceed on a course to intercept the folbot. In addition the officer will make wireless signals, which will be picked up by the MGB using DF gear.

Notes
Selected Aerodrome:
a) The selection of an aerodrome will be dependant on intelligence not at present available to me. The requirements are:
1)Within 20 miles of a landing beach which is not too strongly defended, and which has a hinterland of dunes or woods offering a hiding place for the folbot.
2) Within observation range or a few miles of a covered approach or a wood or place of concealment.

b) It is thought that possibly Abbeville aerodrome might be suitable with a landing made on the Somme Estuary. The Cherbourg peninsula, entailing a cliff-climbing onlanding, might give a good chance of making an undiscovered landing, providing a suitable aerodrome is nearby.

9) Return of the Plane:
Arrangments must be made with Fighter Command to ensure that the pilot officer is not shot down by our fighters on returning with the aptured aircraft. It is suggested that these arrangments should not be dependant upon wireless or on the officers taking distinctive markings or signalling aparatus with them. Possibly Fighter Command could be instructed not to shoot down any enemy Focke Wulf 190 appearing over the coast during specified times on selected days. In addition the undercarriage could be lowered for identification. If a Focke Wulf 190 after all is unprocurable on the aerodrome, a Messerschmitt 109F could be brought back instead. I understand that its aquisition would also be valuable.

10) Date:
The landing should be made on a rising tide to cover footprints and also on a dark night to achieve surprise.

11) Alternative Return of Commando Officer:
If it is considered an unacceptable naval risk to bring back an MGB to pick up the Commando officer, this officer could either paddle on a course pre-arranged by Fighter Command and eventually be picked up by an RAF rescue launch or, as a third alternative method of withdrawl, he could be instructed to make his way back through occupied France.

12) Other Considerations:
a) Food. the officers will be equipped with 10 day's compressed rations.
b) Preparation. The officers should have ample time to train together for a period which need not exceed 10 days. Training should also be carried out on the MGB.
c) Security. The officers suggested in the covering letter accompanying this proposal are both at present stationed at Bursledon, where they frequently go sailing together; the Commando officer owns a double folbot which is used daily; there are MGBs stationed at Bursledon; training could therefore be started without delay without arrousing any suspicions that an operation was under rehearsal.

Pinckney's proposal was allocated the operational code-name "Airthief" and detailed planning began; the airfield at Cherbourg-Maupertus was considered suitable for such an enterprise. Yet while still in the embryo stage, "Airthief" was overtaken by a coincidence more bizarre than any fiction writer would devise. On the very evening after Pinckney submitted his paper, on 23 June 1942, a German pilot became disoriented during a fight with Spitfires over southern England and inadvertantly landed his Fw 190 at Pembrey in South Wales. So the RAF got its Focke Wulf, without having to resort to "Airthief".

Philip Pinckney did not survive the war; he was killed in action in Italy in 1944. Of the chances of success of "Airthief", Jeffery Quill recently commented, "Provided we could get to the aircraft with its engine running, get the German airman out of the cockpit dead or alive and get me into it, I thought I had a 50-50 chance of getting back to England. As to the early part of the operation I was not qualified to have a view and I was guided entirely by Philip who seemed very confident and I would just have done what he said. He ws obviously relying on stealth - and perhaps we might have got away with it. Philip was always evasive about his own plans for getting back. I had a splendid way of getting back by air, but it was a very different kettle of fish for him. But he was very resourceful and might well have made it, one way or another, provided I had got the aircraft off the airfield without too much of a hue and cry.
Anyway it was a non-event, as it turned out. Philip Pinckney was the inspiration behind the whole thing. Had it succeeded it would have been 90% due to him and the balance of danger would have been heavily against him. I think he was bitterly disappointed when it was called off and he was quite cross about the German pilot landing in Wales. I am afraid I have to confess to a certain easing of tension within my guts!"

[bobbysocks]

Tuck's Luck!

Robert Stanford Tuck shot down a total of 30 officially credited enemy fighters before his luck finally run out in January 1942. From the early days of 1939 to 1942 he had become one of the living legends of the Royal Air Force, leading 92 Squadron and 257 Squadron during the Battle of Britain with often fantastic results and supernatural luck.

In 1935 Tuck was a young student trying to learn to fly and he was failing by the minute. Tuck, a strikingly handsome young man, born in 1916, saw an add in the newspaper about the RAF one day and decided to try it out. So there he was, sitting in an Avro Tutor biplane trying to learn to be fighter pilot.

He was about to be dumped off the programme, simply because he seemed not to learn even the basic ideas of flying. October 1935 was quite frankly his last chance to prove himself as a pilot in the RAF. And Tuck knew it himself.

But suddenly on that day in October it all came to him. Flying an aeroplane was not about calculating and predicting every move the plane made. It was not about trying to work out the pure mathematics of a turn or a roll in his head before doing them, it was about instinct and handling the plane as apart of himself. When he realized this, right there on his last chance to be apart of the RAF, it was all very easy. Robert Stanford Tuck was without doubt a natural pilot. With just a bit of bad luck and a not so understanding flight instructor, Tuck would have been on his way home a long time ago. The same day he went solo for the first time and did all exceptionally well.

By August of 36, Tuck had earned his wings and got his posting to 62 Squadron, flying Gloster Gladiators. Two years later it might have been all over when 3 Gladiators flown by Tuck, Gaskell and Hope-Boyd ran into turbulence. Gaskell’s plane struck the turbulence and then caught Hope-Boyd’s slipstream. Gaskell then crashed into Tuck’s plane, who was flying as number three. Gaskell died in the crash while Tuck managed by shear luck to get out of the plane and into his chute. He badly injured his cheek and from this day he would be known for his long scar on his right cheek. Tuck knew that skill did not save him that day, but pure luck and he discovered that he had become quite the cheeky pilot and had to be careful in the future. His nerve remained steady, his judgment good and his enthusiasm high, but he no longer took needless risks in flying.

Flying was Tuck’s life. His life was up in the air, in the cockpit of whatever plane he was flying and he did not care for much else. He was quite the beer drinker and could drink an awful lot of pints during a night out with his flying buddies, but flying was above all his main interest. In these early years women did not really appeal to him. He was not a monk by all means, he simply did not have the time or the energy of the company of women.

By May 1940 Tuck was transferred to 92 Squadron, flying Spitfires out of Hornchurch. Tuck scored his first victory in those dark days of spring 1940 when the British army seemed beaten and lost at the beaches of Dunkirk. A Me-110 fell to Tuck’s 8 Browning machine guns and he saw it spiral down and slam into a field near St. Omer, France. Just minutes earlier, Tuck had seen Pat Learmond’s Spitfire go down in a ball of fire. 92 squadron went up 2 more times that particular day and by the last sortie, Tuck had scored 3 victories, but not without a dose of “Tuck’s luck”.

Tuck circled the wrecked Me-110 as the German pilot climbed out of the cockpit. He slid open his canopy and waved at the downed German pilot. The German seemed to be waving back, but suddenly a large crack was heard and his canopy suddenly had a hole in it, just inches from Tuck’s face! The German wasn’t waving, he was holding a Mausser machine gun and firing at him!

Angered, Tuck pushed the stick of his Spitfire downwards, swung it around, came in low and pressed the firing button. The German became engulfed in smoke, and lethal Spitfire machine gun fire and that was the end of him.

Within the next couple of days, 92 Squadron lost their CO, Roger Bushell and Tuck was handed the squadron shortly thereafter.

The first thing he did was to order his pilots to make more space between them. That way they could pay more attention to enemy fighters and not the stupidity of perfect formation flying in a combat zone. Tuck shot down 2 Dornier bombers that day. Ignoring several hits on his Spitfire, Tuck didn’t stop attacking one of the bombers before it hopelessly fell down from the sky. When taking over the squadron, Tuck had his friend Brian Kingcome posted to 92 squadron, later one of the best pilots during the Battle of Britain.

During the last days of May 1940 Tuck got the chance to fly a Me109 which they had rebuilt from its crashed landing in Britain. Tuck found out that the Me109 was a wonderful little plane, it was slightly faster than the Spit, but lacked the Spits amazing manoeuvrability. By taking part in this testing, Tuck could put himself inside the Me109 when fighting them, knowing its weak and strong points, which obviously must have helped him a great deal later on.

At a ceremony at Hornchurch on June 28, 1940, Tuck was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) by King George VI for his "initiative" and "personal example" over Dunkirk.
While 92 Squadron being drawn back from the front line and to Wales during July and August 1940 something remarkable happened. Tuck was chasing a lone German bomber and shot it down. Later he found out that the German plane had crashed close to a military camp, killing one soldier there. This soldier was, as amazing as it sounds, his sisters husband John Spark. This was by all means, Tuck's Luck in reverse.

While visiting friends at Northolt in August, he came right in the middle a major bombing raid. He refused to take cover and took off in a Spitfire, catching up with 2 Ju88 bombers.

Far below him the two 88's passed him, Tuck put his Spit in a shallow dive going head on with the bombers. Tuck fired his guns on the port side enemy bomber. He struck the fuselage of the plane so hard to seemed to bend backwards, like the body of a leaping fish. Then one of the wings tipped and the bomber went into the ocean in a gigantic explosion. He pulled sharply up getting pressed violently down in his side. He half rolled his Spitfire on top and dived down after the second bomber. He passed it overhead, turned his Spitfire round and went in for another head-on attack. Tuck got an instant feeling that this was different than the others and very dangerous. Ignoring his feelings, he continued straight towards the bomber, trying to avoid the bullets coming in from the German front gunner. He pulled off just fractions before impact to the German bomber. He had been hit several times and Tuck's engine gave up. He knew it wouldn’t make it and got out, pulling the ripcord as fast as possible. The doomed German bomber continued towards France probably crashing down in the channel.

During September of 1940, Tuck was transferred to 257 squadron flying Hurricanes. 257 squadron was quite possibly the only squadron in the RAF at that time that had lost more fighters than they had shot down. It was a dismal situation when Tuck took over the squadron. However with only a couple of days rest and practice, Tuck managed to turn this squadron around. When meeting the 257 pilots for the first time, always the beer loving young man, Tuck strolled right to the bar, downed half a pint of beer in one gigantic gulp and started talking to his new pilots.

On September 15, Tuck lead 257 squadron and two other Hurricane squadrons towards the armada of German planes coming in over England. Not having time to gain altitude or a tactical advantage, Tuck took his squadrons in for an attack, coming from below the Germans. Ignoring the attacking Me109's coming in from the sun they attacked the bombers. While attacking a He111 slightly out of formation, Tuck was jumped by a Me109. He sent his wingman after the attacking Me109 and continued shooting at the He111.

This day would later in history be known as "Battle of Britain day".

Tuck was awarded a bar to his DFC for his bravery during those daring attacks on the German formations. Surprised by this honour, he replied only "I've just been bloody lucky, that’s all".

He was later awarded the Distinguished Service Order (DSO), a decoration second only to the Victoria Cross. The award was for leading 257 Squadron with "great success. Tuck had transformed 257 squadron from zeroes to heroes in just a couple of weeks and just in time for the very crucial September battles during the Battle of Britain.

I mid March of 1941 275 squadron started to operate also at night attacking the German bomber raids. A second bar to his DFC was awarded later the same month, for "conspicuous gallantry and initiative in searching for and attacking enemy raiders, often in adverse weather conditions."

Tuck was flying alone over the east coast of England when he was jumped by 3 Me109's. The first Me109 fired at Tuck and and passed him so he suddenly had the 109 straight in front of him. Ignoring the other two 109's he fired at the 109 in front him. Deadly accurate, the first 109 hopelessly fell into the sea below. He then banked sharply and found another 109. Letting it pass beneath him first he dived after him. After a quick burst, the second 109 went down. He had gotten very low by now and pulled straight up trying to gain height before the last 109 would attack. Too late. The 109 hit his Hurricane several times shooting the throttle out of his hand, his canopy got shot to bits and pieces along with the gunsight of the doomed Hurricane. Tuck did not jump out, but turned his Hurricane around, firing with everything he had against the last 109. He managed to damage it severely before he had to jump out himself. He was later picked up from the sea and treated for minor injuries.

In mid July 1941 Tuck was relieved as a wing commander for 257, certainly earning all the praise he got from both his pilots and the ground crew. They had all just wonderful things to say about this extraordinary man at only 25 years of age.

Tuck was then given orders to take command of the Duxford wing, flying Airacobras, Spitfires and Typhoons. Besides his beloved Spitfire, Tuck took a liking to the Typhoon.

Another incident of Tuck's Luck happened when he and some pilots were partying in a pub not far from Norwich. Being with his girlfriend, Joyce, Tuck suddenly got a feeling he had to get out of the pub in a hurry. He told his pilot friends he wanted to go into Norwich to hit the pubs there. They declined to his offer because they would never be able to make it there before closing time. Tuck knew this but still wanted to go. Driving back from the pub Joyce confronted him with his and Tuck told her that he felt he had to leave in a hurry and didn’t really want to go to Norwich after all. The next day he was given the news that a lone German bomber had dropped its cargo straight on the pub killing most of the people inside. Another close shave. Tuck's Luck once more.

The Germans finally nailed Tuck in January of 1942. Doing a low “Rhubarb” sweep over France, he and his wingman got into massive flak from both sides of a shallow valley when trying to hit a distillery and some trains. Tuck managed to crash land his Spitfire right in front of a squad of German soldiers standing beside a cannon. Tuck's Luck was with him once more when one of his last shots from the Spitfire had entered the German cannon, peeling it like a banana. Seeing this, the Germans couldn’t stop laughing, which probably saved Tuck's life. Even when picking up the dead German soldiers Tuck had just shoot up with his Spitfire, they didn’t stop laughing.

Tuck was transferred to Stallag Luft 3 where he met many of his old friends, including the legendary Douglas Bader and his old CO, Roger Bushell. Bushell was later shot by the Germans after over 70 pilots escaped thru a tunnel. Tuck was supposed to be apart of this escape plan but was transferred from the camp just days before it was put into action. Lucky once more. Only three pilots managed to escape to safety, two of these were Norwegians.

Tuck managed to escape in 1945 when the whole camp was moved due to the Russians coming a bit too close for the Germans liking. Tuck and a Polish captain managed to get to the Russian lines. While in a Polish city, Tuck's Luck came into action yet another time when Tuck was recognized by a friend of his brother. A one in a million chance of meeting someone like that in a Polish city in 1945! With the help of this man, they soon managed to get themselves back to safety and the green fields of England.

Robert Stanford Tuck settled in Kent with his wife Joyce after the war. He died in 1987.

[bobbysocks]

Rolf Arne Berg - One of the Few

Rolf Arne Berg was probably the best Norwegian fighter pilot during world war two. He might still be the best fighter pilot Norway has ever had. Spitfirepilots.com presents the story of this magnificent fighter pilot, and perhaps even previously unknown information to many about this fascinating man from Norway.

The Norwegian pilots during the war spoke seldom about individuals in their group of people. They were all of the same team. Even though, if one individual should be pointed out, it has to be Rolf Arne Berg.

Rolf Arne Berg was born in Trøndelag in Norway and joined the air force shortly before the war, and continued his war efforts from England and Europe alongside his fellow pilots in 331 and 332 squadron. Rolf Arne was the kind of person that is very seldom noticed in peace-time. Shy, quiet but extremely intelligent. An expert in handling a Spitfire, maybe the best Norway had.

He was an officer but not a snobby one. Rolf Arne was an individual everyone liked, Englishmen and Norwegians all the same. He was an expert at handling dangerous situations. Calm and steady on the stick in most situations normal people would wet themselves in horror.

To fly was his life. Once a mission was completed, he was ready for the next. There’s more than a slight possibility that Rolf Arne had more missions than anyone else in the whole 2nd Tactical Air Force.

He often talked about what he wanted to do after the war. Sometimes he wanted to continue flying, sometimes he wanted to buy a fishing boat or maybe just travel the world.

Fighter pilots were considered as something very glamorous during the war. Glamorous and popular. Almost celebrity like. Some of them were widely known in the media. Rolf Arne however was no big tease among girls as many others were. According to Svein Heglund, Rolf Arne had someone special. Somewhere.

One story about Rolf Arne that may not be widely known is the story told in Duncan Smith’s book “Spitfire into battle”. After a mission Smith and Berg landed at an American bomber base in England after running low on fuel. Most of the Americans had never seen a Spitfire up close before and giggled at the site of the small Spitfire compared to their Flying Fortresses. To escort B-17 bombers to Germany had probably never crossed Mitchell’s thought when he designed the wonder that is a Spitfire.

The Americans more than willingly filled up their Spitfires with fuel and even wanted to give Rolf Arne and Smith a few dollars as thanks for escorting their bombers into France and back. Rolf Arne, quite embarrassed said: “I’m a Norwegian Officer; I cannot take your money”. The Americans thanked for all the help and waved goodbye to the departing Spitfires on their way back home to North Weald.

Rolf Arne stayed with 331 squadron all the way to the end. Promoted to Wing Commander Flying he was the only one in the squadrons with a specially painted Spitfire. His own initials instead of the regular squadron codes. Parts of the tail and the wings were painted in Norwegian flag colours. He had the respect and admiration of both squadrons.


Rolf Arne Berg died in February 1945 in a tragic crash. Not only was it so tragic that he died in a crash but he was also tour-expired. He went along for an extra mission out of pure stubbornness and willingness to go up again one more time to fight the enemy. He convinced his friend Zulu Morris to add him to the mission. There had been reports about a Dutch airfield full of German airplanes parked around it. After getting “no” from Helge Mehre, he went further up the command and got his “yes” after all.

Even his bags were packed. He was supposed to go to Chamonix to ski. He wasn’t supposed to go over Holland in a Spitfire another time. But, the German airplanes were a too good of a chance to miss. A great opportunity to get in a few easy ground kills. It was supposed to be the encore for Norway’s best overall fighter pilot.

Flak was a fighter pilots worst enemy. No experience or 10 German airplanes shot down can help you deal with flak. Flak is about luck. Lots of experienced allied pilots lost their lives to flak when the war in reality had already been won. A German pilot could probably never have gotten close to shooting Rolf Arne down. He was that good and that experienced. Flak was something else. It was game of dice where the looser died.

When the Norwegian Spitfires attacked the airfield in Holland the flak opened up on them. Rolf Arne’s Spitfire was hit massively in one of the wings. Probably hit while gaining height after the attack. The Spitfire lost one of its wings and dived without control straight into a barn without exploding. He was found inside the cockpit by locals and buried nearby.

It may sound weird that Rolf Arne pulled up after such an attack. Famous fighter pilot Pierre Clostermann writes in his book “The big show” that pulling up from such an attack is asking to be shot down. The flak batteries are able to aim better if you’re higher up and not 10 meters from the ground. Rolf Arne pulled up but he probably had his reasons.

There were no real German airplanes on this airfield. They were dummy planes. It makes the entire event even sadder.

Rolf Arne Berg, with his capability and experience as leader and as a fighter pilot would have been as good as gold for Norway after the war. The loss of him can still be felt in Norway and the air force. What Rolf Arne would have done for the air force and for his country after the war nobody knows for sure, but it would have been a huge presence from a great man.

Norwegian fighter pilots and friends of Rolf Arne visited the church yard were Rolf Arne was buried after the war. On his grave someone had put flowers. Someone cared.

Rolf Arne's body was later transferred back to Norway and he's buried in Trøndelag.

[bobbysocks]

Hans-Guido Mutke on the morning of 25 April 1945

"I made contact with 20 to 25 Marauders north of the Bodensee, then I noticed that I was running very low on fuel while flying over French-occupied territory. I had two choices - to land in Zurich or bale out and use my parachute at 2000 metres. I chose to land in Switzerland as I wanted to avoid being captured by the French, and came down at Zurich's Dubendorf military airfield with only enough fuel left for a further two minutes flying. The Swiss surrounded the plane with roughly 60 soldiers, all with guns aimed at me - something which struck me as being rather belligerent in neutral Switzerland, particularily since I was 'over the moon' at having escaped being taken prisoner by the French and had no intention whatsoever of somehow opening fire on the Swiss with my aircraft's weapons."

Obituaries
Hans Guido Mutke
Aviator who believed he broke the sound barrier in 1945


Flying a Messerschmitt 262 jet fighter, on 9 April 1945 Hans Guido Mutke may have become the first person to travel faster than the speed of sound as he flew over Austria.


Hans Guido Mutke, pilot and gynaecologist: born Neisse, Germany 25 March 1921; married (two children); died Munich 8 April 2004.

Flying a Messerschmitt 262 jet fighter, on 9 April 1945 Hans Guido Mutke may have become the first person to travel faster than the speed of sound as he flew over Austria.

In an attempt to assist a fellow pilot under Allied fire he went into a sharp dive and lost control of his Me-262 as it started to vibrate violently and the controls ceased to function. When he regained control, the speedometer was stuck at 1,100km an hour. On his return to base, considerable damage was revealed. Although he saved his comrade, this could have cost him his place in the squadron, as pilots had been ordered not to exceed 950km/h. If Mutke's account is true, and there are doubters, the story means that the German Luftwaffe pilot broke the sound barrier two years before the US pilot Colonel Chuck Yeager, who achieved this during a 1947 flight over California.

Mutke, called up when he was a medical student, spent three years as a night fighter reconnaissance pilot searching for, and tracking, Allied bombers over Germany. The war was already lost, and the Americans and British effectively controlled the skies over Hitler's Reich when, because of his flying skills, Mutke was posted to train as a jet pilot flying the Messerschmitt 262, the first jet plane produced in quantity for combat. On his last combat mission, running out of fuel, Mutke crossed into neutral Switzerland, to avoid falling into enemy hands. He was interned with American flyers who had also landed in Switzerland.

After the Second World War, released from Swiss internment, Mutke completed his medical training, in Berne and Zurich, but then spent some years flying DC-3 Dakotas for airlines in Argentina and Bolivia. On his return to Germany, he worked as a gynaecologist until his retirement. He did, however, keep his ties with military aviation by serving as a reserve medical officer in the German air force. His Me-262 was handed over by the Swiss, in 1957, to the Deutsches Museum in Munich, where it is still on display.

It was only in 1989 that Mutke became convinced that he had broken the sound barrier. This was after discussing his flight with experts at a conference in Munich celebrating the 50th anniversary of jet-powered flight. He died during a heart operation in Munich, and donated his body to Gunther von Hagens, the controversial artist who uses human bodies in his "Body Worlds" exhibitions.

[bobbysocks]

Retired aviator cited for WWII bravery

He was a waist gunner in a B-17 aircraft that made the first daylight raid on Berlin.

Edward L. Cardenas / The Detroit News

SHELBY TOWNSHIP -- Retired U.S. Air Force Technical Sgt. James Marbry was among the first members of the Army Air Force to see Berlin as his B-17 swooped in for a bombing raid of the German capital in March 1944.

Nearly 64 years later, he's finally received recognition for that harrowing mission to push deep into German territory during daylight.

The 84-year-old Shelby Township veteran received his Distinguished Flying Cross Sunday Selfridge Air National Guard Base for his efforts as a ball turret gunner aboard the B-17 bomber named "Dreambaby."

The honor came about when a grandson of a crewmate began asking his grandfather about his service medals in 2004. Soon, an effort was started to get the entire crew the Distinguished Flying Cross, a medal given to those who "exhibit heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in an aerial flight," according to the Air Force.

Marbry received his medal before a contingent that included his grandson, Air Force Master Sgt. Michael Marbry, who flew home from Ramstein Air Base in Germany.

"It's important that we recognize this passing generation and their sacrifices before they are gone. Their sacrifices enable us to enjoy the freedoms we have today," said Col. David Miller, Selfridge vice-commander.

Shortly after the Berlin mission for which he was honored, he was transferred to another bomber that was sent on a Memorial Day raid in 1944 just days before the D-Day invasion.

His job on that raid was to bomb a fighter plane factory deep in Germany. But a Luftwaffe fighter hit his B-17 with a 20 mm machine gun fire between the third and fourth engine. The bullet tore into the wing and started a fire on the bomber, which was flying at an altitude of 26,500 feet.

Marbry, who was a radio operator on that flight, knew he had 90 seconds to get out.

He deployed his parachute and landed just before pieces of the plane came raining down around him. He learned that four members of the crew died in the crash, and a few hours later he was taken prisoner by the Germans. After 11 months, was finally liberated by a unit attached to Gen. George Patton's Third Army.

"It was a quite an experience," he said. "I wish I could give you all the feelings I have about the men that didn't come back."

[bobbysocks]

“Icky and Me”
By Jack Payne

This story is true - the names of the people have been changed but not enough so that any of them reading this would not know themselves. The dates, times, places and action were taken directly from notes made by the pilot who flew the mission and from the briefing slip and maps for this mission. As for the other details which were recorded only in the pilots memory, they, too, are real, I know. I was the pilot.

It was August, the 9th, 1945. I had just been awakened by the O.D. and was trying to pull myself out of the musty, but warm, sleeping bag which had been dragged all over the South Pacific. It was dark on Ie Shima, not yet 04:30. Briefing was at 06:00. I sat on the edge of my cot now, looking for my socks. "Oh yeah," I thought, "I washed them last night, they're out on the tent rope." Slipping the wooden shower clogs on my feet I stepped out of the tent. The morning was clear, each star as bright and shiny as a speck of blue white diamond. Off to the north I could see the "Witches Tit" silhouetted against the starlit sky. Up there on the rise of ground behind our tent area were the runways, Birch and Plum, and the revetments, where now I could hear the deep-throated rumble of the big Pratt and Whitney R-2800C Wasp engines being started and warmed up by the ground crews. Now the crews would be climbing all over each "Jug", poking their heads in inspection openings and preflighting each plane for its day's work. The ordnance men would be carefully laying about 3,300 rounds of .50 caliber ammo in the eight feed bins and hooking ten five-inch rockets under the wings of two Jugs in each squadron. My old “Bucket of Bolts,” 02, more affectionately called "Icky & Me", which was painted on the cowl, would be getting ten rockets hung under her wings plus external tanks or bombs, depending on the mission we would be partners on today. I found my socks and groped my way back to my cot. As I was pulling on my socks, boots and flying suit my thoughts wandered back to the many other mornings in the past year, I had followed this same routine - always, it seemed, it was dark; always, even in the Pacific, it was cool. Then there were always the same noises - the rumble of the engines being warmed up, or sometimes, a while back, it would be a different sounding engine, maybe a Packard or Allison in a P-40 or P-38, but it always meant the same thing, the fighters were being made ready for their day's business.

I zipped up my flying suit, put a pen and pencil in the breast pocket, and slipped the belt through my hunting knife sheath and buckled it. I picked up the .45 in its shoulder holster from the tent floor, where it laid every night within easy reach from my cot, slipped it on and snapped it fast. As I picked up my helmet and goggles, I looked around at my stuff. It was all there, handy in case one of my buddies had to pack my bags this time.

"Hell, nobody's gonna pack my stuff. I'll carry it home with me when I go!" I thought, as I went outside and turned toward the mess tent. I went into the mess tent and picked up my tray, got two eggs over light and a pile of bacon, some toast and butter, went over to a table and put the tray down. Lt. Brummer put his down next to mine, and we went over to get coffee, took it back to the table and ate.

"I wonder where in hell we're going today," Brummer said, not looking at anyone in particular.

"I don't know," someone replied, "But I bet we get our ass shot off again."

"Yeah, they aren't putting up many fighters these days but they're sure throwing the flak around."

"Well, with none of their own pea shooters in the air they can shoot like hell without aimin'."

"Yeah, well, if we don't get more Jugs in the air today than we did yesterday, they'll have to aim damn good, cause there won't be but only a couple of targets to shoot at!"

"Crap!" exclaimed Brummer, "I ain't goin' up there alone! All them guns will be shootin' at me then, an' my luck's gettin' pretty thin!" So went the conversations around the table at breakfast. When I finished I went over and filled my canteen with water, then put salt in it and shook it up. That salt water tastes like sugar water after a few hours in the air. The temperature in the cockpit gets up to around 120°, and you sweat out a lot of salt.

We all walked over to the briefing tent and sat down. The C.O. with his trailing assortment of aides and intelligence people walked in and, we all popped to, at the first sound of ten-hut!

"As you were," the Colonel said, "We've got a bitch today boys. we're running a little late, so let's get at it. Captain, you give 'em the 'poop'!"

"Your target is Matsuyama West," said the Captain, "it's a large airfield off the northwest side of Shikoku, reported as being a medium bomber base."

Someone handed me a mimeographed mission sheet with a map of Japan on it and places for all the specific information required for this mission. As the Captain read the information, his voice became a monotone in this now silent tent. Every pilot was getting this information on his sheet. A slip here could mean your neck! As the words came, I wrote - Target - Matsuyama West; Man Planes - 07:50; Start Engines - 07:55; Takeoff - 08:13; call signs are: Group Leader - Tycoon; Squadron Leader - Vampire One; Communications are; Primary - A; Secondary - B; Air-Sea rescue - D; IFF - 6; Recognition Lights – Red and amber. The squadron will assemble over Oboe at 08:35; the group over Yoke, at 08:45; route out 25°; weather CAVU.

"Your air-sea rescue units will be at these points," the Captain said. "Playmate 16 and Sub 593 off the southern tip of Kyushu at Cape Sata — their code name today is ‘Blowhole.’ Playmate 15, Jukebox 33 and Sub 539 will be here off the Tozaki Point. This is where you'll need them if you get clobbered. Their code name for today is 'Giltedge'."

"One or two last items you may like to Know before you guys strap on your airplanes," the Captain went on. "Our intelligence reports this field is protected by 83 automatic weapons and six heavies. We expect you'll run into a lot or fighters, your going in pretty deep, and there's a railroad down the west shore and a small refinery just southwest of the airfield, that's it men - good luck and good hunting!"

We checked our watches and piled outside. The jeeps and weapons carriers were waiting to take us up to the parachute room and then to the flight line. The stars had faded now and the sky was getting light. Dawn came fast here in the Ryukyus, so by the time I had put on my "Mae West" and slipped into my chute harness, it was quite light. I tucked my chute pack up over my butt and went over to the jeep that had three other pilots from the 333rd in it, and we bounced off to the line. Lt. Brummer was flight leader with Lt. Holly on his wing. I was number 3 with Lt. Dombray on my wing. Capt. Cary, our squadron commanding officer, was leading the squadron today. If everytning went right tne 333rd would put twelve planes in the air, the 73rd and the 19th squadron the same. This meant tne 318tn group would have 36 P47Ns over the target today.

The jeep dropped Brummer off by "Miss Vivian", Holly by "760" and I jumped off by "02" - "Icky and Me". "02" was a veteran of forty-one missions and an uncounted number of sorties, she was a good airplane, not always flown by me, as I shared her with other pilots on the days I wasn’t assigned to missions. "02" flew every day she wasn't "Red A'd" and that wasn't too often. Icky's crew was a good one; they hovered over her like a hen over her chick.

I started my preflight inspection; this I made a habit of. The crew knew "Icky" better than I, but it was my ass that would be sittin' in this beast for the next few hours, and I wanted to be sure it was all there. As I ran my hand along the leading edge of the stabilizer I remembered my first meeting with "02" back at Hickam Field on Oahu. Several pilots from the 3l8th were flown back to Hawaii to pick up new planes and fly them back here to Ie Shima.

I picked "02". She was brand new, shiny and clean, but was parked right smack in the middle of a big mud puddle at the edge of the taxi strip.

"What a mess this thing's going to be when I give her enough power to move out of this mud," I said to the crewman who was helping me up on the wing.

"Yeah," he replied, "My nice pollish job will be all icky with mud."

And icky she still was when I sat her down on Ie Shima, some 14 flying hours later, and "Icky" she still is. She couldn't fly alone however, and I felt that she belonged to me, so her full name became "Icky and Me".

The people at Republic Avaition, way back on Long Island, U.S.A., had built her. She sailed to the island of Oahu on a Victory Ship and put in combat readiness at Hickam Field. Now I was going to take her into the deep blue Pacific sky and fly her straight into war; that is what this P47N was made for. The "N" was bigger than the old "D" which we had all through the Marshalls and Marianas and the boys in Europe were using. The "N" was built specifically for our war over the vast, trackless waters of the Pacific, it was a VLR (Very Long Range) fighter. Longer wings with squared off tips, a bigger engine, more internal fuel capacity, tail warning radar, auto pilot and many other innovations and improvements just for our type of war. And how well it did it is a matter of record. The first five days of the Ryukyus-Kyushu Campaign the 318th's Thunderbolts had knocked down 54 enemy planes and lost not one of its own and against 17 to 1 odds.

"This is an airplane to fight with," I thought as I continued my inspection. The holes that "Icky" picked up from ground fire yesterday were neatly patched, and a new bottom section was on the engine cowl, She looked good to me, so I climbed the wing and lowered myself into the cockpit.

Everything looked good; the form A and 1A were good. There was a red mark on the generator, "I'll watch that," I thought. I settled my chute in the bucket and reached for the safety belt, the crewman laid the shoulder straps over my shoulders and handed the ends to me as I slipped them through the belt and locked it.

My airplane was strapped on!

I ran through the cockpit check, automatically unlocking the controls, setting the fuel selector on "Main" tank for starting and take off. As I went over the cockpit's controls and instruments from left to right, I plugged in my mike, earphones and oxygen mask, turned on the master switch and pushed the "A" channel on the VHF transceiver. The radio came on just as "Vampire 1" was calling for a radio check. I held the mike button on the throttle handle down, and called, "hello, Vampire one, this is Vampire three, over."

"Roger, Vampire three, I read you, R5-S5 out," came the reply. Then it was time to start the engines. I cracked the throttle, shoved the prop pitch full forward, all switches on, mags on both, and leaned on the energizer. As the pitch of the starter reached its peak, I threw it to engage. The Pratt and Whitney turned over, each prop blade came over the top, then it fired, rumbled and took hold. Smoke poured out the short stacks and out around the cowl flaps as I pushed the mixture to "auto rich", the jug rocked gently, now, as I brought the engine to 800 RPM's. The crewmen were out on the wings. "Icky and Me" were ready.

Brummer went taxing by, then "760". I saw my wing man in "Por-Lil-Fuzzy" coming, slowing down to let me in. I released the brakes and kicked "Icky" around to take my place in the line of taxing fighters.

The tension was building up in me now. The take-off was the first obstacle to overcome, and most any take-off is a bit tense. It is a very critical point,—the airplane is heavy, the engine untried under full load, and the runway is too short. An engine failure on take-off is no bed of roses anywhere, in any airplane, but on Plum strip, with a fully loaded P-47N, every take-off is Hairy! Plum strip was only 4,820 feet long, one third the length of any stateside runway, and here the air temperature was around 80°, so there was less lift and less air for the prop to bite into.

Take-off's on Plum were life or death! One of Republic's test pilots was killed taking off on Plum. His wheels never left the ground till he was at the very end of the runway, and then the "N" tried to fly. God, how it tried! We all watched as, with its nose up and 2,800 horses screaming, it sank slowly toward the rocks on the edge of the cliff. It looked for a moment as if he were going to make it. Then the tail of the fuselage hit, with a sickening grinding noise. Eleven tons of airplane went down over the edge of the coral to eternity - a loud puff as it blew into flames and put a smoky period to it's pilot's life.

Brummer was going down the runway now; I could see him leaning into his shoulder harness as though he were trying to help "Miss Vivian" get rolling faster. His tail was up, the runway was running out—he was off — mushing along — his gear was up — he disappeared below the edge of the runway. I watched and waited. I thought he was out of sight too long — I waited for the smoke, but no — "he made it," I yelled. There, out over the China Sea was "Miss Vivian" - low, but flying.

Lt. Holly rolled out on the runway; I moved up and slewed "Icky's" tail around so that, as I ran the engine up to check mags and prop, I wouldn't blow coral all over Dombray, who was behind me.

Being busy with cockpit and mag checks, I didn't see Holly go off; but I knew he made it all right, my wing men would have let me know if he hadn't. By wing men in this case I refer to the ground crewmen who ride laying on each wing with their toes on the aileron. While taxiing, the pilot cannot see over the nose of a Thunderbolt so the crewmen signal him by kicking the aileron, which the pilot can feel in the stick. Everything checked okay, and I was signalled out onto the runway. I rolled around as close to the end as I dared, held my right brake, and eased the Jug around till it pointed straight down the runway. I then let it roll a few feet, locked the tail wheel and then the brakes. The wing man on the right wing came to the cockpit and I throttled the Wasp back to idle. He told me that my right tire was soft. "Christ no! not now," I thought. "That will keep me on the ground for this mission. "I know," I yelled at him, "it was soft yesterday, too. why in hell didn't you guys put air in it." He shook his head. The Sergeant knew damn well that tire wasn't soft when we started to taxi out this morning, and he knew full well it wasn't soft yesterday either. He hit me on the shoulder and yelled, "Give 'em hell for us, Lieutenant," and jumped down.

The signal officer was winding me up. We took off of this island just as though it was a carrier. With brakes locked we would wind up our engines, then the signal officer would give the go signal. I eased the throttle all the way up—prop pitch full forward. The engine came to full roaring life, twenty five hundred RPM — 50 inches of mercury on the manifold pressure gauge. I cut in the turbo super charger, and the manifold pressure went up to 55, 60, 65 inches of mercury. I flipped on the water injection switch on the throttle - 72 inches of marcury! The Wasp had it all now! "Icky" was screaming; the stick was hard to hold back against the pressure, the noise with my canopy open was a violent ear-splitting thing. The tires were dragging on the white coral surface of the runway. "Jesus, let us go! Before this bucket blows up!", I screamed into the blast of air. The signal officer's hand dropped, and I kicked off the brakes and shoved the stick up to the panel to get my tail up as fast as I could and get rid of the drag of the tail wheel. I, too, leaned into my shoulder harness. "Come on, Baby, let's go," I said aloud. I had to put in left rudder to hold it straight. "That damn right tire," I though, "it's slowing me down." I released the landing gear lock with my left hand, then pushed a little harder on the throttle—the runway was being used up fast now - I could see the end! There was a blur of a red cross as I careened by the meat wagon. There was the end of the runway! "Now, Baby, now!", I yelled, as if it might help. I pulled the gear out from under me and at the same time put back pressure on the stick. I was sinking. I could feel this lousy hunk of iron sinking. "She won't fly," I thought. "This pile of tin will never fly. Come on Icky, up! up!" We sank, belly first, nose up just a little, toward those lousey rocks on the end of the cliff. "Why in hell hadn't the engineers or the Seabees gotten rid of them? I'll move then myself, when I get back," I thought. My hand wanted to bring the stick back more, to pull the ship up a little higher. "No! You'll hang it on the prop, then she'll drop right out from under you," flashed through my mind. I was pushing up against the belt as if to lift her that extra inch or two by myself. "Come on Baby, up! Maybe a little more air speed will do it," I thought. I eased the nose down just a little, now those rocks were in my sights, but the Jug was starting to feel a bit lighter in my hand now! I added a little back pressure on the stick, the nose came up, and so did "Icky", not much but the rocks went under her belly and we were over the water, she was still mushing, but if that Pratt and Whitney just holds on a few seconds more we'll have it made—and hold on it did. Then, with 180 MPH on the clock and climbing, I took back all the bad things I had called "Icky". She was still the best in the air for my money.

The 333rd rendezvoused over Oboe. My wing man had to abort with a generator failure and some of the other planes didn't make the rendezvous for one reason or another. The squadron, instead of 12 planes had 8 - our flight had 3 planes. We picked up the rest of the group at Yoke and picked up our heading. Every so often a plane would slide out of formation and test its guns. I took my turn, slid out and away, flipped the switch to guns only, and squeezed off a short burst. I could feel the eight .50s recoil in the wings as the tracers arced out over the China Sea.

The flight up was routine, each pilot busy with his own thoughts and airplane.

Amami-0-Shima passed 10,000 feet beneath us, then Yaku-Shima came in view on the left, ahead of us. Tycoon leader signaled for combat formation — there was Kyushu. We flew east of the Island over the Hyuga Sea. Right below us, under the ocean's surface lay Sub 539, one of the Air-sea Rescue team today. Playmate and Jukebox would be here soon. They would stay around until all the aircraft were accounted for and all the pilots were safe or beyond their help. The group flew on, everyone on the alert, watching for enemy aircraft. As we bored through the clear morning skies over the very shores of the Land of The Rising Sun, Bungo Channel was slipping by way under "Icky's" belly now. There was the long finger of land with Sada-Misaki Light House on its tip. The group swung around to the east more now, out over the lyn-Nada - we were at 14,000 feet - Tycoon leader let his belly tank go, and I watched it tumble, end over end, down, down, till it went out of sight, I held onto mine because I wanted every drop of gas I could get for that big engine. I'd let my tank go just before I started my target run, and then I'd have plenty of reserve. Tycoon leader with the two other squadrons had moved up and were starting to turn to the southwest now. There they go, looking like silver fish in a clear blue ocean. First Tycoon leader nosed over, ever so slowly, then his wing man, then Number 3, then 4, and as the leader picked up speed in the long dive the spacing grew between him and his wing man, between the wing man and Number 3, and so on. It was a long line of airplanes, spaced evenly all the way down. I watched Vampire One — I saw he was going to take us in short — A different angle than the rest of the flight went. "Good boy," I thought. "All the ground fire will be firing at the wrong angle when we come in."

Brummer gave the peel-off signal. We were going down the chute. Over went "Miss Vivian", the sun glistened on her silver belly for a moment, then the black and yellow zebra stripes of her tail slipped behind Holly's Jug as Holly went up and over. "He's too close!", I said into my oxygen mask, but I was alone at 14,000 feet now, no time to worry about Holly and Brummer. I checked the 360° of sky above me and pulled "Icky's" nose up a little as I rolled her to the left and over, a little back pressure and the nose came through, then we were in the chute. Way down ahead of me I could see airplanes, smoke and tracers. "Icky" was really going down now. "The Belly tank" I yelled at myself. I released it and reset my switches for the rockets, flicked the gun switch to "Guns and Camera" and looked for a target. "There", I thought, "There is a row of 'Zekes' parked along the edge of the field." My mind was racing now. Reality was in slow motion. The tracers floated up toward us, the bursts of flak opened slowly like sooty puff balls in the azure sky. The air speed showed 550 MPH, yet we seemed to close on the first Zero at but a snail's pace! I eased the Jug over, brought my optical sight dead on the first plane, and waited for the range to close. Now! I squeezed the trigger and the eight .50s started spitting steel - I brought the Pipper up through the line of parked fighters. The eight fifties barked their song of destruction. I could see pieces fly off the Zeros as my slugs tore them apart. A lot of automatic weapon fire was coming my way. I could see the tracers knifing through the air past the ship, a huge orange ball appeared right in front of my face, then the world seemed to blow up — I ducked to the side instinctively, and hit my head, hard, on the side of the bubble. I was dizzy and I couldn't see, everything a white haze. Just then my engine died. "This is it, 'Icky'," I said. "You and I are going to part company now." I pulled the nose up to use my excess speed to gain altitude, so I could bail out, then changed my mind and pointed the nose out to the sea. I reached down and switched the gas tank selector to main and hit the emergency full boost switch, more routinely than hopefully. The engine caught. "Hey, chalk one up for you, 'Icky', I gleefully yelled. My head was clearing now and I could see what had happened. A 20 MM had hit square on the thick wind screen, and the heavy 2-inch glass had taken the full impact and explosion of that shell. It was in real bad shape, but still there. I turned in toward shore. There was a small refinery of some type there, the cracking tower was my target. I couldn't use my gun sight because of the shattered windshield, so I leaned to the left and watched my tracers until they started hitting, then the tower blew up in my face! I pulled up and slammed the Jug over on one wing. The blast hurled us up to fifteen hundred feet like a stick, but we were still flyin'. I looked around for a target, out on the Iyn-Nada. I saw two or three airplanes buzzing around a Jap destroyer. I still had my rockets, and here was a worthy target for those ten 5" warheads. I banked around and let "Icky" down to the wave tops, set my nose on the stern of the DD, and opened the throttle to the stop. As we closed on the ship, I could feel "Icky" buck and stagger. We were being clobbered! I started firing at the destroyer, the tracers arched into the water, still out of range, but closing fast. I set the panel to salvo the rockets — Now! I hit the button on top of the stick with my thumb, ten rockets went streaking for their target. I raised the nose and held the trigger down, the tracers whipped into the gun- positions until I roared up and over the DD. I saw the rockets hit the stern, low, near the water line, before I pulled over the ship and as I went over I saw the gun crews lying twisted, by their guns, dead.

"Icky" was hit—and hit bad! That big faithful Wasp was only giving out with 27 inches of mercury, the oil pressure was down and oil capacity was down from 40 gallons to 20, the engine was running very rough. I could see holes in the leading edge of the wings and there were some in the bubble over my head.

I started a long shallow climb as I looked for the rest of the squadron, but there was not a plane to be seen. "Oh boy 'Icky', it's you and I alone again," I said, "and baby, you're hurt." I moved in close to shore and flew southwest toward the Hohyo Strait trying to get some altitude, by the time I reached Hasedo-Hana I had 600 feet under us, so I turned south and crossed the point of land and headed out toward the Bungo Channel. "Icky" was clawing for each foot of altitude she put under her oil-smeared belly now, she had managed to get 800 feet under her, "Boy, what a piece of machinery this gal is, she's shot to hell and still flying — and climbing at that!" Coming in from my right was an airplane, "Oh no! not now," I said, "I don't even dare turn this Bucket of Bolts, let alone fire those eight guns." I only had 160 MPH on the clock. That's practically over the fence speed for landing. The distant plane became a B-24 as it grew closer, I saw we were flying courses that would bring us together in a short while, so I saved "Icky" the trouble of turning to intercept my Mother Hen, for surely that is just what that B-24 was going to be. I would tuck "Icky and Me" right under her big wing and we would fly home together.

As the B-24 and "Icky" came close together I could see the waist Gunner’s grinning face at the port, he waved and I waved, we were like happy little kids who just met outside the dentist office, after the tooth was out!

"Icky and Me" tucked in under the wing and away we went for home. I studied this big bomber next to me with new interest now. She was shot-up pretty bad, the waist gunner's head and arm were wrapped in red-stained bandage, he would go from one side of the Liberator to the other scanning the sky. I dropped a little, in order to see the cockpit, there was only one pilot sitting there. For the first time I noticed the left outboard engine was hanging in its mounts at a crazy angle with feathered prop, these boys were in bad shape too. My Mother Hen was hurt real bad!

"What a set-up for an enemy aircraft," I thought, "A real turkey shoot for any pilot, all the bastard would need to do would be to come up under us from my side of the 24, I would blank out the waist gun’s fire and the Jap could pour all he had into us both."

We were over air-sea rescue "Giltedge" now, "This is it! Should I call 'May Day' and sit 'Icky and Me' in the water now?" I thought. If I ditched here and now my chances of survival were good, "Giltedge" was right under me, "Icky" was still flying, I still had power to set her down right where I wanted her. I could set her so close to Sub 539 that I could walk out on the wing and step over to the sub, but that would be the end of "Icky".

We'd been through a lot together and she was trying, so why condemn her to the ocean to sink? The people at Republic built her to fly and fight and this she was doing! Oil streaked the canopy now and wisps of smoke were coming out around the cowling. That beautiful big Wasp up front was vibrating badly and making odd noises, but it was still running.

My attention was attracted by the waist gunners waving. I turned and looked up in the direction he pointed, and there, about 4 o'clock high were Bogies, not one or two, but at least 30. They were Japs all right, not "Zeros", but a mixed flight of "Tonys", "Jacks", "Tojos", "Vals", and others. "There goes my nice landing alongside Sub 539," I said to myself. "I'd never survive on the water now, because those Jap fighters would blast ‘Icky and Me’ to hell the moment we touched the sea, and if 539 surfaced for me the fighters woul clobber her too. No, we'll stay and fight in our own element."

A sleek "Jack" with a big red meat ball on its side slid out of the formation and started down the chute toward us. I saw the waist gun on the B-24 following the fighter down. I dropped "Icky" down a little and fired a short burst from her eight .50s to give the Jap the impression I was ready and just testing my guns. The "Jack" wasn't pushing us. He turned to fly parallel with us. I started to roll "Icky" toward him when off in the west there was a bright flash. The whole world seemed to light up, then there was a column of smoke rushing skyward. The Jap fighters all swung to the west toward the flash and the smoke which was perhaps one hundred and forty miles away. I watched the fighters disappear to the west as the large cloud of smoke climbed to 40,000 feet and boiled out into a huge mushroom shape at the top — "Nagasaki," I said, "Now I know why we were told not to approach within 100 miles of that city today." I looked at my watch, it was jujt 10:40 A.M., August 8, 1945. "I'll remember this," I thought.

My attention was yanked back to the B-24 above me as the other left engine burst violently into flame. I saw the prop slow down and feather as the pilot tried to keep the big ship on an even keel. The B-24 was losing altitude fast now, and I could do nothing to help. I watched as the pilot turned into his two good engines and let down toward "Giltedge's" position. For the first time I noticed there was no voice on the radio! Was my radio out too? I punched the buttom for "Dog" channel on my VHF transceiver, and there was no sound, I called into my oxygen mask mike, "Hello Giltedge, hello Giltedge, this is Vampire 3 - over." I pressed the earphone against my ear, but no reply came from air-sea rescue. "Hello Giltedge, hello Giltedge, this is Vampire 3 - over," I called again. Then, loud and clear, like a voice from heaven came the reply.

"Vampire 3 this is Giltedge - over."

"Giltedge from Vampire 3, I’m following a B-24 down toward you from the south, he's in bad shape, wounded aboard-over."

"Roger, Vampire 3, we see you, turn west 5 degrees - over."

"Roger, Wilco, Giltedge, Vampire 3 standing by - out."

I eased up along side the B-24 cockpit and signaled the pilot to

bear left a little and tapped my ear phones, he shook his head, indicating his radio was out. The big bomber went around to the heading I had indicated and there directly ahead of us I saw Sub 539. The B-24 let down now, the pilot gave me the high sign with the thumb and first finger forming a circle the other fingers sticking up straight, the universal sign of O.K., thanks, everythings under control, we've got it made.

I watched as the Liberator hit the water, splashed along for a way then settled, yellow life rafts appeared along side the fuselage and the sub came over, they were alright now.

"Vampire 3, this is Giltedge - over."

"Giltedge, this is Vampire 3 - over."

"Vampire 3, aren't you going to ditch that thing? - over"

"Negative, Giltedge, negative," I replied.

"Vampite 3, you're pulling a lot of smoke and your bottom cowl is hanging loose, you don't sound too good - over."

"Roger Giltedge, but she flies and I'm not losing any more power, we'll go home. Well done Giltedge - out."

I turned "Icky" to the south again and started the long climb for Ie Shima.

My oil capacity had dropped to fifteen gallons, fuel was down to about one hundred and seventy five gallons. We had four hundred feet under us now and at least holding it.

My butt was sore. I couldn't sit very comfortably. The sores on my can, from sitting in my own sweat, we're raw again. I loosened my safety belt and chute harness and did a few "in flight" exercises to loosen up my stiff arms and legs, then took a long pull from the canteen of salt water. The water was hot now, but boy, was it good! I cracked the canopy a little to suck out some of the hot air and fumes in the cockpit, took out a cigarette and lit up, then settled back as comfortably as possible.

I couldn't trust "Icky" to the auto pilot, not in the near stalled position we had to maintain to stay in the air. "Icky" had to be gently hand flown, by feel, all the way back to le-Shima.

I bent my course around the southern tip of Kyushu and out over Osumi, the Pratt and Whitney raggedly ran on, why I don't know, no engine ever should have to keep running in that condition. The fuel was getting lower fast, there would be no safety factor today!

Amami-0-Shima appeared on the sea ahead of me, so we were two thirds of the way home now. "Icky" was vibrating bad. We were holding 800 feet of altitude, now we weren't gaining any more. The engine was only giving me 26 inches of mercury, I had the turbo in and the throttle through the war emergency stop, the Wasp had everything I could give her but it didn't have enough left to use it!

Amami-0-Shima slipped by under our belly as the other islands in the Ryukyu chain came into view, we were losing some of our hard won altitude now, the rate of climb showed below the "0" on the dial, not much, but then we didn't have much to waist! I fastened my chute harness and safety belt again. Iheya-Mae-Shima came over the horizon, next one would be le-Shima, home! When "Icky and Me" were over Iheya-Mae, I called the tower on Plum strip.

"Hello Plum tower, hello Plum tower, this is Vampire 3. One duckbill, requesting emergency landing instructions please - over." Duckbill was the code word for P47Ns in the area.

"Vampire 3" came the reply, "Land to the northwest, if possible, on Plum strip, you are clear all the way to pancake - over."

"Roger Plum, I'm in sight of Ie now. I don't have enough altitude to go around to land to the northwest, will have to land southwest - over."

"Roger Vampire 3, wind is ten from 310 degrees. We have you in sight, good luck - over."

"Roger Plum, wind is ten from 310 degrees, I'm coming straight in - out." Plum was right in from of me. "Icky" was smoking badly now and air speed was off to one hundred and fifty five MPH. Oil capacity was almost empty, I was afraid to put my gear down because of the drag, but I didn't want to belly in with all that oil on the Jug's belly either. I pulled the lock on the gear handle, put down a few degrees of flaps, "Icky" staggered in the air, she was near stalling. The runway was rushing up to meet us, I pulled the nose up a little, still full throttle, "Icky" started to sink faster now, I knocked the gear leaver to down position, then the bottom fell out. "Icky" stalled out! I pulled the throttle closed, brought the stick back in my lap and waited, "That tire! That God damn right tire! Was it flat? Was that tire going to pull 'Icky' around in an uncontrolled ground loop after all this?"

Whump! The gear hit the runway, bounced and came to earth again, "Icky" tried to slew around to the right, I put left rudder in hard, then a little left brake, blue smoke curled from the tortured tires as the full force of the violent landing shook the whole plane. We rolled straight, the Curtiss blades ticked over the top a few times then with a weak flump! the Wasp billowed out a cloud of smoke and quit. I rode "Icky" to a stop near the center of the runway, fire trucks, jeeps and the meat wagon were screaming out to meet us. I switched off all of "Icky's" power, "we made it baby!" I said to my airplane. "Thanks to your guts, you and I will always come Home!!!"