MASON L. ARMSTRONG - SPITFIRE

BRIEF BIO:

Mason Lively Armstrong was born in Wilkes County, GA, December 5, 1920. His first Student Pilot Permit was issued in 1937 and his first solo, in a Taylorcraft, was in the summer of 1938. His Private Pilot Certificate was issued in November 1939, followed by commercial, instructor and A&E Mechanic ratings in 1941.

At Memphis, TN, in October 1941, Mason joined the (British) Royal Air Force. He got a check ride in a Waco UPF-7 and then went through a twelve week transition flying course at Polaris Flight Academy, in Lancaster, CA, after which he was commissioned a Pilot Officer (2nd Lt.). He then completed the course in No. 9 Pilot Advanced Flying Unit, in Erol, Scotland, flying all three models of the Miles Master and a checkout in the Hawker Hurricane, and in November 1942 he completed the course in No. 53 Operational Training Unit, in Llandow, South Wales, flying Spitfires. Then, at Bushey-Oxey, UK, on November 25, 1942, he was transferred to the United States Army Air Force, with the designations: 2nd Lieutenant, Pilot, Fighter, Class A, Single Engine.

Mason then flew 91 combat missions in Spitfires (MkVb, VIII and IX) in European, African and Middle Eastern campaigns. He was awarded 10 Air medals and Bronze Stars in Tunisian, Sicilian, Naples-Foggia and Rome-Arno campaigns. He closed out his military career instructing in P-40s and P-51s at Dale Mabry Field, Tallahassee, FL, October 1944 through September 1945. On September 16, 1945, at Ft. McPherson in Atlanta, GA, he was separated from the service, with the rank of 1stLt.

In April, 1952, at Arkansas City, AR, he married Elizabeth Ann Murray. They have two children, Alcinda Goodin and Mary E. Hamel. Elizabeth passed away in 1996.

HIS STORY:

Beginning in 1937, at the age of 16, I spent nearly all of my spare time at the Macon, Georgia airport, working in the shop in exchange for flying time. When the attack on Pearl Harbor was announced, I had already obtained my Commercial Pilot license and Instructor rating and Aircraft Engine Mechanic Certificate. I also had been to a U.S. Army Air Corps primary training base in Florida for a check ride in a Stearman PT-17, as a possible job there teaching cadets to fly.

After having had ten hours of aerobatic instruction in a Waco F-2, that check ride in the PT-17 told me that my decision to fly Spitfires in the American Eagle Squadron instead, was a good one. I was already tested and accepted and was waiting to be notified. My call came in mid December, and I was ready!
That January evening in 1942, as my parents drove me to the big busy airport known as Candler Field, 100 miles north of Macon, my heart was all aflutter with the dream of flying that beautiful Spitfire. Our farewell was made more memorable by Mother's moist eyes, as she hugged me tightly at the departure gate. An Eastern Air Lines DC-3 roared into the darkness.

The Delta Air Lines twin engine Lockheed Electra lifted off on time with all ten passenger seats occupied. We arrived at Dallas before dawn and were driven to a hotel for forty winks. There was a light snow on the ground. My first airline trip was certainly interesting, and the noise of those Pratt and Whitney R-985s, impressive.

The foregoing is just to let you know how air travel was, back when a "big" airplane was a DC-3. The trip from Dallas to Los Angeles, aboard an American Airlines DC-3, with twenty-five passengers and one Stewardess, was in perfect weather and we landed everywhere. First stop, Ft. Worth, only 30 miles away.

War Eagle Field was the name of the airport just northwest of Lancaster. Trains ran several times daily from the Los Angeles Union Station to Lancaster. That made our weekends most enjoyable after the grind at Polaris Flight Academy. It was no grind for me because I never had the pleasure of flying big, new airplanes at all, and for the first time, I didn't have to work on them. Ironically, as civilians we wore gray coveralls.

Polaris Flight Academy was a Royal Air Force training facility for English cadets. They were put through Primary, Basic and Advanced, just like our own. We Eagle Squadron trainees were still civilians. The average class was about 20. Our instructors were all civilians, and our course lasted 12 weeks. We first flew some civilian airplanes, among which were a cabin Waco, a Harlow and two old Stearman C-3Rs, one with airwheels and no shock struts.

After those, we flew Stearman PT-17s and 13s, BT-13s and AT-6s. All in all, it was a very good program, with nice new living quarters, wonderful food, excellent weather and very capable instructors. My instructor tried to get me to drop out and take a job with Polaris. He just didn't understand! I wanted to fly Spitfires! Those few weeks in sunny California were wonderful.

Night flying was most interesting for we Americans, because we flew the older Stearman C-Rs. They were built to fly, not to be safe in the hands of the inept. They were much lighter than the PT-17, one had big fat airwheels and would climb about 1100 feet per minute. When the throttle was backed for landing, that Wright J6-9 belched red and white fire clear back to the front cockpit! And the slightest drop-in on the wheels would bounce you up fifty feet or more.

After the PT-17s and BT-13s we flew what, to me, was the first decent American military airplane, the North American AT-6. With Flettner tabs on the ailerons, and a P&W R1340 engine (650 horse-power), I could at last do 8-point rolls.

Graduation day came and went, and I was one of the four Pilot Officers. The other eleven were Sergeant Pilots. None of us thought that was right, but our own Army Air Corps had a few pilots in combat with the rank of Warrant Officer.

After a week at home we went by train to Ottawa for our orders, then to Halifax to board a convoy of 25 freighters, two baby aircraft carriers and a few troop transports, bound for Edinborough, Scotland. Eleven days, 53 nearby depth charges and one ancient Fairey Swordfish lost, we sailed up the beautiful river Clyde. A rugged looking lady driving a baggage lorry amused us as she sang "Chattanooga Choo-choo". Still in civvies, we were sent to the famous uniform store, Moss Brothers, in London. Those uniforms were tailored, and fit perfectly.

After a few weeks of preliminary schooling in RAF operations and a few hours of flying in an Advanced Flying Unit (Miles Masters and Hawker Hurricane) I was sent to Operational Training Unit (OTU) 53, at Llandow, South Wales, near Cardiff. What a thrill to see and touch the fabulous Supermarine Spitfire! It is a small, sleek air-plane with many compound curves and an eliptical wing.

A man can stand on the ground at the left wingroot and see into the cockpit through the drop-down door. Pedal and seat adjustments accommodate a 5- to 6-foot pilot. Brakes and flaps are pneumatic, the landing gear system is hydraulic.

The Mk Vb was common most Spit-fire variant, and was the model that I flew the most, during those years 1942-1944. Mark Vb specifications:

Dimensions: Wingspan 36ft-10in; Length 29ft-11in; Height 9ft-11in; Wing area 242 sq. ft.
Weights: empty 5,065 lb; normal 6,710 lb; max load 6,750 lb; bomb load 500 lb.
Performance: Max speed 369 mph at 19,500 ft; normal cruise 272 mph at
5000 ft; rate of climb 4,750 fpm; service ceiling 36,200 ft; stall at 6,400 lb flaps up: 78 mph; flaps down: 70 mph.

We landed the Spits out of a medium banked turn with the canopy open and the seat raised, flaps down and power off. Before a stall would occur, the control stick would gently vibrate from side to side, followed by gentle buffeting of the entire airplane. There was no ground loop tendency at all.

OTU included formation through cloud layers from 700 feet to more than 10,000 feet, gunnery, tactical formation, emergency procedures and other useful subjects. One pilot was lost because of vertigo over the Bristol Channel. Another was shot down in the traffic pattern by a Me-109 that popped out of a low overcast, did his job and then escaped back into the thick cloud layer. After that, the war was never glamorous again! The name of the game was "Always clear your rear, and survive." He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.

A few days after graduating from OTU, our government called all remaining Americans in British service to join with them, either in the Navy or the U.S. Army Air Force. In London on November 24th, 1942, I became 2nd Lt Mason Armstrong, SN O-885576.

Several months later, I led a flight of P-39s from Cornwall to Port Lyautey, North Africa, 1600 miles over water. Five of our 13 developed rough engines and headed for Lisbon. One of those disappeared and the others were interned for a few weeks in the same hotel with German, Italian and other pilots.

At Casablanca I learned that we had two Spitfire Groups of three squadrons each, and they needed pilots. Oh Happy Day! I was assigned to the 52nd Fighter Group, 2nd Squadron, then stationed at Le Sers, about 80 miles southwest of Tunis. With the African campaign almost over, there were few encounters with German fighters. Sometimes we saw Italian fighters too far away to bother with. Desert flying was uncomfortable, with nights below freezing and 120 degree days. Our Merlin engines were equipped with huge filters to keep the sand out.

There was unlimited room for taking off, so all desert-based aircraft took off wingtip to wingtip. As the sun warmed the air, those dust clouds could remain in place for well over half an hour. Afternoon scrambles and formation takeoffs were usually in gentle breezes, so the dust wasn't a problem. The temperature was nearly always high enough to cause the engine maximum of 110 degrees Centigrade to be exceeded. The Rolls Royce Merlin of 1745 horsepower was quite rugged, and there were not many internal glycol leaks even under these conditions. We pilots suffered more than the airplanes.

Under this reverse lend-lease agreement we got the airplanes but no electrically heated flying suits that were the only means of comfort above 20,000 feet at 60 degrees below zero! I wore a black wool turtleneck sweater over a GI wool shirt, with the leather A-2 jacket on top. The silk scarf of parachute material kept our necks from being rubbed raw by those constant 190-degree head turns, clearing our tails. I had a pair of Australian flying boots and RAF gauntlets with silk under-gloves.

On the 23rd of May, 1943, we moved to an abandoned German airfield at La Sebala, ten miles northwest of Tunis. The African campaign had ended and the victorious British troops flooded the city. Warplanes of every description flew in and out of formations down the wide main boulevard of Tunis. The movie theater showed the uncut version of Noel Coward's "Victory at Sea" free to all and around the clock. The beer brewery spewed the greenest and most headachey stuff anybody ever drank. It was delicious!

In a typical show of military "intelligence", the 52nd Fighter Group was assigned to Coastal Command, and we looked forward to X-number of weeks or months of convoy patrol and air-sea rescue searches! Morale went lower than whale doo in a hurry.

One night the thought came to me that, even after my great efforts to join the Eagle Squadron, I ended up in the "American Beagle Squadron"! Next morning I painted a sign on a long board and nailed it the olive tree at my hammock head: "GHQ, American Beagle Squadron".

To my surprise, everybody liked it. "Pappy" Haskins created a logo on one-inch squares, so it could be painted on the engine cowlings. Leather was beautifully crafted in Tunisia so we all had jacket logos made as well. The original Haskins logo is shown below, left. It was never officially "approved" but was nevertheless worn proudly on the right shoulder. In the middle, below, is the more conservative logo adopted by the squadron not long after the war. On the right is the version officially adopted in 1999, in a ceremony at Tyndall AFB. More than a half century later but the sophisticated beagle is still going reasonably strong!

For reasons known only to God, up to the very day of my arrival the 52nd Fighter Group had had a lot of aerial combat and some of the worst living conditions ever endured by fighter pilots. They flew off of aircraft carriers near Casablanca in February, 1942. Due to the short range of the Spitfire, their camps were as close as fifteen miles from the front, and they were fired upon by German field artillery. Often, and once while I was at Le Sers, the bases were strafed by enemy aircraft while all of us were attacking the targets near Tunis.

Our 2nd squadron had about 45 victories at that time. I was always there, close to the action many times, but never ever in a position to have a go at an enemy aircraft! I flew 91 combat missions, returning early only once. My engine developed an internal glycol leak at 26,000 feet over Bizerte, 60 miles north of our airfield. I shut her down and landed dead-stick, rolling to a stop in front of my revetment.

Our next move took us to Sicily, Boca De Falco airfield, on the outskirts of Palermo. General Patton enforced price control, so there were a few goodies that were cheap, like meals at the Excelsoir Hotel and candy coated almonds for a dime a handfull. Small bottles of champagne were also plentiful. They had been hidden from the Germans for our arrival.

Combat was sporadic, with convoy patrols and air-sea rescue missions from dawn to nightfall. I flew a Spit Mk IX to 40,500 feet in a radar calibration flight. Italy looked like a boot and I saw far beyond the Alps and westward beyond Oran. And I damned near froze to death!

The JU-88s came over every night and bombed the harbor. RAF and our Beaufighters shot down some of them and provided quite a show. The Bob Hope USO show at the Excelsior Hotel was thrilled one evening by a raid. My final months with the squadron were spent in Corsica. From our airfield at Borgo on the east coast just south of Bastia, we could attack targets as far north as Genoa and almost to Rome to the south. Now we were back on combat duty, and we flew escort and dive bombing missions as well as attacks on trains and truck convoys along the coast of Italy. We strafed all kinds of boats, some of which could send up tons of 20mm and 40mm flak.

Our runway was the metal strip kind, set on a clay area that was like concrete in dry weather, and sticky mud when it rained. We usually took off one at a time, but very close together, in flights of four, six or twelve. We also had two or four Spit Mk-IX or Mk-VIIIs sitting on alert for scrambles after high flying JU-88s and Dornier 217s.

Dive bombing in a fighter that was not designed for such duty was thrilling, to say the least! With a 250-pound bomb under each wing, we would approach a target at 5000 feet, sometimes lower. As it disappeared under the left wing root, we pulled straight up until air speed reached about 90, and then left rudder for a hammerhead maneuver onto the target. With gunsight on target in a vertical dive, we released the bombs and fired all guns. What a sensation! The smell of black powder, the vibration of two 20mm cannon and six 30 caliber machine guns, and the airspeed needle going up far too rapidly for comfort. Adrenalin was pumped and we did considerable damage to big targets. Little boats and freighters were almost never hit directly, but near misses were effective. On one mission I saw a tugboat disappear! As it chugged toward the harbor on the island of Elba, POOF it was gone. Somebody's bombs had gone right down the stack!

The B-26 escort missions were downright enjoyable. The Martin Marauder was so fast that we didn't have to weave to stay with them. Their bomb runs on marshaling yards were very accurate, so as to preserve valuable buildings and statuary, common in cities such as Florence. Then they would put the noses down and head for the coast much faster than any other bomber we had. My 91 combat missions must have included 20 of these, (I'm too lazy to search my Form 5s), and I saw only one shot down.

In July, 1944, I was sent back to the "BIG Island" as a fighter pilot instructor at Dale Mabry Field, Tallahassee, Florida. There we had P-40s for two months and then were equipped with brand new P-51 Mustangs. Another fabulous airplane, which I was so fortunate to be able to enjoy.

From the official squadron history: Officers and enlisted men killed in action or in line of duty: 38. Pilots who were prisoners of war: 22. Victories: Spitfire: 65.33, 7 probable, 21 damaged. P-51: 118, 7 probable, 23 damaged.

The war was almost over, and desk jobs were looming. Crop dusting was calling me, something I always wanted to do. I was separated from the service at Fort McPherson, Atlanta Georgia, on September 16, 1945.

MAURICE BECK -- P-51 IN CHINA

BRIEF BIO:

Maurice Beck was born on July 10, 1924 on a farm near Kickapoo, Illinois. In 1942, on his 18th birthday, he joined the Army Air Corps as an aviation cadet. He reported to the San Antonio Aviation Cadet Center with class 43K. Primary was at at Muskogee, OK, in the PT-19; Basic at Coffeville, KS, in the BT-13; and Advanced at Texas in the AT-6 Texan. He also got 10 hours in the P-40. He graduated from single-engine pilot training and was awarded his silver wings on December 5, 1943. He flew P-40's in St. Petersburg, Florida before going to the China-Burma-India theatre, where he joined the 530th fighter squadron, flying P-51 Mustangs in Burma.

Maury's squadron was transferred to the 311th Fighter Group, 312th Fighter Wing, 14th Air Force in China, where he completed 59 combat missions before returning stateside. His record included 3 Japanese Zeros in the air; 4 aircraft destroyed on the ground, over 2 dozen steam locomotives, as well as numerous dive-bombing and napalm missions. He was awarded a Purple Heart, several Air Medals, a Distinguished Flying Cross, and a squadron Presidential Unit Citation.

After the end of WW II Maury returned to college, where he earned a BSME from Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois, and a Juris Doctorate from DePaul Law School in Chicago, the latter in 1951. For another quarter of a century he served in the Air National Guard, first in Peoria, in the 169th Fighter Sqadron, where he flew F-51s, F-84Fs and F-86s and later in Milwaukee (F-89Js) and in Fresno, Californa, (F-86Ds, F-102s, and F-106s). He retired in 1970, after 29 years of service, with the rank of Colonel.

HIS STORY:

I grew up on a farm in central Illinois near Kickapoo, not far outside of Peoria, mostly during the Great Depression. Our family motto was, "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without!" We rented a four bedroom house, complete with a path to the outhouse, for $10.00 a month. Gasoline went for 18 cents a gallon. However, the mean annual income in the U.S. was under $1500.

Toys were a rarity and usually were home-made. My two older brothers made backyard railroad cars by splitting Carnation condensed milk cans, and connecting them with bits of baling wire. The "trains" of cans were then pulled along "rails" consisting of grooves scraped in the dirt.

I tried my best in school, was an altar boy, and was thought to be angelic by my mother. People on neighboring farms probably had different opinions. Father's frequent and stern advice was: "Get your nose in those books!" I was given to some day-dreaming and my favorite place was on the roof of the corncrib on a sunny day, lying on my back with fluffy fair-weather cumulus clouds floating by. I would imagine flying around and through the clouds, both with and without an airplane. Around the spring of 1935 I was up on that roof after a day at school when a flight of three Boeing "Peashooters" flew over. The Peashooter (P-26A) was an advanced, single seat monoplane fighter with fixed landing gear and external wire wing bracing. I got so excited I almost fell off the roof!

The only "flying" I did was imaginary, in a rusty old pedal-type toy airplane. At least it was a tail-dragger. My first exposure to airplanes was an inept attempt to construct an aluminum-painted balsa wood model of a Pan Am clipper. My skill level was about equal to that of a cub bear wearing boxing gloves. After several razor blade knicks and blobs of silver paint on the dining room table my parents suggested I take up another hobby -- reading.

Time marched on -- 1939 saw the invasion of Poland by Hitler and 1940 brought the draft. In 1941 I commenced my first year of college, and was hardly into it when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The very next day my buddy and I joined the Navy. I was going to be a gunpointer on a battleship, and win the war single-handedly. At 17 I was still a minor and my parents had to sign my enlistment documents. These were mailed to our home a few days later. My father looked them up and down and asked, "What is the meaning of this?" My explanation didn't persuade him and I was told "NO", in no uncertain terms. In additional my father commented that my older brother was already in the Marines (in Iceland) and besides the war would be over in 6 months, so get my nose in those books!

Seven months later the war was still on. In fact, we were losing on all fronts. The Sunday Supplement of a June 1942 issue of our local paper had a cover photo of Colin Kelly, a U.S. Air Corps bomber pilot who reportedly crashed his B-17 into a Jap ship and sank it. The paper also announced a change in Air Corps cadet recruiting. Previously you had to be 20 years old, needed two years of college and had to pass the flight physical. You then got to wear a beautiful powder-blue uniform with a Sam Browne belt and got to live in country-club style, at least once you attained upperclassman status. The new requirements reflected the need for pilots by dropping the age requirement to 18. The requirement for two years of college was eliminated but you had to pass a (two- year college) equivalency test.

Another change occurred on July 1, 1942, which would affect me very soon. Eighteen-year-olds now had to register for the draft, and I would be 18 later that very month. I dutifully reported all of this vital info to my father, neglecting to mention anything about his earlier forecasts about the probable duration of the war. After considering all of this, particularly my impending draft registration and the 50% bonus for flight pay, he said "If you can pass the tests, I'll sign the enlistment papers."

That was all I needed. Dad signed on the dotted line and I waited for my orders. They finally arrived and I headed for the San Antonio Aviation Cadet Center, where I was assigned to class 43J. However, I promptly acquired pneumonia and was held back to class 43K. In Primary, at Muskogee, OK, I flew the PT-19, affectionately know as the Maytag Messerschmitt. In Basic, at Coffeeville, KS, I flew the BT-13, affectionately known as The Vultee Vibrator, in recognition of its spin characteristics. Then it was back to Texas for Advanced, where I flew the AT-6 Texan and actually got 40 hours in the P-40. Training in aerial gunnery and strafing were out on Matagora Island. In December, 1943, I graduated from single-engine flight school, got my silver wings and was designated a 2nd Lt in the US Army Air Corps.

In April 1944, after two months of P-40 training in Florida, I was loaded aboard a Navy troop transport headed toward Bombay. At Karachi, I was just completing a short Operational Training period, in preparation for going to China as a P-40 replacement pilot, when I was "rescued". At the last moment I was diverted, still as a replacement pilot, to the 530th Fighter Squadron in Burma, to fly a dive-bomber version of the P-51 Mustang called the A-36.

The A-36 was a P-51A with dive-brakes like the Luftwaffe Stuka. After a disaster in Italy with A-36's, where they were decimated by German 88 anti-aircraft fire, the Air Force wired the dive-brakes in the closed position. Both the A-36 and the P-51A had Allison engines, all subsequent models (B, C, D, K, etc.) had Packard-built Rolls Royce (RR) Merlins.

In June I started flying combat missions, largely strafing and skip bombing. These missions were almost analogous to the "sterile" missions of today, where fighters "lock-on" and shoot down targets 50 to 100 miles away and never see the enemy. My missions involved strafing the jungle by reference to panels laid out by forward observers. You would see nothing but the panels and the jungle -- no enemy, no blood, only an occasional bullet hole from enemy fire. Usually the latter went unnoticed until your bird was inspected by the flight leader during the mission or by your crew chief after return to base.

But then both our locale, our airplane and our missions changed dramatically. The wizards of planning finally realized that it wasn't too bright to haul thousands of gallons of gas by air to China for P-47s, which guzzled it at 90 gph, while a bunch of Mustangs flying on the south side of the Hump (the Himalayan mountains) were using only 55 gph. So, in October we were transferred to the 311th Fighter Group, 312th Fighter Wing, 14th Air Force, in China. The P-47s went to Burma. The adjacent picture shows a typical line of 14th Air Force P-51s, in China, these belonging to the 75th Fighter Squadron, 23rd Fighter Group (Courtesy "MustangsMustangs.com").

China was a big improvement. On the ground -- no more canned C-rations, dried eggs, dried milk, dried potatoes, afternoon monsoon thunderstorms and no more jungle. We had fresh eggs, plenty of veggies, pork, chicken, and maybe a dog or two (from the cookbook: A Hundred Ways to Wok Your Dog).

The type of missions improved as well -- you could now actually see your targets. And we were now flying the fighter version of the P-51. They were top of the line, equipped with Packard-built RR Merlin engines. What a difference! Normal takeoff power with the Allison engine was 1200 horsepower (hp) while the Merlin delivered 1490 and as much as 1720 hp in War Emergency (thru the safety wire). The increased horsepower required a change from a 3- to a 4-bladed prop. The above picture shows a comparison of the two planes (P-51B on the left). The picture below shows a P-51B cockpit.(Courtesy "MustangsMustangs.com").

The old Allison-equipped A-36 / P-51A required 9.1 minutes to climb to 20,000 feet while the Merlin-equipped P-51B could reach that altitude in ,ust 6.9 minutes. Furthermore the Service ceiling of the P-51B was listed as 41,900 feet while that of the A-36 as 31,350 feet, an increase of more than 10,000 feet. The Allison sounded like a P-40, although the P-51A flew like a dream compared to the P-40.

The nose spinner and rudder on our planes were painted yellow. Prior to my joining the squadron, the original pilots had tangled with elite Japanese units on rest leave from the South Pacific, at Rangoon. By using high-speed "Hit and run" tactics, our squadron so decimated those pilots that the American-born Japanese woman broadcaster, Tokyo Rose, gave our squadron the name "Yellow Scorpions".

Our squadron shot up over 500 locomotives in a six month period. Unfortunately, our P-51Bs and Cs had only four 50-caliber guns in the wings. If you caught a locomotive with a full head of steam it would blow-up when strafed. However, the Merlin engine in the P-51C had a characteristic undulating whistle-sound. Chinese locomotive engineers soon learned that this meant an explosion of their boiler unless they quickly dumped the steam pressure. When they did that in time we could punch holes in the boiler but saw no explosion. They would then drag the wounded engines off to a repair roundhouse, and could have them back on the road the next day.

A Catholic missionary, through his spy network, would often report where they were so we could go after the roundhouse. We would come in just over the trees and drop our bombs. They would bounce off the ground, without going off, and continue on through the walls into the roundhouse, and into the locomotives therein.

The skip bombs utilized both instantaneous and time-delay fuses with propeller arming. Fortunately the Chines rice farmers had decimated most of the trees around there. One time one of our pilots was given an instantaneous fuse on a bridge mission, which flipped him upside down when it went off right under him. He flew inverted below the telegraph wires and then recovered. We always pulled up sharply after dropping to avoid such catastrophies. In addition, those roundhouses were usually heavily defended with anti-aircraft guns, and we were down very low where anything could hit us. We had significant losses on those missions.

Our squadron "patrolled" an area in northeast China extending from Beijing (then Peiping) west along the Great Wall, south along the Yellow River to Xian (then Hsian) and then southeast to the east coast of China. This was a section about 600 miles by 600 miles, or 360,000 square miles. We had to cover all that with just our 25 P-51s. I didn't have time to get a good look at the Great Wall until after the war, on the ground.

Our primary mission was interdiction of rail and surface road transportation. I recall one of my first encounters with a truck convoy. My air-to-ground gunnery skill level was pretty good and I concentrated my fire not just on the truck but on the engine compartment of that truck. Good luck! You only had some 2-3 seconds of firing-time on a strafing run. There were about a dozen men in the back end. I was shocked to see some of the men way in back hit by my fire, and be catapulted out of the truck body. How did this happen, when I was aiming for the engine compartment, which I also hit?

Well, we had two guns on each wing, firing outside of the propeller arc, and they were "bore-sighted" to converge at about 300 yards. I finally figured out that when I was firing from more than 300 yards away the bullets were converging at 300 yards and were then diverging by the time they hit the target. Firing closer in the bullet streams had not yet converged. In addition, each gun exhibitted a 30-inch "spread" (circular error of probability of hits). It's a wonder I hit the truck at all.

Then we began to encounter air opposition as well. It was well-known that the Japanese would strafe U.S. pilots in their parachutes. We were instructed that retaliation in kind would be neither condemned nor commended. On one mission, as I was finishing off a Zero the pilot bailed out. Without thinking he became my target. During the debriefing I told our squadron commander about my initial head-on pass, and that I saw hits along the leading edge of the zero's wing. He gently put his arm around me and said, "Son, those weren't hits, those were muzzle flashes -- he was shooting at you". To his brief question, "Did you get the pilot?" I silently nodded.

On a later mission we were loaded with drop tanks of jellied gasoline -- napalm -- and headed for a Japanese airfield. It was a low-level attack and left little time or distance for changing your aiming point after target acquisition. We came over a low hill and there was the airfield, directly in my gunsight. A few trucks were parked off to the left and a large assembly of soldiers were in parade formation directly ahead. I stayed on my original bomb-run, dropped the napalm tanks, and looked back at a sea of flames.

War changes you, you become hardened to things like that. Perhaps you've seen pictures of infantry men who have become battle-weary and develop a "two-thousand-yard stare". Fighter pilots change as well. The change might best be described by reference to our parody of the 23rd Psalm: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." We added: "For I'm the meanest s.o.b. in the valley." There I am, sitting on the wing of my weapon of mass destruction, the meanest s.o.b.... etc.

My last mission was on March 26, 1945. We were to run a series of fighter sweeps on the airfields at Hankow, to destroy as many fighters and light bombers as possible in preparation for the planned invasion of Okinawa. The U.S. had just secured Iwo Jima, where my Marine brother won a battlefield commission. The mission involved all 22 of our fighters. With full drop fuel tanks and ammunition trays we took off for Hankow.

At the target we ran into more than 30 Japanese fighters, and of the latest types -- the Tojo and the George. We accomplished the mission of destroying enemy planes but along the way we sustained heavy losses. My wingman downed two Zeros but had half his tail section shot away. He left early for home base.

Three Jap fighters made a head-on pass at me and continued on down to the deck, to attack our guys strafing the airfield. I honked it around and followed. I was making 450 mph or so and was gaining. At about 500 yards I pulled up my nose and squeezed off a short burst, hoping to scare the trio off my room-mate's tail. He was just pulling up from a strafing run. The tail end Zero did pull off to the left but the leader shot down my room-mate. He crashed in the Yellow River and was killed. Our squadron commander was shot down as well.

Well I lost my cool and instead of simply closing on #2, nailing him, and then taking on the leader I tightened my right turn and began closing directly on the leader. As I was finishing him off, #2 got on my tail and bounced a high explosive 20mm shell off my cockpit armor plate. Fortunately I had my head turned to the left, so today I still have a functioning right ear. The left one doesn't do too well even with a $2,000 hearing aid.

This fouled up my radio, and didn't do my left ear much good, either. Fortunately I was still flying, with the throttle bent forward over the quadrant and still doing over 400 mph. So I racked it around hard in a level turn to the left, and that shook him off. At speeds over 300 mph a Mustang could always out-turn the Zero.

During the dogfight a lot of us became separated. Suddenly I found myself alone, doing my own navigation to home base in heavy weather without the benefit of on-board direction-finding (DF) radio equipment. We had recently installed VHF radio equipment, which had only line-of-sight capabilities. Ground DF used a direction-finding loop antenna at the control site. They would listen to a long count from the pilot, to get a bearing to the aircraft, and would then give you the reciprocal for a steer home. The last transmission I heard from the DF station was: "Green 2, steer ..." and then silence.

I started to climb in an attempt to improve reception but the March weather rewarded my efforts with a heavy coating of ice on my wings. Not long thereafter, after seven hours of flight, my plane lost lift and stalled, and I went into a spin. I knew I did not have enough altitude to recover so I jettisoned the canopy, unfastened my seat belt and slipped over the side.

The wind blast slammed me against the fuselage, and my left foot, encased in a heavy paratrooper boot, caught in the corner of the cockpit. The pain of the resulting injured ankle temporarily caught my attention but the realization that I was about to crash and die quickly overcame all pain. I murmured "Please help me, God." My quiet plea received instant response, and my foot was freed. Although the horizontal stabilizer whacked me on my forehead as I went by, stripping away my leather helmet, I finally went sailing free through the air. A sharp pull on the ripcord popped open the parachute. I had just time for a half-swing before I landed on my side, on the face of a mountain in a desolate area of China.

Out of the mist appeared two small Chinese children, about 8 or 10 years old. From my escape kit, I fished out a printed "pointie-talkie" booklet, with English on one side and corresponding Mandarin on the other. I pointed to the English message, "I need help". At the time, I just assumed that they could read. Although there were about 26 different spoken dialects, all written Chinese was in Mandarin. Consequently, Chinese could "communicate" by writing on the palm of their hand with their finger.

The children took one glance at me, turned, and disappeared into the mist. As I lay there in the light rain, I again asked for God's help. A few moments later the children reappeared, with a middle-aged man. In "pidgin" English" he explained that he was the local school teacher. I used the pointie-talkie to explain my needs. He obtained help and in short order I was being carried down the mountain, in a sedan-chair fashioned from quickly cut bamboo. Two weeks later I was back at my base and, ultimately, back home.

After almost 18 months and 59 missions in the China-Burma-India theatre I returned home, returned to college and law school, and married my pre-war sweetheart. Between us we raised seven (7) daughters. By the time I retired from the rat race I was Presiding Worker's Compensation Judge in San Diego, CA. During that time, for 25 years, I managed to participate in the Air Force Reserves, and got to fly a bunch of jet fighters. But there'll never be another Mustang!

Finally I retired to Umpqua, OR, on 50 acres of Douglas fir, wild blackberries and poison oak. There I plan to enjoy life, build an RV-4 and attempt to recapture the kind and gentle spirit of that young farm kid. I'm approaching my goal, but I wonder if I might one day regain his lean & nimble body as well?

DONAL P. DAGGITT - P-51 IN CHINA

BRIEF BIO:

Don Daggitt was born in Spokane, Washington, on March 5, 1923. He enlisted in the Air Corps in Peoria, Illinois, on April 2, 1942 and was sent to Santa Ana, California for Pre-Flight. He took Primary Flight Training at Blyth, California, in the Ryan PT-21. Basic was at Marang, Arizona, in the BT-13. Advanced was at Luke AFB, Pheonix, Arizona, where he checked out in the old P-36, with the shot gun starter, and the P-40. This led to further combat training in the P-40 at Tallahassee, Florida. There he got stuck instructing, in the P-40, P-47, P-51, C-121, and DC-3.

His first combat experience was in a P-51 squadron in the 14th AF based in Chengtu, China, where their mission was mostly air cover for B-29 missions. Other major theaters of operations included CBI Karachi, India ; Japan; and Greece.

Don stayed on active duty another 18 years after the war, finally retiring on March 31, 1963, with the rank of Major. On August 30, 1946, at Wright-Patterson AFB, he married Patricia. Together they had two children, Patrick and Russell.

HIS STORY:

On December 7, 1941, I was in my first semester at the University of Illinois; my older brother was in advanced flight training in Texas. At that time the dean of the engineering school and I were having difference of opinion over which courses I should be taking, so, at Christmas time, I decided to quit school. When my brother heard about it, he wrote me a letter to tell me I didn't have the fortitude to enroll in the Aviation Cadet Program. I had always been able to best my brother at most things so, in January 1942 I enlisted in the Cadet program. I had no interest in flying at that time. I just wanted to prove, if he could do it, so could I. When my call came I was sent to Santa Ana, Ca. for preflight training.

Upon completion of preflight I was assigned to Blythe, Ca for primary flight training in the Ryan PT-21. On completion of primary I went to Marana, AZ. for basic in the BT-13, the Vultee Vibrator. The next move was to Luke Field, Phoenix, AZ. for advanced single engine training in the AT-6. Just before graduation from Luke I was checked out in the P-36 and the Curtis P-40. I graduated from Luke in Class 43D and was assigned to Tallahassee, FL. for combat training in the P-40. At the end of our training several of us were held back from overseas assignments and made instructors. We instructed students in the P-40, P-47, P-51 and back to P-40's again.

Throughout this period I kept trying to get an assignment overseas and finally lucked out with an assignment to the 14th Air Force, which was part of the China, Burma, India theater. The Japanese covered the Pacific so to get to China you had to take the long way around. We flew to South America, Ascension island, Nigeria, Khartoum, Aden and finally Karachi, India .

The Army had a facility at Karachi for reassembling fighter aircraft being shipped into the theater. They also had a flight school to indoctrinate newly arrived pilots. With my luck (all bad) they pulled me off the shipment to China and put me to work instructing. The 14th AF covered all of mainland China. The 10th AF covered India and Burma. When a group of eight or ten aircraft were ready to go to the 10th or 14th AF, pilots from the school would be assigned to fly them. A B-25 usually led the group, did the navigation and carried the baggage. For delivery to the 14th AF the route was first from Karachi to Assam, where they remained over night, and then the next day across the "Hump" to Kunming, China. There the aircraft were turned over to the 14th AF. The pilots reported to the 14th AF Headquarters for their assignments to specific groups or squadrons.

My orders were to the 311th Fighter Group, the 530th Fighter Squadron, located in north-central China. They were flying the P-51 Mustang, similar to the adjacent picture. That's not one of our planes or me flying it. The major city in that area was Chungtu, a city of some two million people. The Chinese were constructing several long B-29 runways in the valley. The 530th was located on a paved strip parallel to one of these runways.

We lived in British double walled tents with charcoal burners for heat. The other amenities were just as primitive. The six-holer was lined with concrete so we could supply fertilizer to the local farmers. Water was heated in a 55 gal. drum, scooped out in a bucket with a shower head in the bottom and hoisted on a rope so one could shower.

The mission of our group of our Group in north China was the interdiction of the roads and railroads, with an occasional sweep of the airfields in the area. We also periodically dropped bombs on bridges and railroad repair facilities. To accomplish the mission we operated from a forward base located at Sian, China, which was about 400 miles north of Chentu. The Yellow River flows straight south until it is just northeast of Sian and then does a ninety degree turn and flows due east to the coast. This area is known as the yellow river bend area and closely defines our area of operations. The Yellow river running south was the western boundary while the river running east was the southern boundary.

The railroads did not run on any scheduled basis so all of our targets were targets of opportunity. A flight of four would go out to a particular point on one of the rail lines, maybe three or four hundred miles, and fly the tracks back toward home. When an engine was sighted two planes dove in for a strafing pass. The other two stayed up for cover. When the first two had finished their run and pulled off the target, the second pair would make a run. For defense from these attacks, the Japanese put a flat car on the rear of the trains with a machine-gun on it. Our tactics were simple. Of the two planes making the run one took the engine and the other took the flat car.

One day on a mission above the Great Wall, we found a train going north. Sure enough, there was a flat car full of barrels on the back end. I took the engine and my wingman took the last car. As I pulled up over the engine I saw that immediately behind the engine was a flatcar of barrels and a machine-gun. When we got back home I found seven holes in my plane.

The mission, flown on January 5, 1945, is not exactly a typical mission, in that the Japanese did not normally challenge us in the air. Eight planes were assigned to bomb the locomotive repair shops at Sinsiang, just south of the Yellow River. Each plane had two 250 lb bombs and a full load of 50-caliber ammunition. As we approached the target we observed eight to ten aircraft taking off from Sinsiang airfield. These turned out to be mostly Oscars and one Tojo. We continued to the Locomotive Repair Shops and dropped our bombs and began climbing for altitude because we knew that the Japanese would be waiting for us.

As the first two P-51s pulled up, three Oscars tagged on behind them. The second element pulled up right behind the three Oscars and destroyed two of them. The overall encounter lasted about 20 minutes and ranged from 3000 to 7000 feet. During this time six Oscars were destroyed, one Oscar was probably destroyed and three Oscars were damaged.

You may note that nothing has been said about the Tojo! There is a good reason for this. The Tojo and I were dancing our own waltz. This was the first time we had gone head to head with the Tojo and it had much better performance than the Oscars. It could climb, turn and dive with the P-51. We jockeyed for position for three to five minutes before I make a mistake and he started to slide in behind me. The only thing left was to out-dive and or out-run him so I rolled over and headed straight for the ground. I had gotten the jump on him and gained enough distance to keep him out of gunshot range. When I looked back I could see the sparkle of his gun as he was trying everything to get to me. As I leveled off at a couple of hundred feet I pushed the throttle in war emergency and kept going. When I was sure he was gone I throttled back and pulled up to five thousand looking for the rest of the flight. I never did find anyone so I headed for home by myself. The only damage to any of our eight P-51's was a bullet into the windshield of one plane. The bullet proof glass kept it out of the cockpit.

There were three squadrons to a group. Because of the gasoline situation only one squadron at a time could be in the forward area flying missions. When we rotated to Chentu there really was not much for us to do. The trade routes to Tibet start just a few miles out of Chentu. Four us decided it would be lark to hike up toward the Tibetan border. We knew of a Belgium missionary who spoke English, and of course Chinese. He had always wanted to go into the hills but had never had the opportunity. We agreed to take care of all expense if he would act as our interpreter.

The four of us took two weeks leave and headed for the hills! Two sedan chairs, eight coolies and the five of us. We found out later that the Provincial Governor had sent troops to stop us because he said there were bandits in the area. They arrived to late, we had already left. With two chairs and five of us it meant you would walk three hours and ride one hour. This was a good ratio of walk-to-ride for young bucks but I will admit that at times I thought that it took five hours for the three to go by. We walked in for five days.

Being the first white people in this area since the expedition that captured the giant pandas, we caused quite a stir among the local population. Many had never seen white people. At the end of the sixth day we came to a village where the mayor offered us the school house to sleep. The next day we entertained the school children and were invited to the mayor's house for a visit. This village, we found out, was the place where the Tibetans and the Chinese met to trade goods.

Not knowing what we might run into on the way home, we decided to start back the next day. The trip home was uneventful. but when I returned to the squadron, orders were awaiting me. Chinese pilots, trained in the States, were just starting to arrive in the theater and there was a need for experienced pilots to indoctrinate them in tactical procedures. Our Group sent several pilots back to Karachi to help train the new arrivals and I was one of them. These Chinese pilots were supposed to be proficient in English, but there was only one word they all knew and that was Yes. It made no difference what you asked them, the answer was yes. "Did you shoot down your wingman?" Yes. "I want you crash when we return to the field! Do you understand?" Yes. After a flight had been briefed, with an interpreter, and you becomes airborne, it was impossible to deviate from the briefing. Comical, scary and terrifying are the best adjectives I can think of to describe our flights.

While in Karachi, VJ-Day arrived and this put an end to the training. Most of us were ordered back to States where we were offered discharge or continuing service. I chose to stay in service and was given thirty days leave. I was told my orders would be mailed to my home address so for thirty days I just roamed around the country -- Florida, Kentucky, Missouri, Montana, Washington, and California.

When my orders came, I found I was once again assigned to Luke Field at Phoenix, Arizona. When I reported their I was immediately assigned to the squadron training Chinese pilots. "Tail-dragging" fighter aircraft had very restricted visibility straight ahead. One objective of the course was to make these pilots proficient at landing a T-6 from the rear seat, so that they would then be able to land a P51 safely.

With the war over this program was closed. From Luke I was assigned to Wright-Patterson Air Base at Dayton, Ohio, to the Air Material Command. Jet aircraft were coming into the inventory and a jet school had been set up at William's AFB, Mesa, Arizona. I decided to apply for the school.

In the meantime I had met the girl of my dreams and we were planning our wedding. Two days before the wedding, personnel called me and said I couldn't apply for jets unless I signed a indefinite career statement, which I was happy to do. The next day I was handed orders detailing me to the Transportation Corp. in Seattle, Washington. My fiancée and I went ahead with the wedding and the next day left for Seattle on a train. The ride across the country was our honeymoon.

I reported to Headquarters at Fort Lewis and was assigned to Camp George Jordan in downtown Seattle. It was a truck company whose job was to load and unload military personnel and cargo and run convoys of two-and-a-half-ton trucks through the middle of downtown Seattle. It was unlawful to break into a convoy and we were running twenty-five truck convoys. The people of Seattle learned to hate us. Fort Lewis was a replacement depot for Alaska and the Pacific Theater so when the Transportation Corp. needed replacements for the Corp. in Japan, I was a logical choose.

My orders assigned me to the 3rd Military Rail Service in Yokohama, Japan. The 3rd M.R.S. supervised the operation of all the railroads in Japan. My duty station was Tokyo Central Station, which to the Japanese is the heart of the rail system. When I kept Gen. MacArthur's Provost off the train one night, it was decided I might be better off running rest hotels for personnel on leave. First a ski resort and then a spa on the coast. My wife joined me in July of 1947 and we had two very nice years together learning about the Japanese.

When the Air Corps became a separate branch of service I was given the opportunity to stay with the 3rd Army or return to the newly formed Air Force. Of course I chose the Air Force. At Johnson AFB on the outskirts of Tokyo there were P-51 Mustangs and P-61 Black Widow night fighters. Being an ex P-51 pilot I was sent to the P-51 squadron at Johnson. I was surprised to run into some friends from China. The duty was mostly standing alert for the Tokyo, Yokohama area. I returned to the States in July of 1949.

After thirty days of leave I reported to Waco, Texas. In the Training command all flight instructors had to attend the instructor course at Randolph Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas. Upon completion of the course I returned to Waco to find out the T-6 training had been shut down. The Air Force operated a flight school for army officers, known as the Air Force Liaison School. The school was located at Waco and its mission was to train the army officers how to fly light aircraft from unprepared fields, as they might have to do in combat.

With the Korean war just getting started the Army wanted large number of pilots trained. To accomplish this, an airfield at San Marcos, Texas, was activated and both the Liaison and Helicopter flight schools were placed there.

In 1952 I was transferred to Training Command Headquarters at Scott Field in Bellevue, Illinois where I joined the Programming Section. It was the responsibility of each programmer to coordinate everything necessary for the programs he had been assigned, including such things as construction of airfield facilities, runways, taxiways, ramp space, etc.. It also included the scheduling of student loads, mechanics to support the equipment and fixed base facilities. This was accomplished by coordinating with the various offices and contractors responsible for the individual portions of the project. Some times it worked and some times it didn't. When it didn't then programs back down the line had to be massaged to prevent the buildup of unusable personnel or equipment. We had many crisis but no melt downs.

Across the Atlantic we had our aircraft in the middle of the Atlantic and off the Azores. In 1955 I got the flight surgeons recommendation to be returned to a cockpit job. Personnel found me a nice assignment flying C-47's out of Athens, Greece, and my family got to travel with me. When I arrived in Greece I was informed my massive experience with paper work qualified me to be the Adjutant of the Support Group.

The group flew a scheduled route from Athens to Tripoli and to Rabat in Morocco. We also flew to all of our bases and detachments in Turkey, Cyprus and Crete. It was not until 1959 that we returned to the States, with an assignment to Otis AFB on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. The 551st Airborne Early Warning and Control Wing had three squadrons, each consisting of one hundred twenty five airmen and forty five officers. Our aircraft were the RC-121, commonly called the pregnant Connie. It has a huge bathtub like dome slung under it to cover the radar antenna. We flew sixteen to eighteen hour missions over the north Atlantic giving radar coverage to NORAD (North American Defense Zone). We covered the airspace between Nova Scotia and Bermuda. When things heated up in Europe and the fighters were flown ores to give navigational assistance.

I retired from active duty from Otis AFB in March of 1963 and moved to Oregon with my family. I returned to school and completed a degree in Business Administration, with majors in accounting and mathematics.

WILLIAM LONGHURST -- PILOT - P-38

BRIEF BIO:

Bill Longhurst was born in Oakland on November 13, 1917 but spent most of his young life on his father's cattle ranch in Idaho. After graduating from high school in Napa, California, in 1935, he attended Stanford University for undergraduate studies and the University of California at Berkeley, where in 1940 he earned a Master's degree in zoology. It was at Berkeley that he met and married Virginia, a fellow student in zoology. In the fall of 1940 Bill was awarded a scholarship to Cornell University for study culminating, in 1942, in a PhD degree in zoology.

After Pearl Harbor Bill hurried up and finished his PhD, when he was just 24 years old, and in the summer of 1942 enlisted in the Army Air Corps. However, he was not called to active duty until February 1943, when he was sent to boot camp at Fresno, California. He then flew Preflight at Missoula, Montana, and Santa Ana, California. Primary was at King City (Ryan PT-22) and Basic at Chico (BT-13 "Vultee Vibrator"), California. Advanced was at Luke Field (AT-6 and P-40) in Arizona where, in March of 1944, he qualified for his silver wings and 2ndLt.'s bars. Operational training was in P-39s at Salinas, Concorde and back to Chico. Then, just shortly after D-Day in Europe, after just three weeks checkout training in P-38s (Santa Rosa, California), Bill took the Ile de France to England.

In September 1944 Bill was assigned to the 429th Fighter Squadron, 474th Fighter Group, in France and Belgium. On his 17th mission he was shot down by ground fire, bellied his plane in and, though significantly injured, escaped back through the lines to safety. After just a month or so he was back flying combat, and by the end of the war in Europe he had flow 62 combat missions. Bill was awarded two DFCs, one for 50 missions and one for "outstanding leadership in pressing home attacks", plus a number of Air Medals.

In late summer of 1945 Bill was released from active duty. He worked for a while as a Fixed Base Operator, in the Napa area, and then joined the staff at Cal Berkeley and later at Cal Davis as a professor of Zoology. In 1980, he retired and moved to Oregon.

Bill and Virginia had two daughters, Caroline and Marguerite, and a son John. Virginia died in 1983. On February 14, 1991 Bill married Florence Jewel.

HIS STORY:

When war was declared, I was married and in the second year of study for my Doctorate in Zoology at Cornell University. Previously, I had earned my Bachelor Degree at Stanford, followed by my Masters at Berkeley one year later. I already had my private pilot's license and was about to start working on my commercial rating in my spare time. In fact, when the raid on Pearl Harbor was announced, I was flying with another graduate in a ski-equipped Piper Cub and, when we landed, heard the news via a loud speaker fastened to the hanger wall.

As soon as I got my degree, I went down to Washington DC to see if I qualified for a commission with any of the three Services. All were willing to take me but I couldn't qualify for 1st Lt, the lowest specialty grade available; the rules required that I be at least 28 years old. At the time, I was only 24 years old. Disappointed, I decided to go back to California and got a job with the state's Fish and Game Department as a biologist. Eventually, as the war heated up, I got patriotic and enlisted in the Army Air Corps. However, I didn't get called for active duty until February, 1943.

My boot camp was at Fresno, California. where we moved into some old barracks that had previously held interned Japanese. After about six weeks, we were shipped to Missoula, MT. for preflight training in Piper Cubs, a fun time for me My most enduring memory of Missoula was getting the measles twice and being held back one class as a result.

From there, I went to Santa Ana, California. for more preflight training before moving to King City,California. for primary flight training in Ryan PT-22s then to Chico, California. for basic flying training on BT-13 Vultee "Vibrators". For advanced training, in AT-6s and P-40s, I reported to Luke Field, near Phoenix, Arizona, where in June, 1944, and received my Wings.

I'll never forget my first flight in the P-40, I really thought I was a fighter pilot once I got the wheels up. As I looked around, I glanced down to see oil streaming across the cockpit floor! I called the tower for an emergency landing and quickly returned to earth. It transpired that when the oil had been replenished, the cap had been left off, so the airflow had sucked out almost all the oil.

Next, I moved to Salinas, California. where I learned to fly the Bell P-39 Airocobra. Two weeks later, I moved to Concorde, California for more P-39 training and then moved yet again, this time to Chico for more operational training. They also had some Bell P-63 King Cobras. The P-39s had very erratic spin characteristics which didn't make them too popular.

Then it was determined that there was a shortage of multi-engine fighter pilots, so I was sent to Santa Rosa, California. to train in Lockheed P-38s. After three weeks of conversion training, we were ready for overseas assignments. This was done by splitting the class in two alphabetically; I was all set to go to the South Pacific, went out and purchased snorkeling gear, but ended up going to Europe.

We sailed to England just after D-Day on the Ile de France, arriving in Greenock, Scotland in early July. It wasn't very pleasant as we "hot-bunked " it on a very crowded ship. Bing Crosby was one of our fellow passengers. From there, we moved to Shewsbury, Shropshire to an aircrew replacement unit awaiting assignment.

I didn't enter combat until September 27,1944 when I was assigned to the 429th Fighter Squadron, 474th Fighter Group of the 9th Tactical Air Command, 9th Air Force. The squadron and its two sister units, the 428th and 430th Fighter Squadrons, were all equipped with the Lockheed P-38, the twin-engined, twin-boom, long range fighter. Initially equipped with P-38Js, these were later replaced with both the K and L models as attrition took place.

The P-38 was a great airplane to fly, though initially, it was less maneuverable than single-engined fighters due to its heavier weight. German tactics were to break off combat, head down and try to lead us over a flak trap. With the heavier controls, we just couldn't turn with them, so it would give them a few extra seconds to get away from us. Eventually, the later models of the P-38 had power-boosted ailerons which greatly improved turning capability. The Lightning differed from the single-engined fighters in that it had a control yoke as opposed to a control stick. The pilot pushed or pulled it to descend or climb, but turned it like a wheel to roll left or right. It took a bit of getting used to.

The Group and its squadrons had just moved to Peronne (A-72) on September 6 where I joined the squadron. On October 1, we moved to Florennes in Belgium from which I did most of my combat flying. Our officer accommodations there were in a chateau near the base and we were welcome guests of the owner.

As the war progressed, we eventually moved onto more former Luftwaffe bases in Germany, Strassfield (Y-59) on March 22, 1945 and, exactly a month later, Langensalza (B-2) near Berlin.

Our primary role was to provide close-air support to the U.S. First Army in its drive into Germany. Exception were when we provided close air support to U.S. and British forces fighting to take Eindhoven and Neiuwegein, Holland in September, 1944. We accomplished these missions in a variety of ways including strafing with our four 50 caliber machine guns and a single 20mm cannon mounted in the nose, dive bombing (we carried either two 1000lb or four 500 lb bombs under each wing) or delivering 165 gallon napalm tanks in low level passes.

I took part in a couple of experimental night-intruder missions whereby individual P-38s were controlled by ground-based radar and led to targets. I don't recall seeing much apart from flak and this kind of mission didn't last very long. Some daylight bombing missions were carried out over solid overcast by large Group formations. We would be guided to the target area by the ground-based radar and given a count-down to bomb release. The Germans would often fire radar-controlled heavy flak through the clouds at us, so upon bomb release, the formation would scatter in all directions to escape the barrage.

We also flew a number of bomber-escort missions deeper into Germany, particularly the Ruhr Valley, infamous for its heavy flak concentrations. These flights required us to carry extra fuel in two 165 gallon drop tanks, carried on the bomb racks inboard of the engines, in addition to our internal fuel load of 410 gallons. If we encountered German fighters, we would dump the drop tanks to improve our maneuverability.

By war's end the Group had accounted for some 250 enemy aircraft but, personally, I experienced very little air-to-air combat. However, on three occasions, I did fly wing on an element leader while he shot down three German fighters. My job, as wingman, was to cover his rear while he concentrated on shooting down the opposition. I did have one encounter with a jet fighter, an ME 262.

It happened on March 12, 1945 over the Remagen bridgehead area. I flew on the second mission of the day and, apart from some light flak, encountered little enemy activity. We landed at about 10.30, refueled etc and departed in mid afternoon for another patrol in the same area. We were cruising around at 12,000-14,000 feet when I saw two ME 262s. The following extract from my combat report describes what happened:-

"I was leading Blue Flight of our squadron when two bandits were called in. To the squadron's left, at nine o'clock, I spotted one of them heading in a direction that would cross our path. I called in Red flight to take after him, but no one did. The pilot of the jet must have seen us soon after for he immediately went down for cloud cover that had a top at about 5,000 feet. Since no one took after him, he straightened out and continued across our front, right below Red and Yellow Flights.

By this time, my flight was in the best position for contact that it could obtain. Our range was about 1,000 yards and when the plane presented a gun picture, I let go with a few bursts. Lt. Eggleston (my wing man) also let go with a few. The distance between us and the target was too great and we couldn't see any hits or damage. We then turned after him for about a mile and he must have had a good laugh when he gave us a Blow job performance that carried him out of sight! Boy! They certainly can travel."

During the Battle of the Bulge, on the night of December 23/24, 1944, the Germans advanced to with ten miles our base at Florennes. We were all set to fly our aircraft out and evacuate the base at night in a heavy snowstorm. Fortunately, the Germans were unable to cross the Meuse River.

By the end of the war, I had flown 62 combat missions, but the most memorable, my 17th mission, took place on Christmas morning, 1944, when we were on an armed-reconnaissance mission about 50 miles from our base. Spotting some trucks partially hidden beneath some trees, I reported it to the squadron leader. He ordered me to take my wingman down and check out whether they were "ours or theirs". As I peeled off with my wingman, I told him that if they proved to be German, we would drop the two 500lb bombs each was carrying, otherwise we would just pull through and rejoin the squadron.

As we passed over the vehicles at low altitude (300 feet), I confirmed that they were indeed German trucks, but we were too low to release our bombs otherwise we would have been caught in their blast and destroyed ourselves. We gave them a short burst of our guns and pulled off target right on the deck at high speed. At the same time, it looked like all the 20 mm flak guns in the area were firing at us. Later, I was able to establish from my squadron mates that 16 of these guns were firing at us. The German army mounted four of these guns on a power rotating mount on the back of a flat-bed truck and four of these units were engaging us. We were surrounded by white puff balls as the tracers passed around us. I yelled to my wingman to aim for a low ridge ahead of us to escape the barrage which was pursuing us.

No sooner had I said that to him when my aircraft took a hit between the supercharger and the engine on the right side. I heard the hit and looked out to see a hole, about two feet in diameter, in the top of the boom, with a sheet of fire streaming from it. Actually, what had happened was that a round had cut the two big induction pipes between the supercharger and the engine so a lot of ignited gasoline fumes under pressure were blowing out the hole. I no sooner saw the hole than the right engine lost power. The P-38 had contra-rotating propellers to balance out the torque, each engine rotating the props in a different direction ie, one clockwise and the other counter-clockwise. Before I knew it, the torque on the left engine took over and I had executed a couple of uncommanded snap-rolls at a very low altitude. Somehow, I managed to keep the nose up and prevented the aircraft from auguring in.

After stabilizing the aircraft by chopping the power on the left engine, I decided to bail out and ejected the canopy. At the time, I was traveling at a very high speed at about 300 plus feet so pulled up to gain enough height to bail out. Bailing out of a P-38 was very dangerous in the best of circumstances due to the horizontal stabilizer's position. One had to either have the speed right to give you a chance to dive under it or roll the aircraft inverted and drop out of it. However, the flak was so intense that I figured even if I got out cleanly, I would be pulverized hanging in the 'chute. I then thought about trying to get home on one engine, but quickly recalled that recently a fellow pilot in similar circumstances had tried to do that with a smoking engine. Without warning, his P-38 had exploded and killed him. So, with my aircraft all ready on fire, I had no desire to stay with the plane any longer.

My next decision to make was where to belly the aircraft in. My choice lay between a large area of open fields or a wooded area. I elected to aim for the woods where I would have a better chance of evading detection. I was not looking forward to the prospect of being a Prisoner of War.

I slowed the aircraft down by dropping the flaps and switching off the engine. Soon I heard the scraping sounds of the tops of the trees hitting the belly of the plane . My biggest worry was that the horizontal stabilizer, which joined the two vertical stabilizers, would snag a tree top and bring me crashing down abruptly. Electing to have a controlled crash, I rechecked the locks on my shoulder harness to ensure that I wouldn't be thrown forward causing my head to strike the gun sight which was mounted above the instrument panel at eye level. I recalled seeing a pilot who crashed on a training mission in the States who ended up with the sight embedded in his forehead because he hadn't checked his shoulder harness locks.

However, during my preflight check, my harness wouldn't lock, so I placed my forearm over the sight, leaned my head tight on my arm and pushed the control wheel forward. This proved to be quite successful and I ended up with just a small gash on my forehead. The worst injury was caused by the control wheel coming back and cracking my ribs at the sternum. When the aircraft came to a stop and I had gathered my wits, I became aware that branches overhanging the cockpit were on fire. Amazingly, the fuselage pod had missed any major obstruction and remained relatively intact.

I tried to climb out but couldn't move an inch; turns out I hadn't unfastened my safety belt! I quickly remedied that oversight and exited the cockpit. Both wings were sheared off, the fuel tanks had split and ignited thus setting the surrounding trees on fire. More frightening was the sight of the two 500 lb bombs laying near the wreckage. The rest of the squadron, including my wingman, was circling overhead watching the conflagration. When they returned to base, my wingman reported that I was probably roasted "medium to well-done." They hadn't seen me get out of the wreckage.

Meanwhile, I fled through the brush as fast as I could and put about two miles between me and the wreck. As I came to the edge of the woods, I was confronted with a large open field. Further progress in that direction was impossible because of an 88mm flak battery and one of the infamous quad 20s trucks about 100 yards away. By now, it was about ten- thirty in the morning and I decided to remain under cover in the woods until dark.

While I lay there, I had the opportunity to watch the 88mm flak battery firing at a procession of Allied aircraft that passed over head. The gunners were very proficient; one P-51 sped over and the gunners were able to constantly bracket it with every three round burst by rapidly adjusting the proximity fuses as they reloaded. Shortly after that, a crippled B-17 came into sight trailing smoke. The crew bailed out and were greeted by a hail of fire from the quad 20s. By the time they reached the ground, all appeared to be dead.

Not much later, a truck load of German troops drove up to a point about 100 yards from where I lay under the branches of a small pine thicket. The lower branches came down to about eighteen inches off the ground, giving me some reasonable cover. Then the troops began approaching my position singing and joking amongst themselves. It soon became apparent that they were not looking for me but just relocating to avoid an Allied artillery barrage which was dropping on the nearby village of Marche. Then an officer walked almost up to the thicket where I lay. All I could see were his big shiny boots marching along about 15 feet from me. I took my 45 caliber automatic from my shoulder holster and had it bore sighted on his legs. Fortunately, I didn't get too brave to try and wing him as he walked away.

It was a very lonesome feeling to lie there and realize that if I was going to get out of there, it was all up to me. All I had was a small escape kit which comprised mainly of energy pills, a small compass and a colored map which covered almost all of Europe. I remember that every one of those energy pills I comsumed caused me to feel hungrier and hungrier.

Finally, darkness came and I was able to detour around the flak battery, cross the field and make my way to a cut bank which looked down on a heavily traveled main road. Luckily, the weather was very cold and dry, so I didn't leave any tell-tale footprints. As I watched the traffic below, it was confusing at first as many of the vehicles were American and wore U.S. Army insignia. However, we knew that the Germans had captured a sizable quantity of Allied vehicles, so I looked carefully at the uniforms of the occupants. The road was about twenty feet below me and I remember wishing that I'd had a sackful of hand grenades to lob into the trucks as they passed.

Finally, there was a break in the traffic, so I slid down the bank and just got across the road when I heard a swishing noise. I looked up to see three German soldiers coming down the hill riding their bicycles; they all carried rifles slung across their backs. I thought I had made it into the undergrowth fast enough, but it became obvious they had seen me as they slid to a halt and began to unsling their rifles. Again, I had to make a quick decision, whether to run off into the woods or stay and defend myself. Choosing the latter, I drew my automatic and, with three shots, killed two of them; the third decided to run away so escaped unharmed.

After that encounter, I headed towards the sound of our artillery which was about two miles away. I had gone about a mile when suddenly I heard Germans talking all around me.; I'd blundered right into a large bivouac area in the dark! They were so close that I clearly heard a sentry report to OberLt. Schmidt who was less than twenty feet from me. I backed cautiously out of there and was gratified to see the moon coming up. This allowed me to see the outline of a small hill off to one side, so I decided to crawl up there and survey my surroundings to find the best way out of the bivouac area. I no sooner reached the top of the hill when all Hell broke loose. It was a big crow roost and they all scattered cawing into the night. I figured that would draw the attention of the sentries,but they didn't come to investigate the noise.

I lay there for a while and determined that the 155 mm artillery was impacting just to one side of the main bivouac area. I assumed that the Germans had abandoned that area, so headed out into an open field and tried to get into the woods again. I got about half way across the field when I heard a 155 mm round incoming again. It sounded just like a freight train moving up. By the time it landed about 30 yards from me, I was flat on the ground. I could see a German half-track vehicle moving a few yards from where it landed and the explosion lifted the front of the half track like a horse rearing up on its hind legs. To my astonishment, the vehicle dropped down again and kept on going! Meanwhile, I got splattered with mud thrown up by the explosion, but fortunately wasn't hit by any of the shrapnel.

Just before daylight, the Germans started sending out patrols. There was a ridge in the direction I needed to go. I managed to squeeze between a couple of the patrols and top the ridge. Just as I got there, the German patrols started engaging some of our troops in small arms fire. I just kept on moving down the other side of the ridge, got to the bottom and ran into a column of soldiers marching along a road. I didn't want to expose myself to the wrong side, so waited until I heard them talking and was sure that they were our G.I.s.

It turned out that they were from the 38th Infantry Division. My immediate concern was how to surrender gracefully without being shot. I was still wearing my flight suit, no helmet or insignia, but I did have a white handkerchief. I whistled at them, held up my arms and waved the white handkerchief. Most of them aimed their rifles at me, told me to stand still and two of them came to me via a semicircular route. It happened that there was a big mine field in front of me and they were able to lead me safely around it.

When I got taken to their Headquarters, I was able to point out the big bivouac area our artillery had been missing during the night. They were able to zero in on the correct coordinates and cause great destruction.

When I got back to the squadron, I had my ribs taped up so was taken off flight status. When I was about ready to resume flying, I came down with chicken-pox and was sent to hospital in Paris, so it was over a month after my return that I got back to flying. At that time, the action was very heavy and we were often flying three missions a day as the Germans retreated from the Battle of the Bulge.

Not long after my "shoot-down" the front moved further into Germany and I had an opportunity to visit my crash site. That's me in the picture on the left, standing in heavy snow behind the wreck. The picture on the right is focused on the cockpit area. The large hole in the plane on the right is in the side of the gun compartment, where the metal was peeled back. The cockpit is just behind that compartment, under that mass of tree limbs and brush. That's the stuff I had to crawl through to get out. If I had not jettisoned the canopy before the crash it is doubtful whether I could have raised it with all the limbs piled on top.

During this period, we had two Douglas A-26 Invaders attached to our Group. They were the solid nose version with 14 forward firing 50cal machine-guns including two in the top turret. They were flown by a single pilot plus the turret gunner. We sent some of our own pilots to train on them. They flew with us on strafing missions and the results of their firepower was awesome. But, the German flak was still very dense so we would restrict our strafing runs to a minimum altitude of about 5,000 feet, just out of reach of the 20 mm flak. I also flew in formation with these A-26s on a few missions at low altitude when there was no flak around. On one of these trips, an A-26 cut loose on a village at low level. His bullets shattered roof tiles and blew them up in a cloud that wiped out our forward visibility.

Sometimes we would carry a single drop tank with a napalm tank under the other wing. We would skip bomb the napalm from very low level against trains. In the spring of 1945 these had become priority targets -- one morning we got five. On another mission, we found two trains on parallel tracks hiding in a tunnel with part of the trains sticking out at each end. We skip-bombed both ends of the tunnel with delay-fused bombs and sealed them inside.

Near the end of hostilities, on April 30, 1945, we were briefed for a special escort mission. Ten of us rendezvoused with a C-47 over Weimar and escorted it to Brandis, about ten miles east of Leipzig, where it landed. While we orbited, the C-47's passengers were transferred to convoy of 16 vehicles, six of which were tanks and another six were half tracks. We then escorted the convoy which headed in the direction of Torgau on the Elbe River. Replaced by a sister squadron, we returned to base to refuel, have lunch etc then returned to Torgau in mid-afternoon to where the convoy was still located.

When we arrived, there was a congestion of American and Russian vehicles. It was the historic first meeting of our 69th Division and men of the Russian 173rd Regiment of Guards.

My last combat mission was the first patrol of the day on May 8, 1945 when I led an eight-plane formation on patrol from Leipzig to Chementz and Adorf along the Czech border. Our squadron flew its third and final patrol of the war later that afternoon.

Just after VE-Day, I was one of the first to be shipped home. We flew to England and sat around for about a month before finally boarding a war-weary B-24 for the long flight home. I ended up at Marysville, California. where I was given 30-days leave before going back to Luke Field for a little while. Here, I was given the option of staying in the Air Corps or returning to civilian life. Since I was still only a 1st Lt, they offered me a captaincy to stay in, but I couldn't wait to get out. However, I stayed in the Reserves for a few years.

A friend and I decided to make our fortune in a hurry, so opened up a fixed base operation at Napa County Airport, California. We had a dealership for Luscombe aircraft, did flight training, charter work etc for a couple of years. Eventually, we realized that to qualify for training under the G.I. Bill we would have had to invest a lot more money -- which we didn't have. We were fortunate to find a buyer, so sold the business. I found a job at U.C. Berkeley and then U.C. Davis teaching Zoology, Wildlife Biology and Range Management. In the mid-50s, I was awarded a Fulbright Scholarship and used it to go to Uganda to develop a animal management program for the Government. Most of it involved developing management programs for the large herds of hippos and buffalo in western Uganda. In 1980 I retired from U.C. Davis and moved to Roseburg, Oregon.