Joe Brumbach	Pearl Harbor / Test Pilot
	Robert K. Burns	B-24s in clandestine night operations
	Joe Longo	Combat Photographer
	Leland Svarverud	CG-4A gliders in North Africa / Europe

JOE BRUMBACH (TEST PILOT)

BRIEF BIO:

Joe Brumbach was born in Dixonville, Oregon, on February 25, 1922. He graduated Roseburg High in 1938. On March 11, 1940, in Portland, Oregon, he enlisted in the Navy. Boot camp and mechanics school were at San Diego, California. After that he was assigned to VP-24, as a flight engineer on PBY-3s, initially at Ford Island, in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, and later across the island at Kaneohe. He was there on December 7th and fought off attacking Jap planes from a PBY parked on the ramp.

In the summer of 1942 he took advantage of the new Aviation Pilot program and went to NAS New Orleans and Pensacola, Florida, for flight training. In May, 1943 he received his "Wings of Gold" and a promotion to Aviation Pilot First Class. Subsequently, he spent almost the entire war years as a test pilot at the Naval Test Center, then located at Anacostia, Maryland. After the war he went on to a full career in the Navy, finally accumulating about 6,000 flight hours in more than 60 aircraft types. He retired on August 1, 1960, with the rank of Lieutenant Commander.

Joe married Lee Cardinal in Philadelphia on August 27, 1944. Together they had a daughter, Aldalee, and a son, Joe Jr. Lee passed away on May 3, 1997. Joe married Brenda on August 15, 1998.

HIS STORY:

I was born on February 25, 1922, on a little farm near the little town of Dixonville, Oregon, just a few miles east of the big little city of Roseburg. Dixonville at the time actually had a post office. As a boy I was intrigued by airplanes, and did the usual balsa-wood and rubber band-powered model airplane building and flying. I was also interested in mechanical things, having worked closely with several kinds of farm machinery. My first car was a 1924 Model "T" roadster. I lowered the body (a "low rider"), took the fenders off, cut the windshield in half and "souped" it up, as much as you can an old Model "T".

In 1938, when I was just 16 (skipped a couple of grades), I graduated from Roseburg High School. My first job was with the Douglas County Farm Bureau Exchange, an organization that basically bought and sold and redistributed farm machinery. My job was to go out there in the storage yard every so often and start them up.

One day a Ford Trimotor flew into town. I got so excited I skipped work, dashed out to Roseburg airport, paid my two bucks -- and got my first ride in a real airplane. That old thing was incredibly noisy, even the corrugated fuselage skin rattled and screeched. But I did get my first taste of flying, if that's what that was.

About that time I decided to join the local National Guard -- Company D, 162nd Infantry. However, after just a couple of training excursions out into the woods and the mud, dragging my machine gun along with me, I decided that infantry was just not for me. So on March 11, 1940, I went up to Portland and enlisted in the Navy. I thought I was looking for something that would not only be interesting but would give me some longer-term security as well. There was obviously no war on the near horizon so I felt safe. That was not the first really dumb thing I would do in life.

Boot camp was in beautiful San Diego. After four months in boot camp I was selected for aviation mechanic's school, across the bay at the North Island Naval Air Station (NAS). There some Marines were flying the BG-1, a Great Lakes biplane torpedo bomber. But they had a place for passengers so, besides my schooling, I often had the chance to go flying, with some of the Marine pilots.

After another four months I graduated mechanic's school, and got orders to VP-24 at Ford Island, in beautiful Pearl Harbor in beautiful Honolulu, Hawaii. They were flying the Consolidated PBY-3. This was the basic PBY seaplane, with the high, twin-engined wing sitting up on a pylon, but without the side gun blisters. The adjacent picture is a good example of a PBY-3 (courtesy of the San Diego Aerospace Museum).

I soon got into a flight crew, as the engineer. My "office" was a tight little cubbyhole up in the pylon between the fuselage and the wing. There were a couple of small windows but in general visibility was pretty poor. At first I felt a little trapped there but as time went on it became my "home away from home". Up there I had full control of the engine mixture ratios and fuel flows , and monitored a battery of engine instruments. On long patrol flights I would lean the mixtures until the cylinder head temperatures got uncomfortably high.

I was there at Ford Island until about March 1941, when the squadron was transferred over to Kaneohe, on the east side of Oahu about 12 miles east-northeast of Pearl Harbor, where we became VP-12 in PatWing. We took our PBY-3s with us but almost immediately flew them back to North Island and traded them in for new, top-of-the-line PBY-5s. These had more powerful engines and now incorporated the familiar side "blisters". It was still a seaplane but was not amphibious. To take one up on land, for maintenance, somebody had to swim out with wheel assemblies and fix them under the plane. A tractor then towed the whole magilla up out of the water. Our mission was to fly continuous sector searches of the surrounding waters, to detect and warn against the (highly unlikely) approach of enemy fleets.

Some time in November, 1941, we were assembled and warned that there was a possibility of an attack. No one seemed to get very excited because no one could conceive of a foreign power powerful enough or stupid enough to challenge the US Navy. But as a precaution we lined all the planes up at the dock (perfect for strafing) and put on extra armed guards. We also anchored four planes out in the bay, complete with skeleton crews aboard ready for "instant action". Then everybody else went back to the barracks and back to sleep.

On the morning of December 7, 1941 I was out at the hangar. I had just started walking back to the mess hall when I saw some planes flying around the base. Suddenly one banked up steeply and I saw the meatball of the wing. About that same time our four planes out in the bay burst into massive fireballs, instantly killing the crews aboard. I ran to the barracks and tried to rouse some people to action. That was not an easy task, it being early on a Sunday morning. On the way back to the hanger, right in front of me, a bomb hit a car and flipped it up into the air, landing it back on it's top.

A PBY was sitting on the apron near the hanger, up on wheels. The 30- and 50-caliber guns in the nose and side blisters were armed so I got into the nose and another guy got into a blister and we started firing at the Jap planes. I had never done this before so I had almost no idea what I was doing. The Jap planes first came down along the dock and easily took out our carefully lined up PBYs. They then started bombing the hangars. One plane came diving right at us in the plane and I saw the bomb detach. Well -- I just sat back, figuring this was it for me. But the bomb flew just over our heads, entered the hangar and exploded inside. Fortunately for us there were big steel doors on the hangar and they protected us from most of the blast. We were uninjured but our plane was riddled with shrapnel and bullet holes, and never flew again.

We continued firing at the Jap planes. One came over close and both of us in our landlocked plane, plus a guy standing outside with a 50-caliber gun in his arms, concentrated our fire on him -- and we got him. He crashed right near the emergency entrance to the dispensary. We never knew which of us got him, and no hero medals were forthcoming for anyone. After that we all kind of milled around, trying to figure out what to do next. Including the three that were out on patrol at the time of the raid, only five of the 33 PBY-5s at Kaneohe remained airworthy.

Finally the officers got a little organized and dispatched a detachment, with 50 caliber machine guns, to defend the nearby hill. As far as we knew the raid could have been a prelude to a troop landing. However, we were all in our Sunday whites and we really stood out against the brown, almost dried coffee-colored hill. So, in a stroke of unrecognized brilliance, one of our officers ordered us to go back to the barracks and dip our uniforms in the coffee urn (could that have been the origin of the "khaki" uniform?). All night long you could see multiple flashes over Pearl-way.

A squadron of PBYs from Seattle (VP-44) was flown into Ford Island. Since there wasn't much left to do at Kaneohe I was sent over there. The massive destruction was appalling and the smell of death was everywhere. The harbor was still inches deep in fuel oil. It was appalling to see those huge battleships sitting on the bottom. We immediately started flying long sector searches, trying to find the Jap fleet and to protect from more surprises. We flew about 18 hours a day, every day for some time. I can't recall how long we kept this up.

Finally they decided that I was no longer needed there at Ford Island so they gave me a 45 pistol and told me, by whatever means, to make my way back to my squadron at Kaneohe. I got a ride into Honolulu and started hitch-hiking. I was quickly picked up by a Japanese guy, who looked like a local farmer. As we went along he kept asking me very pointed questions, he could have been a spy. I just kept my mouth shut and my hand on my 45 and he eventually dropped me off, not far from the base.

By then the squadron had received PBY-5As We were ordered to move to an "advance base" all the way over on Kauai. We were now a little over 100 miles closer to the enemy, one of the first US units to actually "move out" toward the evil Empire of Japan. There we were based in rugged terrain, flying off the beach and living in the nearby jungle in small tents, in the midst of heavy mud and rain.

A few months later I heard that the Navy was going to start taking enlisted personnel for "Aviation Pilot (AP)" billets. The AP designation came about because the Geneva Convention had stipulated only a limited number of "Aviators" for each signatory country. Well, strictly speaking, an AP was not an "Aviator". So, we had just been attacked by large number of Jap "Aviators" but we were still concerned about skirting the limitations of the Geneva Convention! Go figure. I wanted badly to get into that program, and out of the mud and rain on Kauai. It turned out that I had to slip the duty yeoman $20 but did I manage to get on the list for that program. My Naval Aviator career was about to be launched!

Orders finally came through in August. I went to Preflight School at the University of Georgia and then to Primary Training at NAS New Orleans. At New Orleans I flew, and soloed in the NP, by Pitcairn. The NP was a tandem open cockpit, stick-wire-wood-fabric biplane that was the most miserable thing you'd ever want to fly. It may have been a deliberate test -- if you can fly the NP you can fly anything. We then trained in formation flying in the N3N (upper picture -- courtesy CAF West Houston Squadron), made by the Naval Aircraft Factory, and acrobatics in the N2S Kaydet (lower picture).

All three of these primary trainers were affectionately known as the "Yellow Peril" but the Boeing-Stearman N2S was the most famous. It was a wonderful plane to fly -- plenty of power for its weight, fully aerobatic, open cockpit (but no silk scarf).

Then I was transferred to Saufley Field in Pensacola, Florida, where we flew Vultee Vibrators and SNJs. Training in instrument flight was in the SNJs. Soon after I was then transferred a few miles away to Mainside Pensacola for training in seaplanes. There they had a very early version of the PBY called the P2Y-1. It was essentially a biplane PBY, with the two engines still sitting up on the top wing and the long, boat-like fuselage. We also had a few PBY-1s.

Seaplane flying was a different challenge. Takeoffs were a matter of jockying speed and longitudinal attitude until you got up on the "step", then skittering across the water until you got up enough speed to get airborne. Sitting up in the little cubbyhole in the pylon was an enlisted flight engineer not a whole lot different from me in my "previous life". In landing you often had difficulty telling exactly where the water was so you just had to set up the landing attitude and mush in until contact. Not to bad once you got used to it.

In May 1943, just eight months and two weeks from the time I started in flight training, I got my "Wings of Gold". At the same time I was "promoted" to the uncertain rank of Aviation Pilot 1st Class (AP1). Not long after I was further promoted to Chief Aviation Pilot (CAP). That caused some raucous incidents when some hapless duty officers, unaware of that new designation, assumed that the "T" had inadvertently been left off (making it CAPT - Captain).

Subsequently, while I was waiting around for orders to the fleet, I enquired about flying something, anything, just to keep my hand in. It turned out that they needed pilots to tow targets for air-to-air gunnery practice. They had an N3N Yellow Peril on floats and an OS2U Kingfisher for that task. I volunteered. I would hook the target to a long rope and hook the rope to a latch on the underside of my plane. I would start my takeoff run well up in Pensacola Bay and come driving down the bay, with the target skipping along the surface of the water, until I could get up enough speed to get all of us, my plane, me and the target, off the water. Then I would fly out over the Gulf and let cadets shoot at me -- I mean at the target. It was a wild time but it turned out to be a very lucky activity for me. When my first active duty orders as a pilot arrived I found myself assigned to the Naval Air Test Center at Anacostia, Virginia. It turned out that they had no one qualified in single-engine seaplanes -- and there I was.

That was the beginning of a long and exciting experience. I was hardly there 30 days when operations handed me a handbook and pointed at a spanking new (this was still 1943) F6F fighter, and suggested that I go fly it. That was the first of what would be many occasions where I had to try as best I could to familiarize myself with the cockpit and controls, to anticipate the flying characteristics as best I could and, finally, just get in the cockpit and GO! They had no dual-cockpit versions or simulators, each first flight was the real thing. Anacostia had just a 1900-foot runway and if you went off the end you were in the Potomac. At this time I had all of about 300 hours of flying time. This first "test" flight was nervous time for sure, but all went well. I qualified in the F6F and became a sure enough Test Pilot!

I spent most of the rest of the war in the NATC, almost all there at Anacostia. During that time I flew some 30 different types of aircraft. Below is a brief list, extracted from my logbook of the time. Most of the experimental aircraft were found inadequate in some way and never went into production. For example, there was the XTBU and an F4F on floats. It was not unusual to fly as many as three different types of planes in a single day. After a while you began to recognize that all of them had very similar flight characteristics so you just had to look for any special idiosyncrasies.

Most people think that test flying is a romantic, death-defying adventure, and that test pilots are dashing heroes. Actually, such flying was often fairly dull and routine. Usually my job was to fly straight and level at various power settings and to record data for the engineers. I had a large kneepad, plenty of preprinted engineering forms and lots of pencils. The only excitement came in trying to fly some of these planes, for which there was no handbook, ground school, dual cockpit or simulator training. In all those years I had very few real problems in flight.

One such occasion involved a Dutch plane we were evaluating. There was a handbook but it was written in Dutch, as were the cockpit instruments and markings. And no interpreter. I flew it all right but enroute I blew out the manifold pressure gage. It turned out that I had been unable to read instructions on the blower position lever and had it in high blower at the wrong time. However, as in most such flights, I managed to get that Dutch "bear" on the ground again with no further excitement.

Somewhere along in that time period Marion Carl reported to NATC, fresh from his fighter pilot exploits in the Pacific, but I had little to do with his part of operations and did not get to know him well.

In 1944 I got married, to one Lee Cardinal, while still stationed there at Anacostia. Near the end of the war they elected to close Anacostia down and move us to the new facility at Patuxent River, where NATC is today. In 1945 I finally received a commission, Ensign USN(T). The good news was the regular commission (USN), and that I could now go drink beer at the Officers' Club. The bad news was the "T". Nobody seemed to know what that meant but it lent a definite sense of insecurity to the "regular" commission.

About that time I was scheduled to check out the Ryan "Fireball". This was the Navy's first jet, a combination of a radial prop engine in front and a jet engine in back, capable of flying on either or both engines. To me it looked like an ugly abortion and I was not at all looking forward to flying it. But once again I was saved by orders, this time to Vero Beach into a night fighter program.

I liked the independence of night fighter operations. You were almost always alone, on your own. I had never been exposed to training in fighter tactics so to qualify in night fighters I had to go through some of that type of training. I was first sent to Melbourne, Florida, to a day fighter squadron. They quickly bumped me to Kingsville, Texas. Nobody seemed to know what to do with this "aged", high-time pilot who knew nothing of fighter tactics or operations so they just pushed me through. Typical of the nomadic existence on active duty at that time, my daughter was born while I was stationed at Kingsville -- but in the Naval Hospital in Philadelphia.

* * * * * * * * And the war ended. * * * * * * * *

I later pulled sea duty on several carriers, including two Med cruises on the Kearsarge and the Midway, in VCN-2, a night fighter detachment flying the F6F-5N. Once again typical of that nomadic existence, when my son, Joe, was born, in Key West, Florida, I was aboard the Midway in the Mediterranean.

The "N" was a pretty typical F6F but with a radome on the right wingtip. In 1948 we traded these venerable warplanes for the F4U-5N, a brand new, really classy airplane. It had an efficient two-stage blower and a comfortable cockpit. However I had barely gotten my plane broken in (45 total hours) when I was forced to dump it in the water, at night. The engine abruptly quit just as I was entering the downwind for landing aboard ship. Fortunately I was picked up by a picket destroyer in a couple of hours, little worse for the wear.

A few months after that I got orders again to shore duty, this time at Pensacola. There I managed to talk my way out of instructing instruments and into flying in the Search and Rescue team at Corry Field. There I flew PBYs and R4Ds. A highlight of that duty was transporting the Preflight Drill team to a different college football game every weekend.

In 1952 I was again back on "sea duty", this time assigned to VR-5 at Moffett Field, California, flying R6Ds. A few years earlier VR-5 had been flying the world's only two R6O "Constitution" aircraft, but they were gone by the time I got there. The R6O was a huge double-decker, capable of carrying a whole fighter squadron, including much of it's maintenance gear. We flew mostly trans-Pacific routes in the R6Ds, often to Japan where we would pick up a load of wounded from the ongoing Korean War. For a little while I was assigned an Alaska routes as well.

But then the Navy finally realized just how poorly educated I was at the time and sent me off to line school, in Monterey, to get smartened up. After struggling through that school they sent me up to the University of Washington, on what was known as the Holloway Plan. There were quite a bunch of us Navy types at the UofW at that time. We had only the venerable "Bug Smasher", the twin-engine Beechcraft, in which to get our flight time. As SOP-OWD (Senior Officer Present in the UofW Detachment) and the only "green card" instrument pilot (unlimited weather), I made sure I got mine. I stayed at the UofW for three years and then went off again to the "real world". It was typical of the Navy at that time to educate their officers, but just short of a marketable degree.

In June 1954, after finishing my schooling, I was assigned to the Air Force 91st Air Transport Squadron, to fly the Embassy run. One day, while making a letdown into New Delhi, India, I was "shot down" by a buzzard. We had bumpy thermals all the way in and now I could see a thunderstorm approaching the field. I was descending into the pattern at Palam Field at about 200 mph when suddenly, with no warning, the right-hand windshield exploded like a bomb. Something wet, soggy and scratchy hit me square in the face, slamming my head back against the bulkhead. I was dazed but still conscious but I couldn't see a thing. I yelled at my pilot, Evan McConnell (Mac), to take over the plane and he jumped on it, despite the howling wind tearing in the open windshield. The cockpit was a blinding whirlpool of papers and glass fragments. I was little more than a blob of blood and guts, slumped in my seat.

That much of the buzzard that didn't stay with me went on back and took out the flight engineer. He was lying on the floor, his face also covered with blood. The rest of the bird, now nothing more than guts, a beak and some feathers, had come to rest on the navigator's table. Mac called and was cleared for an emergency landing. Our flight engineer got back up and came in the cockpit, along with the radio operator. Together they held a sheet of plate glass up between Mac and the hole in the windshield. Despite a couple of hairy brushes with the approaching thunderstorm, Mac wrestled it onto the ground and got it stopped.

For three days the Indian doctors worked on my eyes. I heard one of them say to the other that I would very likely never see again. But, after a few days of simple treatment with an aureomycin ointment it became clear that one eye would be as good as ever and I would not lose enough sight in the other to end my flying career. On to bigger and better things.

When I got back on flight status I went to my detailer and told him I wanted to spend my last two years of active duty out in Hawaii, with family. So I got assigned to an Airborne Early Warning squadron based at Barber's Point, and moved my family out there. But I must not have paid him enough because I was assigned to the Midway Detachment, the major squadron maintenance facility way out there in the Pacific -- sans family.

There I managed the shops and test flew an endless parade of R7Ds and WV-2s. The R7D was the Navy version of the Lockheed Constellation, the triple-tailed four-engined transport so long identified with Howard Hughes and TWA. We used it to commute to and from Hawaii.

The WV-2 was a radar picket version of the R7D-1 Super Constellation, a much larger aircraft with a stretched fuselage and increased wingspan. The WV-2 was equipped with a large radar hump atop the fuselage and a large rotating scanner underneath. They flew endless barrier patrols between Midway and Alaska, often with no workable radar aboard. Some barrier.

Well, after a year of that nonsense the squadron gave me a short spell back at Barber's Point. However, they had me scheduled back out to Midway within the year, to that same useless duty. So I said "thanks but no thanks" and retired.

I finished my career in the Navy with over 6,000 hours of flight time. I lost my first two logbooks, in a stolen car, but my next three show at least 59 different aircraft types flown. Many of these even I can't recall. For those of you who flew at the time, these 59 are listed below, in roughly chronological order:

NPN1, N3N, N2S, SNV, SNJ, SNC, SOC, SOC3, SC, P2Y3, PBY1, PBY3, PBY5, PBY5A

PBN, PBM, PV1, PV1-1/2, PV2, SBD4, SBD5, SB2C, SB2U, XTBU, TBF1, TBM, NE1

F6F3, F6F3N, F6F5, F6F5N, F7F1, F7F2, F7F2N, F7F4N, F4U1, FG1D, F3A, F4U4, F4U5N

JRB4, SNB3E, R4D5/6, R5D, R6D, R7V, WV1, PBY6A, SB2A4, PJB, FM2, PB4Y1, OS2U1

XPB4Y2, TD2C1, R4O2, JRF4, JM1, P2Y1

We all moved back to Oregon and I bought a couple of farms within a few miles of where I was born, out Dixonville way. Besides running the farms I got involved in the local Soil and Water Conservation Association, as District Chairman, then four years as state president, and finally president of the Association for seven western states. Today I am retired from both the farms and the Association and am the current president of the Southern Oregon Warbirds.

ROBERT K. BURNS

BRIEF BIO:

Robert Burns was born in Terra Haute, Indiana, on October 1, 1922. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps at Indianapolis, Indiana, and went through Basic Training in Alabama and Advanced at Freeman Field, Indiana. His primary base for combat operations was Harrington Airfield, England, with the 8th Air Force's Special Operations Group, the 801st / 492nd Bombardment Groups, known as the "Carpetbaggers". Bob flew with the Carpetbaggers from April 1944 to early in 1945. He flew 13 combat missions and was awarded four Air Medals, a Distinguished Flying Cross and a Bronze Star. He ended his active service in 1947 at Scott Field in Belleville, Illinois, with the rank of Captain, and continued in the Reserves, at Albany, Oregon, for an additional three years.

On February 1, 1951 Bob married Gerry. Together they had two children, Alan and Pam.

HIS STORY:

Even before traveling to England my crew and I went through considerable special training for our upcoming missions. We did advanced instrument flight training and our pilots all earned a "green" instrument card. The green card signified a "top of the line" instrument pilot and allowed us to authorize our own instrument flights, independent of the judgment or authority of the local Operations Department. We also did considerable training in the low-level drop techniques we would use in Europe, qualifying by consistently dropping loads into a 50-foot circle from 5-600 feet altitude.

In England I served with the 8th Air Force's Special Operations Group, the 801st / 492nd Bomb Groups, known as the "Carpetbaggers". That's our official insignia in the adjacent picture. We flew "special operations" in B-24s, clandestine night operations from a then-secret base in England known only as Station 179 (Harrington). The base was located about ten miles west of Kettering, Northamptonshire. We shared the base with two other bomb groups also who flew clandestine missions such as leaflet dropping, signal eavesdropping and radio jamming. Aside from our B-24s, the base also operated A-26s, B-17s and C-47s and, at one time, a few British-built Mosquitoes.

The planes were painted all black and had no identifying markings of any kind, no white star, no red-and-white stripes, not even the aircraft serial number. Except nose art. Most of those black planes (except ours) did have some sort of scantily clad female painted on the nose. Our plane was named "Superstitious Aloysius". That's it in the adjacent picture, along with our crew chief.

All gun turrets except the rear were deleted. The nose turret was replaced by an all glass fairing and the waist and top turret positions were faired over. The engine exhausts were covered with flame dampers as these would have given us away. Heavy blackout curtains were installed behind the cockpit and the navigator's position.

We dropped munitions and supplies to underground resistance forces and secret agents ("Joes") into Nazi-occupied Europe, and sometimes did night bombing as well. Combat missions were normally selected and assigned by OSS headquarters in London. A typical mission might be described as follows (extracted from the Carpetbaggers Web Site: http://home.att.net/~governmentdrone/sitemap.html):

The process began at about 1700 in a Conference Room at Air Operations Headquarters of OSS in London. Via the scrambler telephone, OSS gave the list of approved targets for the following night to our BG. During the evening these targets were plotted on a large operational map that covered a whole wall of the office of the Deputy Group Commander. The map showed topographical features such as elevations, rivers and forests. Areas where our "Special Operations" flights were prohibited were clearly indicated. Targets were denoted by tabs pinned to the map. The comparative priority of the missions was shown by bits of colored paper attached to the pins. British and "Special Operations, Executive" targets proposed for that night were also plotted, with distinctive tabs.

At about 0900 on the morning of the mission the Station Weather Officer advised the Commanding Officer of weather conditions anticipated in the target areas. At that time it was decided where it was practicable to send Carpetbagger aircraft that night. Then, considering the priority of requests for material in the field, the reception record of the particular target areas, the possibilities of enemy opposition, the distribution of desired missions, and the availability of aircraft and crews, the Group Commanding Officer selected the list of targets for the night. The reception record was a record of how well previous drops had been picked up and used by the ground forces.

At about 1100 the Squadron Commanders were called in, meeting before the big map on the wall of the Deputy Group Commander. Together, these squadron leaders selected targets for their crews, balancing the difficult with the comparatively easy, the distant with the near, so that over the long haul each squadron would end up with about the same work load. Disagreements among the squadron commanders were decided by the toss of a coin, or left to the Group Commander.

At about 1200 hours, the crew navigators received their targets from their Squadron Navigator, who received his list from the Group Navigator, who got his list from Group Intelligence (S-2) Officers. In the meantime, S-2 officers gathered briefing data and prepared maps and special instructions.

At about 1500 each crew navigator turned in a flight plan to his Squadron Navigator who then brought all of his squadron flight plans to the Group Navigator. The flight plans and courses were checked by the Group and Squadron Navigators and, if necessary, changed. A take-off time schedule was made up by the Group Navigator and was posted and distributed to the squadrons.

About three hours before the first scheduled take-off, Group Operations telephoned the flight plans of all aircraft to the Movement Liaison Officer of the Aircraft Movement Control Section of the Air Defenses of Great Britain Command. This included the "RT" (the squadron letter) and the aircraft letter for recognition, the times of crossing the English and enemy coasts, and the proposed landing times.

Also at about 1500 S-2 officers began meeting with officer-members of each crew. This is where I first got into the act. Prior to this most of us in the crew had no idea that we would be going out that night. Crew maps were checked for location of the target, using large-scale maps to insure accuracy. We studied the S-2 map and compared it with our own. Our maps were called target maps and were on a scale of 1 to 250,000, or five miles to an inch.

At about 1630 a final briefing session was held for all crew members. Our crew normally consisted of two pilots, a navigator, a bombardier, a flight engineer, a radio operator and three gunners. That's our crew in the adjacent picture. I am in the front row, second from the left.

The navigator - radio operator - bombardier team was critical to mission success, and even crucial to the lives of the Joes. It was they who were largely responsible for placing the Joes within a tiny, relatively safe 50-foot circle far into Europe, late on a black night, with almost no navigational aides. The gunners had little or nothing to shoot at so they acted largely as observers, helping this team zero in on the appropriate target and collecting intelligence data on the terrain and the drop.

A weather officer displayed the weather map to our crew and gave a complete explanation of conditions for the target area, stressing weather expectations en route and at the home base on the return flight. Predictions covered direction and velocity of winds, cloud conditions, icing conditions and the likelihood of rain, sleet or snow. Then the Intelligence Officer gave us information on special risks and dangers enroute and in the target area. Next, the Deputy Commander gave general flying and dropping instructions. Finally, the Group Navigator gave instructions on the route to be followed while over England and the point and altitude for crossing the English coast. The briefing ended with a "time tick," on which all crew synchronized their watches.

During the afternoon, enlisted crew members were given additional briefings. Our navigator briefed them on the course, the type of reception signal, the code recognition letters for the target, and terrain features approaching and around the target. Our radio operator was handed a "flimsy" just before takeoff. The flimsy detailed all signal information including code letters, ground challenge and reply letter, colors of the day for flare signals over England, navigational radio beacons, direction-finder stations in England, a list of the airdrome signals for England, the night's bomber code used in communication between bombers and home stations and other navigational information.

We gave our aircraft a pre-flight inspection and a half-hour test flight was made, to test all equipment. We ate a meal three hours before, and arrived at Squadron Operations about two hours before takeoff time. At this time I received, and distributed to my crew, kits furnished by S-2 containing rations of candy and chewing gum, flares and purses. The purses usually contained small handy items such as a compass, a small hacksaw, gum and candy.

The radio operator received his flimsy and the navigator his "GEE" codes. The GEE codes were radio signals that we transmitted that identified us, departing and returning, to the GEE. The GEE was a navigational system consisting of four continuously transmitting radio stations. Our radioman would be constantly taking bearings on all four, and usually could identify our location within 100-200 feet.

About forty-five minutes before take-off time we were driven out to where our plane was parked. As soon as it was ready, the target list went to the OSS Liaison Officer at Harrington. That officer then drew up a list of required containers and packages and had them delivered to our Group. The containers were of British manufacture as they had been doing drops from four-engined Halifax and Stirling bombers for several years. The containers wouldn't fit in our standard bomb racks, so our B-24s had to be re-fitted with British bomb racks.

Normally, the containers were packed with the required supplies of arms, ammunition, explosives and supplies at a nearby facility called Holmwood and trucked to our base. Our ground crews then attached the parachutes and installed up to twelve of them in the bomb bays. They were designed with external latches for quick opening on the ground.

The OSS Liaison Officer and his men then checked our aircraft to insure that the proper load was in place. On this (example) mission six bundles of leaflets were loaded into our plane, with 4,000 leaflets per bundle. In addition we were scheduled to drop four agents in a second target area. The agents were first received at Harrington by the Group Armament Officer and were kept in his care, in secret, until almost take-off time. People from "Special Operations," London, supervised their dressing, assisted in their briefing for the drop and escorted them until they were on board the aircraft.

The "Joes" were loaded from the back of the plane and none of us but the rear gunners ever met them. I was told that there were a few "Jills" as well. The OSS didn't want us to have any information about them. That way if we were shot down, and survived, we could not give them away. They were mostly European but a few were American. They seemed a rough bunch, with faces blackened and a rifle strapped across their chests. Over the target we removed the plywood covering the former belly turret and the Joes hooked up to the static line and jumped out, through the "Joe Hole". Imagine, 500 feet above the ground, out through a hole in the bottom of our plane, in the black of night, into heavily defended enemy country!

Finally we got to my part of the whole deal. We were now ready for the night's mission. We warmed up our aircraft and took off on schedule. As each aircraft took off the Flying Control Section checked it out and reported the take-off to Group Operations, who telephoned the information to the Movement Liaison Officer at the Air Defenses of Great Britain Command, at Stanmore.

The weather in that part of England seemed always wet and foggy and every night was black as the ace of spades. Almost every take-off was on full instruments and, once off, we were again alone in the dark and foggy night. We proceeded independently to our target, with all external lights off and with no communications, either with the ground or with other Carpetbagger aircraft. Enroute we made every effort to avoid boats and to cross railroad lines at 90 degrees, crossing as quickly as possible, because of the ever-present danger of flak. Each boat could be a flak boat and each train a flak train. At the time, the Germans were moving a lot of their troops down from Norway and on those trains every fourth or fifth car carried a flak gun.

Nevertheless, after you got used to it, the cockpit became sort of cozy, in the red glow of the night-lighting on the instrument panel. Because of our special missions our group developed some of the best and most experienced instrument combat crews in the Eighth Air Force. The Carpetbaggers flew when all other mission crews stood down for weather.

We had a tight time schedule to be on target to drop people and supplies. German patrols would try to follow us by sound. If they determined the drop area they would select the nearest town and execute a number of people.

We went for the agent-drop target first, this time deep into France. As we approached the target we descended to about 600 feet above the local terrain. We had a radar altimeter, angled 45-degrees forward to help us set and hold that altitude above the ground and to help us avoid running into nearby hills. Most of my missions were into the relatively flat lands of Denmark, Belgium and France so the danger of unseen hills was minimal. Norway was a different story, the terrain was lousy there. I dreaded missions up there.

Over the target we slowed to near-stall speed, opened the Joe Hole and the agents jumped out. An altitude of 600 feet was just barely enough to get their parachutes open -- maybe one swing and they were on the ground. We and all of our operations were maintained classified until 1985. Subsequently, however, at periodic reunions, since our group joined those of the 801st / 492nd, I have met a few of those "Joes". They turned out to be just straight Joes, like all the rest of us. They certainly had a lot more guts than I.

Next we turned toward home and headed for the leaflet and supply target. To disguise our intent we feinted toward one target but then, some 30-50 miles beyond, we descended to 500 feet and the bombardier opened the bomb bay doors and dropped the leaflets and supplies on the desired villages and towns.

Navigation was critical on all such missions, not only because we had to find and hit specific targets in the black of night but much of the time we were flying below 1,000, where it was difficult to see the broader navigational reference points. All drops were made with the aid of three flashlights, one was in the middle of the drop zone and gave us the code for that drop. The other two were at either end of the drop area. At no time was there any radio contact with the ground. In theory we tried to drop right on the middle man -- I never heard if we ever actually hit him. In general we did manage to hit our desired targets, at least well enough. We had to abort only one mission because the signals were not right -- we assumed that the Germans had detected the drop.

In later missions navigational accuracy was improved with the installation of a system called REBECCA. This was a small transmitter held by someone in the drop zone which sent out a coded signal. It showed up as a bright blip on our radar screen until we were directly overhead, when it disappeared.

The underground had excellent communications with the OSS offices in London. By the time we got back to our base they knew the success or failure of our mission. Landing back at Harrington was always one of the great challenges of the mission, again in the blackness of the night, at the very end of a grueling 4-5 hour flight. We were in the air and frequently all of England was socked in. We had no open alternate, we had no choice, we had to land no matter what the instrument conditions. Frequently those conditions were solid clouds right down to the ground with horizontal visibility measured in feet.

Fortunately Harrington had a good Instrument Landing System (ILS) and such landings quickly became the norm, the routine. Here again our Radioman and Navigator were crucial. The Radioman would be constantly taking bearings on the four GEE radio stations, to keep a good picture of where we were at any moment, and the Navigator would be constantly integrating that information to keep us informed of the proper direction and altitude to reach the approach end of the Harrington runway.

As we approached Harrington the ILS became more important, the precision instrument that would take us onto a safe landing on the runway. A typical "zero-zero" (ceiling and visibility) landing went something like this:

As we approached the runway I flew the plane to center the vertical cross-hair, indicating that we were directionally aligned with the runway. Initially the horizontal cross-hair was indicating that we were well below the glide path. As we approached the field that cross-hair rose up until it too was centered. At that point I throttled back, lowered the nose and trimmed for a constant, smooth rate of descent.

From that point my primary job was to keep those cross-hairs centered, as exactly as possible. I had the flight engineer and the radioman standing behind me, every few seconds calling out air speeds and altitudes. That let me concentrate on flying the airplane to keep the cross-hairs of the ILS instrument centered. If the flight engineer called out an airspeed that was slightly too fast I reacted, "Okay, take off a little power and trim for a little more nose-up", all the time keeping the rate of descent constant, to stay on the glide slope. If the horizontal cross-hair drifted low I would add a little power and trim for a little less nose-up. The whole approach consisted of thousands of such small corrections.

As we plunged down the glide slope toward the runway in the dark of night and in the thick "pea soup" we had only the red glow of the instruments to tell us that we were doing things right, that we would end in a safe landing on an unseen, paved runway and not off to the side in the mud or short in the trees at the end of the runway. Believe and ye shall be saved. Everyone had faith -- the flight engineer and radioman weren't even buckled in.

Down we plunged, "... 400 feet ... over the beacon ... 105 knots ... 300 feet ... over the field boundary ... no runway ... 106 knots ... 200 feet ... 100 feet ... 103 knots ... no runway ... 50 FEET ... NO RUNWAY ..." [Speed back near stall ... nose up as much as possible ... feeling for the runway ... BANG -- BUMP -- RATTLE ... there it is ... I can see lights flashing by nearby on the runway edge but not much else ... ease the nose down, get the nose wheel on the runway ...too close on my side, ease over more toward the centerline ...] The runway lights helped me stay straight on the runway while I gently applied brakes. Finally stopped, sitting there on the runway, we couldn't see far enough ahead or to the sides to identify any taxiways. So we just shut down the engines and asked the tower to send out a tractor to tow us back to the hangar.

After landing we were immediately driven to the Intelligence Library for interrogation by S-2 officers. The interrogation was always a tough time because the whole crew, including me, were showing the strain of the long, dangerous mission and the risky "zero-zero" landing we had just accomplished. Free, frank interchange of information was encouraged. The S-2 officers did a good job, handling the jumpy crew with a great deal of tact and flexibility.

After the interrogation, we all went to the Mess Hall where, under the supervision of a medical officer, each man was given a two-ounce medicinal ration of whiskey. We had to sign a receipt for the whiskey, which was issued for operational use only, and which served to relax tense nerves. Then we got a good breakfast, including fresh eggs, and went to bed. If anyone had trouble getting to sleep he was supposed to ask the Medical Officer for a sedative. The operational cycle was now over, at least for another day.

These missions were so complicated and demanding that my crew and I flew only about one a month. We were all young kids then, most of us in our early twenties. In the philosophy typical of such young men we were all indestructible as well -- much too young to actually die. We weren't doing this risky stuff for God and/or country, we were doing it for our buddies, as a part of a very special team in a magnificent adventure. The morale was high and the camaraderie unmatched.

Between missions we kept busy training and practicing. More drops into the 50-foot circle, more practice ILS approaches, often under actual instrument conditions. There wasn't much else we could do. Our missions were so secret that we were essentially restricted to the base. In the more than a year that I was there I was off the base only twice. We even had little interaction with other Air Force elements on the base. There was an Officers' Club but I never used it.

From late spring 1944 to near the end of the war in Europe the Carpetbaggers flew over 3,000 such sorties, dropping 550 agents and over 4500 tons of supplies, and flew 21 night bombing missions as well. I personally flew 13 such missions but did not do any night bombing. I have no idea how many agents or tons of supplies I dropped.

Just before D-Day, three man teams, known as Jedburghs, consisting of one French and one US or British officer and a radio operator, were dropped into France by the Carpetbaggers to motivate the French "Resistance", known as the Maqui, to military action in connection with the forthcoming landings. Some 87 teams were in action prior to D-Day. After the invasion eleven American units, called Operational Units, were dropped by the Carpetbaggers. Each unit consisted of four officers and thirty enlisted men. They were sent to bolster the use of heavy arms and advise on tactical operations, as the French Maqui were somewhat lacking in experience in these areas. The British Special Air Services (SAS) also air-dropped similar but larger units to operate behind the German lines with the French.

 

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JOSEPH LONGO

BRIEF BIO:

Joe Longo was born in Brooklyn, New York, on June 16, 1921 but soon moved to Long Island. He graduated high school in the summer of 1941 and was drafted in November 1942 and took basic infantry training at Fort McClellan, Alabama. In mid-1943, with Company D 19th Battalion, he was shipped to Espiritu Santo, in the New Hebrides Islands, as an infantry replacement. However, because of a brief illness he ended up on Guadalcanal, attached to a 13th Air Force Headquarters Unit. While there he managed to be transferred to the 6th Combat Camera Unit.

Joe spent the rest of the war in the Pacific as a combat photographer with a wide variety of air combat units and missions. His campaign ribbons, all with battle stars, read like a history of the Pacific Campaign: Guadalcanal, Bismarck Archipelago, New Guinea, Western pacific, Northern Solomons, Central Pacific, Southern Philippines, Leyte, Luzon, China Offensive Air Combat, Asiatic Pacific and Air Combat Borneo. Medals include the Air Medal with clusters, Conspicuous Service Medal -- even a Good Conduct Medal. He was discharged in November 1945 at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, as a S/Sgt.

He was recalled to active duty during the Korean War, in November 1952, and served with the 1363rd Photo Unit at airfield K-16 in Korea, Tachikawa, Japan, and Weisbaden, Germany, with a temporary duty assignment with Global Coverage. He was discharged a second time in July 1956 at Manhattan Beach, New York, as a M/Sgt.

Joe married Patricia on June 16, 1946. Together they had three children; Vincent, Debbie and Jaime.

HIS STORY:

I was born in Brooklyn, New York, but while I was at a very tender age, my father moved the family to the countryside on Long Island. I graduated from high school in the summer of 1941. Most of my friends rushed to enlist immediately after Pearl Harbor, leaving just a couple of us slightly younger ones behind.

Some months later, in 1942, my good friend Jack Baldwin suggested that we enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force, but my dad wouldn't hear of it. Meanwhile, I had applied to the Aviation Cadet program. While we were waiting for a reply, Jack and I decided to run away to Ottawa and enlist in the RCAF there. At the recruiting depot , I was rejected because my father was born in Italy. Jack was accepted, flew for the RCAF and subsequently transferred to the U.S. Army Air Corps along with many other Americans who were in the Canadian forces.

Somewhat dejected, I returned home and awaited the draft call which came in November 1942. I reported to Camp Upton on Long Island, was fitted out with uniforms, had physicals etc and shipped with a contingent of fellow draftees to Fort McClellan, Alabama for basic infantry training. At the end of my training, I was promoted to corporal and retained on the base as an instructor. There I am in the adjacent picture, in the barracks door, ready to go.

In about mid-1943 I asked about getting some home leave. Laughingly I was informed that only those volunteering for overseas duty could get leave, I promptly said okay, send me. Well, the only orders I got were for immediate shipment to Camp Stoneman in California...no leave pass!.. for onward transportation to Noumea, New Caledonia.

My stay was quite short and the infantry unit to which I was assigned moved on to a combat infantry replacement unit on Espiritu Santo in the New Hebrides Islands. From there, the contingent I had arrived with were soon shipped to Munda, New Georgia, an island in the infamous "The Slot" where fierce fighting was in progress.

However, I didn't go with them as I was hospitalized with Dengue fever, a form of malaria. A couple of weeks later, while I was still in the hospital, many of my recently departed comrades were brought to the hospital suffering from a variety of serious wounds. Here, one of the most disconcerting events I was ever to witness took place. An officer walked along the rows of beds, checked the names of patients and dropped Purple Hearts on their beds. He even gave me one, which I promptly returned.

While I was recuperating, the assignment officer asked me where I wanted to go. Of course, I immediately asked for Stateside leave, to no avail. Surprisingly, he offered me a posting to Guadalcanal, assigned to the 13th Air Force headquarters. By then, the island was secure, and three bomb groups of the 13th's Bomber Command were based the island. B-24s of the 5th Bomb Group ( the Bomber Barons) and 307th Bomb Group (the Lone Rangers) and the B-25s of the 42nd Bomb group ( the Flying Crusaders) were flying from Henderson and Carney Fields respectively, with their supporting fighter units of the 13th Fighter Command operating from a separate strip. Among the many other units sharing these facilities were the photo ships of the 4th Photo Group with its B-25s and the 20th Mapping Squadron flying a version of the B-24 known as the F-7A.

Just what an infantryman would do in the Air Force there was anybody's guess, but I decided to accept it. Of course, when I arrived there, nobody knew what to do with a gung-ho infantryman in a totally Air Force staff unit. Well, a sergeant finally suggested that as most of the headquarters personnel had very little basic military training, like close order drill, flag ceremonies or weapons training or instruction in military courtesy. Since I had appropriate training and experience, I could teach that.

This new assignment led to a turning point in my life. I had always had an interest in photography and did most of the shooting for the high school paper, such as covering the sports teams. Part of my new job required me, and others, to assess the defense situation around the headquarters in the event that the Japs tried to retake the island, so this allowed me freedom to wander all over the base. Through this, I became aware of the 6th Combat Camera Unit (CCU) attached to the HQ for "quarters and rations". Their members were scattered throughout the area assigned to various bomber groups of the 13th Air Force.

The combat camera units were off-spring of the First Motion Picture Unit (FMPU) located in Culver City, California, in which capt. Ronald Reagan was adjutant. Initially, the FMPU's primary function was to produce training films for the AAF. Each Air Force was assigned an autonomous combat camera team of twenty-eight men. Seven or eight were combat cameramen and flew the missions; the rest were the support cadre for processing, handling supplies and administration. They usually worked in small teams of four or five assigned to a particular bomb group. Those on the flying status were the elite ones; they were issued with I.D. cards signed by General McArthur which allowed them to go anywhere they wanted and fly in any aircraft they selected during a mission.

I introduced myself to a team member, Lt Tom Scott, a former editor at Paramount Studios, who had trained with the FMPU. Tom had gone overseas with the 6th CCU which had just replaced the 13th CCU which was being rotated home. I asked Tom what my chances were of being accepted into the unit as it sounded interesting to me. Initially, he wasn't very hopeful as I'd not been through the training program at Culver City. However, he asked if I was familiar with the 50 caliber machine gun, which I was as an infantryman, and he allowed as how that might help.

About a month later, in November 1943, I was asked to contact Tom. When I arrived, he asked if I was still interested which, of course, I was. It transpired that they had recently lost two camera men on operations over Truk and Rabaul and it would take some time to get replacements from the States. So they put me on a temporary duty assignment to see how I performed.

First I was checked out on the EyeMo camera and still camera operations then sent on an unusual assignment. In those days, casualty evacuation by air was a new concept, so it was decided to put together a documentary following a typical case. It would entail being with the subject when he was wounded, accompany him to the back area and onwards to a hospital in the USA by air.

So I donned my steel helmet and joined a squad in the 26th Infantry Regiment on the front line in the battle of Torakina on Bougainville. My former infantry training came in very handy as we slowly advanced through the jungle. It was usually quite dark in there, so filming was quite diffi-cult...only possible in the clearings. But our first priority was always to dig a personal foxhole once we stopped moving and hunker down for the night. No movement was possible after dark due to infiltration by Jap snipers; anything moving was fired at. At first light, a couple of guys would spray the surrounding treetops with machine gun fire to flush out any snipers who may have inserted themselves during the night. That's what they are doing in the adjacent picture.

After I'd been with the squad a couple of weeks, a trooper was sufficiently injured to require evacuation back to the USA. I accompanied him back to the air evacuation gathering point, hoping that finally my chance to get back to the States had arrived. But that was not to be. Another cameraman in shiny uniform was there to accompany the injured man home to complete the story!

Then I flew a couple of easy, "milk run" missions for assessment. I made the two trips in B-24s and they seemed to be satisfied with the results, so I was permanently transferred to that Camera Unit, reporting directly to 13th Bomber Command. I was very happy to get away from headquarters.

On a typical mission B-24 mission, I carried an EyeMo for motion picture work and a K-20 camera for stills. Just aft of the waist gun positions, there was a hatch in the floor of the aircraft which I would open when nearing the target. I'll never forget the first time I did it and looked straight down from about 12,000 feet at the ocean...very scary! Then I would mount an Eyemo, fitted with a 400-foot film magazine, on a special frame over the hatch, pointing forward, and plug it into the aircraft's 24-volt system. Prompted by the bombardier via the intercom, I would start the camera rolling a few seconds before the "Bombs Away" call and try to follow the path of them until impact. This was for bomb damage assessment and also to try and pick up any other features that might interest the intelligence people. I'd leave the camera running on "automatic " until the film was used up.

As we turned away from the target area, I'd use another hand-held EyeMo with a smaller film load or the still camera out of the waist gunner's hatch trying to gather more pictures. The still camera was rarely used, but was there as a back-up. Most of the time, our bombing was over the jungle, so the only time we were aware that we had hit anything was if there was a large secondary explosion when we had hit a fuel or ammo dump. We would fly these missions at altitudes of anywhere between 12,000 and 25, 000 feet, so in spite of being in the Tropics, we had to wear heated clothing.

Normally, I would attend the mission briefing with the crews to find out what photos would be required then I would select an aircraft to ride in which would give me the opportunity to film the entire group's bombing pattern. As a buck sergeant, this was quite a privilege at the time. Occasionally, I would request that we make a second pass over the target area if I had spotted something worth filming. This would make me very unpopular with the crew. Most crews were very tight-knit and superstitious. I was an odd man, thrust upon them, so they were none too happy to carry me, at any time. However, my 50 caliber gun experience was handy in case one of the waist gunners was injured; a couple of times, I had to do this. Usually, all the movie film we shot was processed and eventually returned to the USA. Several months later, newsreels like Pathe would show some of our more spectacular film back in the states.

Flying with the B-25s of the 42nd Bomb Group was totally different. Usually their missions were very dangerous low level attacks on specific targets, like airfields. Most of the pilots were frustrated fighter jocks so they tended to throw the aircraft around pretty violently, to avoid even light anti-aircraft fire. Because the bombs were released at low altitude, they had parachutes fitted to retard them, allowing the aircraft to escape the ensuing blast. On these missions, we mounted two cameras, one facing forward and the other facing aft. During these flights, I'd shoot action movie of the crews at their stations as there was little I could do with a hand-held camera at such low altitudes and high speed. It also gave me chance to film adjacent B-25s dropping their loads. Once they got to know me, some of them would let me ride in the co-pilot's seat to get shots of the crew in action whereas on the B-24s, in the opinion of the crew, I was just along for the ride.

Living conditions on all the bases we operated from were very basic. Usually, it consisted of small tents located on the highest point we could find. After pitching the tent, we would dig drains around the base to take the water runoff. This was to keep us reasonably dry in the rainy season. In some cases, we were able to trade food or beer with the SeaBees, the Navy's construction battalion, for spare lumber derived from packing crates etc. From this, we would construct a raised platform and make a frame to hang the canvas and mosquito netting on. However, due to the number of moves we made, we rarely had time to get properly settled in before we would ship out to another island.

Throughout all our missions, the 13th A.F. worked very closely with the Navy and Marines in organizing strikes. Towards the end of the war, we were merged with the 5th A.F., based in New Guinea and the 7th A.F. on Saipan to become The Far East Air Forces (FEAF). This allowed us to synchronize our strikes on such prime targets as Balikpapan etc. Previously, there had been talk of integrating us, known as the Jungle Air Force, into the 5th which would have been very bad for morale.

Probably my most memorable trip came after this merger. There had been several major raids on Balikpapan in Borneo with unacceptable losses due to intense anti-aircraft fire. The target was a huge oil refinery complex, the Japanese equivalent to Ploesti in terms of value to the enemy. The reason the losses were so high was that the target was backed up by mountains, so the only feasible bombing run direction was to approach from the sea. This allowed the Japs to concentrate all their guns along this corridor.

Photo reconnaissance was needed to properly identify the location of the gun emplacements and it had to be done using color film. Gun flashes didn't show up very well on black & white film, but It was possible to identify the type of gun based on the length of the muzzle flash which color film would record. A colonel was dispatched from the States to hand-carry a batch of color film. I flew in an F-7A, a stripped down B-24 equipped with multiple cameras, to record the gun flashes with that color film, on a solo mission to Balikpapan. Naturally, we received the full brunt of a flak barrage but luckily, didn't suffer any casualties and only slight damage. As we departed the area, we were intercepted by fighters but managed to make it home. I received one of my four Air Medals for this single mission. After the film was processed and analyzed, enough information was gathered to ensure modified approaches minimized losses. Also, after that mission, B-25s were introduced to attack with para-frags at low-level, though I didn't have the dubious pleasure of going with them. Later, I was to re-visit Balikpapan to film the invasion from the air. That mission was the only time that I ever shot color film. Subsequently, I flew combat camera missions in the Korean War, but still only used black & white film.

I didn't do much work with our fighter squadrons as most of their camera filming was in conjunction with the firing of their guns. However, I did get two trips in the big radar-equipped all-weather fighter, the Northrop P-61B Black Widow. Though it was primarily intended as a night-fighter, it was also used for ground attack with its massive fire-power of four 20mm cannon in the top turret and four 50cal machine guns firing forward. It also carried four 500lb bombs under the wings. The unit I flew with was the 419th Fighter Squadron, initially based at Fighter Strip #2 on Guadalcanal; later, it moved to Morotai, a large island in the Dutch East Indies between New Guinea and the Phillipines. Flying in the P-61 was quite cramped, but it was the only type in which I could film a partner aircraft as it made its attack. I also flew in the PBY-5 Catalina flying boats. The Air Force had some which were used for recovering downed pilots, whereas the Navy mainly used theirs for patrol and shipping strikes.

As the war progressed, we made several moves up the Slot to get nearer the Japanese mainland. By October 1944, we were based at Morotai. Flying from the same base was the 77th Wing of the Royal Australian Air Force's 1st Tactical Air Force. Three squadrons were equipped with the powerful twin-engined Bristol Beaufighter. Designed for the anti-shipping role, it carried four 20mm cannon under the nose and six 50 caliber machine guns in the wings. It was ideal for low-level strikes and much feared by the Japanese who named it "Whispering Death" for its almost silent approach. By this time, Japanese shipping of any size was almost non-existent and the enemy was reduced to using small native vessels, sampans and sailing ships to move supplies around. A short burst of its armament would blast these craft out of the water.

Because they didn't have a combat camera unit, I was assigned to them for a couple of months. I accompanied them on several of their anti-shipping patrols, crouching behind the pilot's seat and filming over his shoulder. They were a hard-drinking, hard-playing crazy bunch, but always ready the next day to gamble with death again. On one mission, we came across a small boat. The occupant stood up and saluted. However, it wasn't flying any flags, which was the rule, so we circled it, fired a short burst and sank it. Another of the more memorable Aussie missions was filming the invasion of Tarakan, in Borneo.

Usually, on any missions in the B-24s, flak was the main opposition we ran into. Some fighters were encountered, mostly in the latter part of the campaign when we were bombing the Celebes. However, due to their critical fuel shortage at that time, most attacks consisted of a single slashing pass through the formation by two or three fighters. It was also the first time that I encountered a new form of interception. The fighters would sweep up and toss phosphorous bombs which would explode just above our squadrons. If a B-24 was unlucky enough to be showered with the phosphorous, it rarely made it home. It was impossible to deal with and would easily burn through the skin and the control wires and rods. I personally saw this happen to a couple of our formation companions.

Just two weeks after the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki I was among the first observation teams to survey the awesome results from the air, which I photographed. Almost everything below was reduced to rubble, although many of the small bridges were still standing. I had seen destruction from artillery and aerial bombardment but that below us was almost total -- and from only one bomb!

When the war ended, I was among some of the earliest brought home after the POWs had been returned. I got out in November 1945, having spent three years without any leave at all in my three years service. I was released from service at Camp Dix, New Jersey, and went back to school. Recalled for the Korean War, I eventually joined the Regular Air Force and served in Germany again -- but that's another story.

In civilian life, I worked as a news cameraman for ABC News and for North American Aviation filming their rocket development test runs in the California desert. The adjacent picture is more like me today, on the cover of International Photographer Magazine.

 

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LELAND W. SVARVERUD, Jr.

BRIEF BIO:

Leland Svarverud was born in Fullerton, CA on February 5, 1921. On September 15, 1942 he was drafted into the Army, at Fort Lewis, WA. He went through Basic Training (22Sep - 15Nov '42) at Sheppard Field near Witchita Falls, KS, and then Glider Mechanic School (- 13May43) at the same field. He was then assigned, as a Glider Mechanic (MOS 559), to the 47th Troop Carrier Squadron, Army Air Corp, at Laurinurg-Maxton AAB in North Carolina. His major WWII operations were in North Africa / Sicily (13May43 - 17Mar44) and the European theater (England, France and Germany) ( - 17Nov45). He was released from active duty at Fort Lewis, WA, on November 17, 1945, with the rank of Sergeant.

On May 27, 1962, in Roseburg, OR, he married Nelda. Together they had three children, David, Hugh and Neil.

HIS STORY:

The war started for me when I was put on active duty at Fort Lewis, WA September 15, 1942. After a week of getting uniforms, medical checks, and paper work completed, a group of us were put on the train headed for Sheppard Field, located near Wichita Falls, Texas. At Sheppard we received basic training and attended a glider mechanic school. The school was to teach us skills to use in the maintenance of the gliders. We learned how to make repairs on fabric and wood and how to solder cables.

Following our schooling and basic training a group of us was sent to Laurinburg-Maxton AAB, located in North Carolina. There I was assigned to the recently formed 47th Troop Carrier Squadron, 313th Troop Carrier Group (a group generally made up of four squadrons), and the 52nd Troop Carrier Wing (could be any number of groups). The 47th had 13 C-47 airplanes (civilian DC-3) and about the same number of CG-4A gliders. The gliders were also known as Waco gliders. The C-47 was a versatile twin-engine airplane that could be adapted for many uses including transporting personnel, equipment, supplies, paratroopers, and wounded and could pull gliders as well. Laurinburg-Maxton AAF Base was to be our training base for the squadron preparatory for overseas duty.

The squadron had approximately 300 men. The enlisted men were assigned to single-story barracks and the officers were billeted in the bachelor officers quarters. We had our own mess hall and headquarters building. The squadron operated as a separate unit and consequently all the chores such as kitchen police (KP) guard duty, latrine duty and supervisory functions had to be carried out by the members of the squadron.

The main functions of the squadron took place on the flight line. This is the area where the airplanes and gliders were parked and most of the maintenance took place. If the airplanes were to fly they would taxi from the flight line to the proper runway for take-off. If the gliders were to be flown they would be towed by a vehicle or tractor to the runway for hookup to the airplane and then the airplane and the glider would take off together.

Each of the gliders had a glider mechanic assigned to it as a crew chief. His responsibility was to take care of the glider, and to fly in it as required. His duties included the repair and maintenance of the glider and preparation for flight. If a flight was planned the crew chief would make a preflight inspection to make sure everything was in working order.

In most cases the crew chiefs flew with their gliders. An exception to this was when the flight included airborne personnel and or equipment, which used all of the space available. The glider was designed to carry 13 airborne personnel and the pilot and co-pilot, or a jeep and two men, or a jeep trailer with a load. Without any other load the glider required 200 pounds of ballast up front to balance the load factor. In this case the crew chief would be a substitute for the ballast. The glider had three trim tab controls which the pilots could adjust for uneven loading but it was better to have the load somewhat balanced if possible.

The procedure that was followed when the gliders were to be flown was to line up the gliders along the end of the runway. Tow ropes would be laid out ready to hook on to the airplane and the glider. Towrope used by the United States were 1/4-inch by 300-foot nylon rope with a D-ring fastened on each end. The rope could stretch to 350 feet, which acted something like a shock absorber. The British used a 1-1/2 inch diameter hemp rope with their Horsa gliders, which was quite bulky compared to the nylon rope.

When the airplane was in position for the take-off, the towrope would be attached to the nose of the glider and the tail of the airplane. The signalman ahead of the airplane would then signal the airplane forward to take up the slack in the towrope. When the slack was taken up he would signal the airplane to take off.

The airplane would move down the runway picking up speed as in a normal takeoff but with the glider towed behind. When the speed reached 60 miles an hour or so the glider would rise from the runway. By this time the airplane would have reached airborne speed and would also rise from the runway. The glider would maintain position above the airplane so as to keep out of the prop wash and air disturbance.

The C-47 pilots could not look back to see what was going on but the crew chief could see a little out of the astrodome on top of the fuselage. There were some attempts at communications between the tow plane and the glider with a phone line attached to the towrope. The pilots also had a walkie-talkie radio. As far as I know neither were very successful.

The flight would then continue in the direction and altitude desired. When the flight was to be concluded the airplane and the glider would be near the landing field and the glider pilot would release the towrope from the glider using a lever inside the cockpit. The glider would suddenly become very still since it was now gliding and not being pulled through the air. Also the airspeed would diminish. The airplane may have been going 125 miles an hour or more and the glider would generally climb after being released, slowing down to a lesser speed. The glider had a redline (maximum) speed limit of 150 mph. The CG-4A glider had a glide ratio of 14 to 1. This meant, for example, that if the glider was one mile high, it could glide a distance of 14 miles.

The next period of the flight was the most crucial as the glider pilot had to plan his glide path knowing there was no "second time around". The gliders were equipped with "spoilers", which were a kind of flap on top of the wing that could be raised or lowered by pulling a lever in the cockpit. The spoilers would break the airflow over the top of the wing and "spoil" the lifting action of the wing, and allow the glider to lose altitude with out so much forward movement. Using the spoilers would allow the pilot to get down quicker and not overrun the runway. Sometimes air conditions were such that the glider would continue to have a lot of lift and the spoilers would help get the glider on the ground.

The airplane would circle around and release the towrope in a designated area before landing. The Towrope would then be retrieved by the glider mechanics for future flights. Following each flight the flight book in the cockpit had to be filled out to keep a record of flying time and any other notations. Flying personnel were paid an extra 50% of their base but had to meet the minimum amount of flying time, which was 4 hours a month. Bad weather and short flights could make this minimum hard to reach.

If there were no more flights scheduled, the gliders would be towed back to the flight line and tied down. Because of the large wing span of the gliders it didn't take very much wind to cause the gliders to flip over or otherwise get damaged, therefore it was important to tie the gliders down. Sometimes this involved digging "deadmen" into the ground for something to tie the ropes to. Also control locks needed to be slipped into the movable control areas to prevent the controls from flapping in the wind and getting damaged.

The CG-4A glider was manufactured at several different places, including the Ford Motor Co., which produced the largest number of the gliders and also at the lowest cost. Another company was a piano manufacturer that could utilize its skills in woodworking on the gliders. All the glider manufacturers were picked so as not to interfere with the production of power planes. A total of 13,909 CG-4A gliders were manufactured during World War II.

The CG-4A had a wingspan of 83.6 feet and a fuselage length of 48 feet. The wings were quite wide to give the glider lots of lift. The cockpit in the nose could be raised so that vehicles and bulky cargo could be loaded and unloaded. The landing gear consisted of a wheel and a strut on each side of the fuselage. There were hydraulic brakes on each wheel controlled by the pilot using the rudder pedals. The brakes could help stop the glider when landing and also help steer the glider on the ground. There were also sled-like runners under the fuselage that could help the glider landing on rough ground. One type of landing gear allowed the axle and wheels to be dropped after take-off, and the glider could then land on the sled-like runners. This would cause an abrupt landing and little opportunity to move out of the way of multiple gliders landing at the same time.

The fuselage was a rigid framework of tubular steel covered with fabric. The passenger and cargo area had a plywood deck that was light in weight but would support a heavy load if evenly distributed. The cockpit area was covered with Plexiglas on the upper portion and plywood and fabric on the bottom portion. The wings and tail sections were mainly plywood construction with a fabric covering. The glider weighed 3,440 pounds and could carry a load of 4,060 pounds. It was a very flyable plane on and off the tow. It could do loops and stalls as well as fly smoothly.

After a period of training the air echelon left for Africa (we found out later) and the ground echelon left from New York by ship. This included the glider personnel. After the ship docked in Casablanca, the air echelon came and picked us up and flew us to our new air base at Oudja, French Morroco. Later we flew back to Casablanca (Caze) to pick up gliders to take back to Oudja.

The squadron later moved to Kairouan, Tunisia, where the C-47s took part in the invasion of Sicily, dropping off paratroopers. There was also a glider drop on Sicily but our gliders were not used. The squadron suffered causalities and airplane damage. Cliff Swearingen, a C-47 crew chief from Drain, Oregon was killed in this action.

My closest experience with disaster in a glider was in Libya during a serial landing training exercise. The pilot had cut loose at a low altitude and was to make a 90 degree turn and land on the strip. We were still turning when the wing went into the sand but the pilot managed to bring it up and flop onto the end of the strip. No one was hurt -- shaky maybe.

During this time in Sicily I was sent to Algiers (Maison Blanc air base) to help assemble gliders that were equipped with an automatic pilot device. It worked by hydraulic pressure from an air driven fan and pump. The controls were actuated by rods that extended out onto the towrope so that when the angle of the towrope changed it would cause the controls to move. As near as I could determine it was not successful.

Following the Sicily invasion I was transferred to another troop carrier squadron nearby and eventually the squadron moved to Gela, Sicily. We were based on several different fields in Sicily before the squadron was moved to England.

The air echelon left Sicily for England stopping at Gibraltar on their way north. The ground echelon left Syracuse (Sicily) by ship to Algiers. There we changed ships for the trip to England. This was a slow trip as we were in a convoy. Twice the destroyers dropped depth charges. We arrived at Liverpool, England on March 17,1944.

In England the squadron was located near Grantham. Shortly thereafter I was sent to Greenham Common air base near Newbury to inspect gliders that were being assembled by a service group. When the glider was assembled it would be towed over to our location where we would inspect it to see that it was airworthy. The glider would then be towed out to a storage area and tied down. The various troop carrier squadrons would fly in and tow the gliders to their respective fields. These gliders were used in the D-Day landings and later in the Holland landings.

Gliders were of questionable military value because making any kind of a safe landing at night and in the right place was very difficult. Landings in the daytime had a much better survival especially when made in smooth pastureland, as in Holland, compared to D-Day landings made at night and in hedgerows and trees.

After the war ended in Europe I was transferred to a troop carrier squadron located at Melun, France. This squadron was being deactivated and in a short time I was in a large replacement depot at San Quentin, France. From there it was to several locations in Germany and then back to England. In November I left England bound for the United States on the Queen Mary. We flew from Camp Kilmer, New Jersey to Boeing Field, Seattle. I was discharged at Fort Lewis November 17,1945.

 

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