Robert Emmett Dethlefsen, U.S. Army Air Corps
Created 8-17-07
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Mr. Dethlefsen was kind enough to write about his WWII experiences and share them with us. Thanks Bob!
World War II Experience
The story begins on November 6, 1940, my twentieth birthday. Some months
earlier, almost overnight, I had suddenly acquired an overpowering urge to
become a pilot in the Army Air Corps. Although I was an avid model builder,
using scrap wood and plans of WW1 airplanes from the Sunday "Funnies", I had
only seen an airplane on the ground once. That was when a friend and I, both 13,
hiked across the San Francisco Presidio to Crissy Field just to see some old
Jennies. It was an exhausting all day hike but the soldiers gave us such a
welcome I can remember it to this day. But it is too long ago for me to remember
just what motivated me to be an aviator. Since the earliest that the Army would
accept an application for Flying Cadet training was my 20th birthday, I showed
up at 8:00 AM at the recruiting office on that day. With application completed,
I was given an appointment for a physical examination at Hamilton Army Airfield
in Marin County. This was my first experience with a comprehensive physical and
my flying career almost ended there. As an orderly was drawing blood I became
faint from watching and nearly passed out. "Don't faint now, don't faint
now--you're finished if you do" he exclaimed and somehow managed to calm me
down. The next step was with the Flight Surgeon and once again, it was a close
call. Everything was fine physically except the "Schneider Test". Never did know
for sure, but it was some kind of a blood pressure reading that seemed to be
important at the time but was nevertheless abandoned some months later. Probably
because not enough people were passing! In any case I was flunking and the
Doctor thought it best that I go home and come back for another go at it the
next day. Of course that is what I did but after a two hour drive home, no sleep
that night, and a two hour drive back the next morning, there wasn't any
improvement. The Doctor kept assuring me that I was perfect in every other way
and that I was "IN", no matter what, but he wanted the Schneider to be perfect
also. I sensed by now that he had taken a liking to me and was doing his very
best to do all that he could for me. Early on, he had tested me with a riddle
that he presented to each of his applicants. I came up with the correct answer
almost immediately, which pleased him immensely, as he claimed that almost no
one got it right the first try. I spent the entire day lying on a cot trying to
relax but every time he made a move to check the blood pressure, it again went
out of sight. So, it was home again, another sleepless night and back again the
next morning. By this time it was Saturday and I am definitely not very
optomistic about my chances. However, the Doctor decided that enough is enough,
announced that my Schneider reading was satisfactory, and moved on to the final
step--satisfying a three man board that I was really what they were looking for.
My only problem here was convincing them that I really did want to be a pilot
since there was nothing in my background that indicated that I was aviation
minded. Here again the Flight Surgeon spoke on my behalf and because it was
approaching 12 noon, quitting time, I was finally accepted. Accepted as a
candidate for Flying Cadet training that is.
The weeks and months that followed seemed to go on forever. An occasional letter
from the War Department gave me some comfort in that they were still "thinking
about me". But in early April the news finally arrived that I had been selected
for assignment to the May 1941 class and I was to be enlisted as a Flying Cadet.
My worries, however, were not over. My closest friend, dating back to Jr. High
School days, also having a keen desire to be a military pilot, and also being a
bit older than I, had already failed to pass the physical exam for both Army and
Navy flight training. Knowing that he would soon be drafted, he did a bit of
research and, early in 1940, had convinced me that in order to stay together we
should both apply for a Navy radio school, the exact nature of which I don't
remember. We went to the recruiting office on a slow day I guess, because they
were able to process us both at the same time. The net result was that an hour
later he had again failed the physical, and I had been enlisted as an Apprentice
Seaman. The only consolation was that I was not scheduled to attend the Navy
school for well over six months. So, here I am, soon to be inducted into the
Army and already in the Navy. A trip to Navy headquarters didn't get me very
far--sure they would give me a discharge but only after being assured that I had
been accepted by the Army. All the Army would say was that yes, I was a
candidate, but as of then there was no assurance of anything. In any case it was
no secret to either service as to my status so I was prepared to take my chances
and hope for the best. After all, a Commander had said to me "son, if you can
fly an airplane, we sure don't want you swabbing a deck".
The big day finally arrived and after a first time away from home goodbye to my
family, I headed out for either the country club or the brig. There was quite a
crowd at the recruiting office, where the swearing in was to take place, but
only one other potential flying ace. No time was wasted lining us up and getting
those right hands raised, there was a slight pause and my name was called, a
paper was handed to me and the oath was immediately given. The paper was my
discharge from the Navy! To this day it is one of my most cherished possessions.
Cal-Aero Academy
The other newly inducted Flying Cadet, Ed Boyle, and I quickly became friends
and decided to travel together in my 1937 Ford Convertible. Although it was a
350 mile trip from San Francisco to Ontario, California we arrived at Cal-Aero
Academy late that afternoon. We were immediately overwhelmed by the greeting we
received and what appeared to be a genuine show of welcome. That is until we
drove through the gate, parked the car and stepped out. That is when the hazing
began, and didn't slow down for the next six weeks. Hazing is somewhat the same
wherever it goes on so there is no need to go into detail but, even to this day,
I have never fully understood what is to be accomplished by grown men treating
other grown men like some kind of animal. Although I never even considered the
thought of quitting there were times when I almost wished that I might fail,
just to get a little peace!
There was, and is, little doubt in my mind that we had been assigned to the
country club of flying schools. The buildings, hangars and airplanes were all
new and in immaculate condition-the best the Army had to offer. There were two
men to a room in a single level, motel like, setting. Although the school was a
civilian operation with civilian instructors and employees, and we wore a
distinctive uniform, there was a small group of army officers who really ran the
show. The Commanding Officer was then Capt Robert L. Scott, later to gain fame
as the author of "God Is My Co-Pilot".
Although life was very difficult for the first few weeks, we did have the
weekends off and, after the first two weeks, were allowed to leave the base on
Saturday and Sunday. The routine was alternate morning ground school and
afternoon flying, beginning almost from day one with very little free time. Even
though I had never even seen an airplane close up before, I have no remembrance
of my first flight. But, I do remember the second flight. Of course, the second
thing to be learned, after getting off the ground, is how to get back down again
in one piece. After only my second or third attempt, I proceeded to ground-loop.
Well, the instructor was the first to say that he was to blame for allowing it
to happen but the fact remained, I was the pilot and it was now a part of my
record. It might be well to explain that I was flying the famed Stearman
airplane which was notorious for being a ground-looper. What happens is that as
the airplane slows down it is easy to lose directional control resulting in a
gentle, but unrelenting turn to one side or the other and, in the process, drags
the outer wing tip along the ground. Aside from the wingtip, the only injury is
to the pride. Since the airplane is fabric covered, with a piece of linen and a
pot of varnish the airplane is back in service within a couple of hours. After
10 hours and 53 minutes of instruction, not bad considering I had never been in
an airplane before, the instructor climbed out and waved me on. A few minutes
later, after a couple of landings alone, he waved me in and I had survived the
first hurdle.
For awhile life was once again good. Ground school was not difficult and
required little or no homework. With the weekends free, the whole of Southern
California was at our doorstep. Within a short distance there were two bona-fide
country clubs that gave us welcome to share their facilities and their
daughters. The famed beaches were not that far away as were the many nightclubs
and dancehalls of the big band era. Since Cal-Aero was both a primary and basic
school, the only such civilian school of its kind, there were actually four
classes in progress at the same time, resulting in four graduation parties while
I was there, and all of them generously sprinkled with Hollywood personalities,
no doubt in some small way attracted by then Major Scott. Although Ed Boyle and
I became good friends, we were not roommates. Everything in the Army was
organized either alphabetically or by height and in this case, Company, Platoon
and Squad was by height. Ed was somewhat the taller. My roommate was Thomas C.
(Corky) Wortham, a real gentleman, albeit from Texas, from whom I learned a
great deal. We remained good friends and roommates all the way through until
final graduation from advanced flying school.
Back to the flying. About a week or so after soloing, with ten or fifteen
landings behind me, I somehow managed to ground-loop. That was good for a laugh
and a gold star, my second, on the ground-loop chart on the mess-hall wall. That
was on a Monday with nothing but blue skies the rest of the week. The following
Monday I did it again! This time I expected the axe to fall but, again, no one
concerned except me. The instructor rode with me on Tuesday and was pleased with
my performance. Wednesday started out as a bright and shiny day but late in the
afternoon the wind came up like it often does in that area, there is a special
name for it that escapes me at the moment, and I was out in the wild blue
yonder. When I returned to the aerodrome there was one Stearman upside down
right in the middle of the field and two others that obviously ground-looped. I
didn't stand a chance and up went my fourth star. That did it! Now the axe WAS
about to fall. An hour with the Flight Commander the next day accomplished
nothing, and another hour the following day with an Army Lieutenant ended up
with the same result--every landing was a potential disaster. Each of these men
insisted that, given a little more time, they would have me back on course, but
the allowable time was limited, and I was scheduled for a "Wash Ride". This was
just a formality, where an Army check pilot substantiated the fact that you were
sub standard before they kicked you out. No one ever survived a Wash Ride. For
reasons that I no longer remember, not ground loops, my buddy Ed was also
scheduled for a Wash Ride on the same day. We thought it over and decided that
we would talk to the Canadians who hung around outside the front gate waiting to
recruit failures like us for their Air Force. Just being accepted for US flight
training was good enough for them. I don't really know if any check pilot was
any better or any worse than any other check pilot but I, at least, drew the one
with the worst reputation. was first and off we went. I never did have any
problem with take-offs so I got it off the ground and circled to land. As the
wheels touched the ground I must have received a message from somewhere--the
landing was a greaser. So we give it the gun and go around again--another
greaser. This time we went out to the practice area where I showed off a little
air work. Not bad considering the fact that most of my time until now was taken
up trying to land in one piece. After the third satisfactory landing, I gave it
the gun and started to go around again, when he grabbed the controls, stormed
back to the line, got out of the airplane muttering "what in the hell am I
riding with you for" and walked away. I have never scratched an airplane since.
Ed Boyle ended up in the Canadian Air Force. For the next few weeks, until
completion of Primary, I counted not the number of hours left to fly but, the
number of landings I would have to make. All went well and the day finally
arrived when I could bid the Stearman farewell and move on to the Basic
Training. Life once again became worth living and, as I remember very few
details, the flying must have gone well. One incident does standout however.
Since I had my own car, on one week-end I asked for permission to drive to, and
spend one night, in San Francisco. Permission was necessary for travel in excess
of fifty miles from the base. For whatever reason, the Lieutenant I spoke to
insisted that I take two days and return on Monday. That particular Monday was a
holiday but not for us and, when I returned, all hell broke loose. Even though I
had a legitimate pass I was considered just short of AWOL, and the Commandant of
Cadets was ready to throw me out. When I went to the Lieutenant who had given me
the pass, he said, in so many words, that this was a good time to learn that
Lieutenants don't take the rap for cadets! Even though I was a cadet officer and
all the senior officers went to bat for me, I was confined to the base for the
rest of my stay at Cal-Aero and awarded a huge number of demerits. Up until that
time I had accumulated only the two mandatory demerits that are given on the
first or second day just to show you who's boss. From then on, it got a bit
lonely on the weekends, as I sat in my room working off demerits. Normally, one
hour of walking wipes out one demerit. But as an officer it changed to two hours
of room confinement for each demerit. In this case there were simply not enough
hours left, before graduation, to sit them all off. So, after everyone else had
gone home, they let me revert to walking in front of headquarters until my debt
was paid. A day later, I was finished and off to Stockton Army Airfield for
advanced training.
Stockton Army Airfield
Life at Stockton was like a whole new world. Apparently the Army decided that it
was no longer necessary to treat us like children and we were now able to
concentrate completely on the job at hand. Ground school and flying continued
but in a much more relaxed atmosphere and we were now flying the real thing- the
North American AT-6. Formation, cross-country, high altitude and, everybody's
favorite, the "rat race". This consisted of the instructor finding some huge
cumulus clouds and then trying to lose the students that were following, while
weaving in and out, up and down and roundabout. We had full weekends off and,
with San Francisco less than a hundred miles away, I was able to go home almost
any time. Officially, we were to graduate on December 12, 1941 so just about
every phase of training was completed by the previous Friday, December 5., and I
was at home on the "Day of Infamy", December 7. In fact, it was just after
leaving church and turning on my car radio that I first heard the news of Pearl
Harbor. Graduation Day arrived on schedule and, sure enough, I had finally made
it--a 2nd Lieutenant-Pilot in the US Army Air Corps!
Reno December 1941
There was time for one big weekend in San Francisco and a chance to show-off!
But that didn't last long and then the big question was "where do we go from
here"? Earlier, there had been some backdoor recruitment for the Flying Tigers
but, now that the US was in the war, that came to a halt. Nothing much happened
for a few days and then the orders began to come through. How they decided who
went where was anyone's guess but, in my case, I couldn't have been more
delighted. My orders, along with 5 others, read, in essence, Report to the
Commanding Officer, Air Corps Technical Training Detachment, Reno Airport, Reno,
Nevada, for the purpose of undergoing instruction in multi-motors at the Boeing
School of Aeronautics thereat. The reporting time was to be no later than 09:00
AM, December 21. By this time I had taken delivery of a brand new 1942 Plymouth
convertible, one of the last to be delivered before production switched to
strictly military vehicles. A red convertible makes for instant popularity so it
was no surprise that three others offered to join me for the move to Reno. We
left Stockton late in the afternoon December 19 and it wasn't too long before I
was experiencing my first time behind the wheel, driving over snow covered
roads. Luck was with us as one of the gang proclaimed that he was from Colorado
where this kind of driving conditions was an every day occurrence. So, he took
over and, instead of me, became responsible for driving off the road and getting
stuck in a snow-bank. No harm done but we did have to wait until daybreak for a
road clearing crew to pull us out. The big surprise came when we showed up at
the Reno airport and discovered that there was no Commanding Officer and no Air
Corps Detachment! For some reason that now escapes me, we checked in at the El
Cortez Hotel which was at that time one of Reno's newest and finest. And, it
turned out, that is exactly where we were supposed to be. The Boeing School of
Aeronautics was really a part of United Airlines and United was running the
show. Rooms had not only been booked for us but the one week of ground school
associated with this operation was conducted right at the hotel, and the hotel
charged us the magnificent sum of $3.00 per day--what was at that time a 2nd
Lt's quarters allowance. So, here we were, six 2nd Lts with wings, in Reno where
they hadn't even seen a soldier yet, four days before Christmas. To top it off,
some of Reno's most prominent families were to entertain us throughout the
holidays. So for the one and only time in my life, I ate Christmas dinner using
silverware from Tiffany.
As it turned out, the only member of the Army on sight was a Sergeant who kept
the records. There were two ground school instructors from United Airlines who
kept us busy for the first week but, somehow, failed to convince us that the
nights in Reno were meant to study aircraft systems. Then some UAL line pilots
showed up and became instant instructors. The first 25 hours of flying were
accomplished in a Boeing 247, a 14 passenger, 2 engine airliner. That was
followed by another 25 hours in a DC-3, the 21 passenger queen of the skies. It
was all a mix of day, night and instrument flying crammed into a three week
period when the normal Reno weather is not so great. When not flying we were
completely free to wander around Reno wearing winter flying jacket and boots
with cap tipped at the appropriate angle. With nearby university sororities and
our holiday hosts, there was no lack of company. It all came to an end however,
when, at the appointed time a Captain Callish showed up, gave us all a check
ride and signed us off as 2-engine pilots. The Party was over.
Jackson Army Airbase
Now it was on to the big time, next stop Jackson Army Airbase, Mississippi. On
our arrival, the base appeared to be almost deserted, the former occupants, a
B-26 Group having departed for duty in the South Pacific. A small cadre had been
left behind as the nucleus for a new group with a full Colonel (Robert D. Knapp)
and three or four Lt. Colonels as the only pilots. New airplanes soon began to
arrive from the factory but, after just a few hours of instruction, the entire
fleet of B-26s was grounded except for a flight back to the factory for
modification of the wings. After too many losses by Ferry pilots, it had been
determined that they were just too hot for fledgling pilots to handle. This left
only an old B-18, a derivative of the DC-3, for us to fly while we awaited the
B-25s that would be our final aircraft. There were also on the field a number of
Lockheed Ventura's which were being delivered to the British by civilian pilots,
when the US entered the war. Washington eventually decided that those airplanes
were needed for coastal patrol and that they should be ferried to McChord Field
in Washington. The Colonel decided that he would deliver one of these, and took
me along as co-pilot. Not really "co-pilot" as the Ventura was meant to be flown
by only one pilot, but I think he wanted company and, at the same time could
give me some training. We actually started our westbound trip by flying to
Myrtle Beach, on the east coast, where a new gunnery range was being put
together for use by the B-25s that were soon to come. After inspecting that
site, we headed west and made an overnight stop in Little Rock, Arkansas. This
part is a bit hazy but I do remember that, since the Colonel had previously been
a top Air Corps commander in the Arkansas National Guard, we were very well
treated by local natives and stayed in some pretty fancy surroundings. Then, it
was on to North Island NAS, San Diego, for whatever reason that again escapes
me. There are only two things that remain fixed in my memory. One, somewhere
over the Midwest I got airsick for the first and only time in my life--probably
a result of too much of the good life in Little Rock. The second thing involved
flying. Early on Colonel Knapp, who was beginning to act more and more like my
father, decided that I needed the experience of flying the Ventura more that he
did. And experience like none I have had since, is what it was. Although
directional control on the ground was normally maintained by use of the rudders,
braking was done by pulling back on a handle similar to an old-fashioned auto
emergency brake. The handle was on the pilot's right side, so it was necessary
to use the right hand for that and cross over with the left hand to work the
throttles. Any lingering thoughts remaining from my not too distant
ground-looping days, were quickly dispelled. Before the trip was completed I had
become a certified Ventura pilot. One more incident I can still remember. On one
occasion, while I was the pilot, I made a move to switch fuel tanks from one
that was running low to a full tank. Col. Knapp suggested that I wait a bit
longer, until that tank was closer to empty and, of course, I waited. In fact, I
waited (forgot?) a bit longer than he had anticipated and suddenly both engines
sputtered and quit. Fortunately he was experienced enough to get them going
again, all the while letting me know in no uncertain terms what an idiot I was
for letting the fuel tank run dry. A quiet half hour late, as the sun sank
slowly in the west, a rarity occurred, a full Colonel apologized to a 2nd Lt.!
After leaving the aircraft at McChord AAF, Tacoma, WA, we boarded a train for
the long trip back to Jackson. From here on I was on my own. Although we were on
the same train, Col Knapp pretty much preferred to travel in the club car,
unaccompanied by the 2nd Lt, and that was fine with me. I finally had a chance
to relax! Not much had changed during the two weeks that we had been gone, no
new airplanes but there had been some new pilot arrivals. I was assigned duty as
Mess Officer, and I had an office, but I don't believe I ever did anything
except sign papers that a Sgt put in front of me and inspect the kitchen every
morning to make sure that it was still there. I did get to see a bit of the
countryside and learned that the Civil War was still in progress but everything
changed when the sun went down. Seemed like the major hotels and night spots of
Jackson were not aware that Mississippi was a "dry" state, as long as you
brought your own bottle. The state line was not that far away and it was no
secret as to where the bottles could be found. All the while we were
participating in one training exercise after another but still no new airplanes
and only an occasional flight.
One day the Col called me to his office and said that he had an assignment for
me. The Commanding General of the 3rd AF, in Miami or Tampa, I don't remember
which needed, a pilot to fly his C-47 and, since I was qualified in the DC-3,
essentially the same airplane, it looked like a good move for me. As we talked,
or should I say as he talked and I listened, his mood slowly changed and before
long he was telling me that it would not do my career any good and to forget it.
I'm sure that he was right. A few days later. I along with nine other pilots
received order to report to Columbia AAF, South Carolina for duty as pilot,
B-25. I never saw Col Knapp again but certainly have never forgotten him. He,
and the classmates I left behind, made a name for themselves in North Africa and
Italy and Col Knapp was made a General.
Columbia Army Airbase
Columbia, SC, must have been place where the term "military town" originated!
Aside from the air base which was huge, there was nearby Ft Jackson, which
seemed to be home of just about every other branch of the Army. One trip
downtown was enough to make one wish that the practice of saluting had never
been invented. Even a 2nd Lt reached the point where "enough is enough". But now
it became clear that there really was a war going on and it would not belong
before we would be taking a real part in it.
Although I was not aware of it at the time, A B-25 Group had been split in half,
one of which under the command of Jimmy Doolittle had gone to Eglin Field to
train for an unspecified mission. The remaining half, of which I became a part,
was reformed and began training for "Mission X". The initial group consisted of
10 aircraft each with a crew of six. That would be Pilot, Co-pilot, Navigator,
Bombardier, Radio-Gunner and Engineer-Gunner. The eldest, the pilot, was 24
years of age, 2 classes ahead of me in flying school, and had a very limited
number of hours flying time. The rest of has had no experience other than that
acquired at school. The next few weeks consisted of heavy duty flying. Daytime,
nighttime, cross-country, bombing practice and gunnery practice. The only thing
that stands out from that period is that the Navigator was always lost, and we
invariably had to rely on radio fixes or just plain looking out the window for
something that showed on the map. And then it came time to leave.
We were given one day to make final preparations, and sworn to the strictest
secrecy were allowed to make a couple of telephone calls to family and, in my
case, a girl I longed for in Reno. I also arranged to leave my car where it
could eventually be picked-up by my two brothers who made the 3000 mile trip
from San Francisco. The next day 10 B-25 aircraft and crews departed for West
Palm Beach, Florida which was to be our final staging area before heading into
the unknown.
While the airplanes were being outfitted with long range fuel tanks and given an
extensive servicing, we had a night on the town and a couple of days to see the
sight. On the third day we were given a serious briefing as to what we might
expect en route to South America and we were given a shakedown inspection.
Although the airplanes were considered combat ready, even to the point of having
a full load of ammunition for the guns, we were very much limited as to the
personal belongings we could carry. With sealed orders in hand, not to be opened
until after take-off, and a flight plan for Trinidad, away we went, each of the
10 airplanes on its own. The date was May 3, 1942, destination Karachi, India.
Trinidad-Belem-Natal.
The pre-flight briefing we had been given pertained primarily to the weather
conditions that we were likely to encounter. A great deal of stress was put on
the fact that there was a stationery front that lie across our path to South
America, that could not be avoided. It was too wide to circumvent and, since it
ranged from sea level to 25 or 30 th0usand feet, there was no going over or
under. So the advice was to put your head down, hang on and drive through.
Numerous aircraft had gone through before us and there had been no reported
losses. It should be pointed out however, that these had been flown by
experienced Ferry pilots and navigators who had been around a bit longer than we
had. We were to be the very first B-25s to be flown by combat crews through
South America and across the South Atlantic. In any case, when we reached the
front, which was right where it was supposed to be, our boy decided that he
would find an unobstructed way through! Up, down, right and left, we tried them
all but the only thing we accomplished was to get the Navigator totally
disoriented. In the end we did what we should have done in the first place, we
ploughed on through. That was the wildest, roughest, toughest, scariest ride I
have ever had, to this day, in an airplane. The rain rained, the hail hailed and
the lightening flashed. The instrument panel shook so badly we could not read
the gauges, but with both of us hanging on to the steering wheel we managed to
stay reasonably upright and, just as the man said, we broke out in the clear on
the other side. If there had ever been any doubt about how well a B-25 was put
together that doubt had been dispelled. Even heavily overloaded as we were, I
don't think we popped a single rivet. And Krazy Glue had yet to be invented! Of
course we had zigged and zagged so many times, that the Navigator didn't have
the vaguest notion as to where we now were. In his defense it must be said that
he had only recently completed navigation training, and without following the
headings he gave us, we were asking him to guide us half way around the world.
At this point we began to understand why we had left Florida at 02:00 AM. As the
sun came up we were approaching the coast of South America and were able to
revert to the old tried and true method of navigating, reading a map. Without
too much searching we found what appeared to be the proper airfield in Trinidad,
and completed the first leg.
That night, after rest, fuel and aircraft servicing, we again headed south for
Belem. No weather problems but again it took some concentrated map reading to
find the place, even though it was on the coast. After fuel and food, we headed
south to Natal, Brazil, our final pause before the "big hop" across the
Atlantic. Natal was a large staging area for all types of aircraft and crews
enroute to Africa and it was here that final preparations were made and
briefings given to our group of 10, assembled together for the first time. The
flight across the Atlantic was to be non-stop to Roberts Field in Liberia.
Although Ascension Island has existed for some thousands of years, it certainly
was not equipped with an airfield at that time and none of us had ever heard of
it. Each airplane and crew was to go its own way, taking off at different times
with no communication between us for the roughly 10 hour flight to Liberia.
Across the South Atlantic
Shortly before midnight May 6, 1942 B-25 41-12513 took off from Natal, Brazil
headed in the general direction of Africa. There were the standard fuel tanks in
the wings, an additional tank in the bomb bay and yet another in the crawlway to
the bombardiers compartment. Should have been enough fuel to get us to
anywhere--and back. It was a dark night but our spirits were high as we felt
that, finally, we were aimed in the right direction. A jug of very black
Brazilian coffee kept us wide awake for quite awhile but what really woke us up
was the sight of a burning ship far below. While we excitedly pondered who, what
and why this was happening so far south in the Atlantic, it slowly became clear.
The moon was just beginning to rise and we were seeing the reflection on the
water. As we droned along every thing seemed to be going as planned. The
radioman was in contact with Wright-Patterson, the navigator periodically gave
us a fix, and with no auto-pilot on these early B-25s it was necessary that one
or the other of the pilots be at the controls constantly. Then, shortly before
dawn, the bubble burst. The navigator owned up to the fact that he didn't know
where we were and hadn't known for some time. Well, no matter, so what else is
new! But this time there was something new---with only a very large ocean below
us, the map didn't do us much good. But, we still had a good bit of fuel and
Africa would be pretty hard to miss. About this time, the bombardier decided
that he was also a navigator and sort of took over for a time. Before long, the
pilot, the navigator and the bombardier took turns telling me which way to steer
and it was beginning to look a bit shaky. As I claimed to know essentially
nothing about navigation, I did the driving while they argued about which
direction to try next. As we zigged and zagged once again, it soon became quite
clear to me that we were in serious trouble and stood a good chance of ending up
in the drink. Ending up in the drink, in the South Atlantic in May of 1942 would
have been the end of the line-PERIOD. That was not my plan so I decided to get
into the act. It stood to reason that constantly changing course was not a good
thing to be doing. Since we did not know whether we were north, south, east or
west of where we would like to be, it seemed our best chance was to take a 45
degree course and hope that land showed up before we hit the water. The fuel
remaining soon became seriously low and we began to think about, and prepare
for, ditching. No matter how indestructible the B-25 seemed to be, it's
designers had never taken into consideration how well it would float. As far as
the eye could see, low clouds stretched in every direction so it became
necessary to descend to just above the waves if we were to see any great
distance ahead. But then, there it was, without a doubt, land showing up through
the clouds ahead. But we still had a long way to go and the fuel gauges were all
essentially reading ZERO. It was hard for me to believe but the suggestion was
even considered that we now actually try to find Roberts Field. That idea faded
quickly when it was decided that a controlled landing on the beach was far
superior to running out of fuel and perhaps going down in the jungle. It
appeared that we were approaching the land at a rather shallow angle so with a
bit of a turn we made a landfall much more quickly, and soon were able to line
up with straight stretch of beach. The plan was to belly in with the gear up
but, as we got a better look at our "airstrip", I could see that there was a
grassy border which offered the good possibility of a satisfactory gear down
landing. With no time for discussion, down went the gear, locked in place a
split second before touchdown. It was a good landing-not perfect-too long and
too fast. The trees ahead came up too soon and braking was necessary. This
brought the nose down while still moving at a pretty good speed, causing the
nose wheel to dig in and the gear to collapse. The glass bombardier's station
had been crunched to about half size and both propellors were curled back. But
we were safely on the ground with no physical injuries. We had been in the air
almost exactly 12 hours.
On the Beach
Of course the first question was where in Africa are we and how safe are we? It
didn't take long to find out. Within a very few minutes a couple of men came
running towards us and, since they had a smattering of English, we learned that
we were at the southern tip of Liberia, approximately 140 miles south of our
intended destination. Just a few more degrees to the right and we surely would
have ended up well short of land. Shortly thereafter, an English missionary
arrived on the scene, and assured us that even though we were many miles from
nowhere, we were perfectly safe. Since this was on the normal route between
Roberts Field and Accra, and since the radioman did manage to get the word to
someone, he really didn't know who, that we were about to go down on the beach,
we were spotted from the air that afternoon. Although the traffic could not be
considered heavy, each aircraft that circled to have a look sent the word deeper
into the bush and, by sundown, there was a solid mass of jabbering humanity
surrounding us. As the darkness took over, the crowd seemed to melt away and the
"mumbo-mumbo-mumbo" slowly subsided. But, at the crack of dawn, there they were,
back again in even greater numbers. There were four or five men who had served
in the Merchant Marine and that spoke English reasonably well so, we "hired"
them as guards. This was more to keep the crowd back than anything else. Because
it rained for five minutes every hour and because a B-25 was not designed for
comfort, finding a place to relax or sleep was almost impossible. To top it off,
we had ejected the top hatch over the pilot's compartment just before landing,
and then couldn't find it, a hundred trips up and down the each,
notwithstanding. There was one spirits lifting incident that must be mentioned.
The pilot of one of the first Pan-Am planes to give us the once over, wrapped a
message around a can of corned-beef and dropped in right in our lap. His message
told of the US victory at Wake Island he offered congratulations for our
successful
beach landing.
One of the aircraft that circled the first day was a Pan-American Grumman "Duck"
that was used primarily to transfer passengers from the their Clipper landing
site to Roberts Field where they continued their journey via DC-3 or C-47. A
message was dropped stating that there was a river not far from us and that they
would return the next afternoon to pick up the two "worst off" or, the pilot and
navigator. The Duck was back on schedule the next day, brought some halfway
decent food, said he would be back when his schedule would permit, and departed
with pilot and navigator. He did come back again the next day and left with the
bombardier and engineer. Meanwhile for lack of something better to do and
anticipating the day that we might try getting the airplane off the beach, I
"hired" some more of the locals to lift up the nose and turn it around. This was
not an easy task to be done on a beach with a distinct language problem to boot
but somehow we managed to get it done. Although I did have plenty of US money,
it wasn't much good to these people and how to pay them was going to be a
problem. As clamor for payment got louder, someone, perhaps the missionary
suggested sending some dollars to someplace where it could be converted to local
coinage. This was done by ocean-going canoe. It took two days and they brought
back what was the equivalent of $40 in pennies! Now however, there was a real
problem. How much is owed to whom? So the Paramount Chief of the village set up
a table at which he, I, and the missionary sat. The locals didn't want the
missionary to participate because they were afraid they wouldn't be able to
cheat as much--he understood their language. Each person who had a claim
presented himself and after describing what he had done, the Chief decided what
should be proper payment. This took quite some time and as the line didn't seem
to get any shorter, I began to worry that the box of coins would empty too soon.
However, this was not the time for our luck to give out, and sure enough the
last coin went to the last man in line. The Chief was more than happy to accept
US $3 as was a fellow I had used as an interpreter.
The Duck did not show up on the 4th day so it was not until day 5 that the
radioman and I were finally restored to something approaching the good life.
This time they brought down a repair crew with tools and spare parts, tents,
food and whatever else to make it a real picnic at the beach. When I arrived at
Roberts Field the big question was, can the aircraft be made to fly again. With
my limited years and experience there was little I could offer. But with the
regular rain and the proximity of a salt water ocean, I felt that I could see
the corrosion going on before my eyes, and had strong doubts. In any case, new
props were hung, the nose wheel braced (could not be retracted so it would be a
gear down flight), canvas over the greenhouse and with a bit of fuel loaded one
month later it was ready to go. The pilot and I were returned to the scene to
give it a go. Small trees were laid in a row and the tires were slightly
flattened to help us get started. We started to roll and after a few zigs and a
few zags we appeared to be on our way. But no, about that time the pilot's
better judgment told him to abort, resulting in another nose wheel collapse, two
more bent props and the greenhouse shoved back another foot.
On my walk back to the river, I never looked back and never saw 513 again. We
then, along with the navigator, were sent on to Accra, Gold Coast, to await
further orders. The remainder of the crew had long since moved on looking for
the action. There was really nothing for us to do while we had been waiting at
Roberts but with the help of the local Firestone Rubber Plantation Supervisor,
we did some sight-seeing in and around Monrovia, the capitol of the country.
Almost daily one or more airplanes of every variety would come through on their
way east, and we would be brought up to date on the news. On the same day that
we had left Natal, three other B-25s also departed, one of which also became
disoriented (lost) and managed to find an airfield north of Liberia, and landed
in Vichy French territory. That crew was interned for almost a year. Some time
later, a year or more, I ran into someone who claimed to have first hand
knowledge of the final outcome of our disaster. It had taken almost six months
but the plane had again been repaired, this time properly. Then, it took more
time to find a couple of pilots willing to give it a second go. They did get off
the ground and were half way to Roberts when the engines gave out. They went
down in the jungle and although there were some serious injuries both men
survived. If there was any salvage of parts I believe it was done by local
Liberians. The question now was, do we continue our journey east or, return to
the US for another airplane. While the folks that make that kind of decision
debated we were sent on to Accra, Gold Coast to await further orders.
El Geneina, Darfur, Anglo-Egyptian Sudan
Stopping at Takoradi along the way, we arrived at Accra on the 5th of June,
transportation provided by PAA-Africa Ltd Airways. The US Army airbase at Accra
was huge. Everything that arrived on the west coast of Africa either by air or
sea, was funneled through here to the rest of Africa, the middle east and all
the way to India and China. It was truly a 24 hour a day operation servicing,
what seemed like every type of aircraft ever built. For us however, nothing.
First days and then weeks went by with no word from Washington--no further
orders. We did some sight-seeing, but mostly eat, sleep and dawdle away our
time, until one day a Major came up with a job for us. A ship would be arriving
shortly with a load of P-40s destined for Cairo and service in North Africa. The
trip across the middle of Africa would require refueling at a couple of
airfields where no US Army personnel were based and thus no one to report their
arrival and departure. So, after a crash course in how to operate a code
machine, a not very sophisticated gadget, I was sent to El Geneina, Anglo
Egytian Sudan, with the title of Control Officer. Here was an airfield, operated
by the RAF, inhabited by Pan-Am personnel servicing all types of American
aircraft, with all except RAF living in a BOAC Guest House. It was intended to
be only a refueling stop but, early on, the word had gotten around that
Francois, the PAA chef, had been head chef at one of the finest bistros in
Paris. This sometimes resulted in more overnight stays because of "mechanical
difficulties" than the place could handle. Dinner was often served in three
shifts and those of us at the bottom of the totem pole sometimes wondered why
Francois had such a great reputation. Presumably, the P-40s would have completed
their crossing within a week, or perhaps two weeks at the most and I would then
be recalled to Accra or, better yet, sent on my way to war-wherever that might
be.
The P-40s came and went, but no new orders came for me. Instead, more US Army
people began to arrive. A weather officer with two EMs were the first to arrive,
followed shortly by a Communications Officer with two or three EMs. Before long
a bunch of construction workers showed up and before long they had built a
concrete block building with living quarters and offices for US personnel. Weeks
were going by and every time I asked to be relieved I was told to sit tight,
further orders would be coming. Then one day I got the word. Pan Am's one year
contract to operate the route across Africa was coming to a close and the US
Army was taking over, with me now in charge of the El Geneina operation. the
only problem was that, even though there were now, weather people,
communications people and mechanics, there was no one to run the cargo handling
and aircraft dispatching operation. The Pan Am people quit working as of
midnight on the appointed day even though they were receiving orders, relayed
through me, that they were to continue performing their usual duties until
relieved. The Pan Am station manager took the stance-We do not take orders from
the US Army. It took a few days, with pilots refusing to leave without a weight
manifest, until they fully understood that the would not get one from me, but I
eventually convinced my new boss, a Colonel in Cairo, that his orders were being
ignored. The next morning, the first airplane from the east arrived with the
Colonel on board. He requested that all Pan Am personnel be assembled in my
office. After introducing himself, he produced a book containing the Article of
War, which he proceeded to read, emphasizing the section that, in effect, states
that any US citizen, in a war zone, that refuses to follow orders is guilty of
treason. When he asked who now wished to return to their normal duties, the
response was 100% affirmative.
The traffic through El Geneina was not heavy. An average day might see 3 or 4
C-47s, maybe a few assorted BOAC, RAF and an occasional US Army stray. It left a
lot of time for seeing the local area which was not very extensive. Probably the
only thing that had ever caused the airfield to be built was Geneina Fort. This
was straight out of a Beau Geste movie lacking only a Clark Gable or Errol
Flynn. It was built of stone, with corner blockhouses and a small town within
its walls. In command were two "Bimbashi", with the rank of Major in the British
Army. If such a thing is possible, 11 miles from the geographical center of
Africa, they lived in splendor. I would not have believed it outside of a movie!
Their command was Number 1 Company, Western Arab Corps, Sudan Defense Force. I
have no idea what they might be defending as there was not even an all weather
road within hundreds of miles. There was also Geneina Town but this area was the
poorest of the poor with little to see or do.
Meanwhile, as the days dragged by, more and more Air Corps people were arriving
and the Pan Am people were either integrated into the Army or sent home. It was
only after I was given control that I discovered that there was a small
warehouse, jam packed with all kinds of delicacies that had been reserved for
the Pan Am elite and anyone they chose to have as guests at their table. And
there had been some rather prominent folks go through. Colonels, Admirals,
Congressmen, Senators and at least one General. As I would greet each one
deplaning , more often than not I would be asked "what are you, a pilot, doing
here"? After telling them my sad story the response was almost always the
same-"wait 'til I get to Cairo, or Accra, depending upon which direction they
were headed, and I'll get you out of here. Of course, none of these people were
nearly as influential as they thought they were and I continued to spend my days
swatting flies and the evenings watching the sun go down, and the nights
marveling at the lightning flashes that never seemed to end. On one occasion, I
confronted one of my superiors with a request for some kind of orders to back up
my present situation. When he claimed that, since I didn't belong to the ATC,
they were not in a position to issue orders, I informed him that I would be
leaving on the next aircraft headed east. He changed his mind, and wrote some
orders! At the same time he did come up with an explanation as to why I was
still there. Seems as though the entire contingent of ATC personnel that was to
have replaced the Pan Am people had been diverted to man a new route across the
southern part of Africa. The war had not been going well in North Africa and
there was fear that the present route, of which we were a part, might be in
jeopardy. Now that a number of months had gone by, even Washington had
discovered the existence of this remote outpost and began to send all sorts of
directives, requests for morning reports and even a complete set of War
Department regulations. By now we boasted a roster of 4 officers and about 40
enlisted men, but no one in a category to replace me. It wasn't until late
November, after almost six months in Africa, that one sunshiny day a 1st Lt.
arrived to take over as Control Officer. It took a couple of days to make the
transfer complete but now that I was once again on my way, another day or two
made little difference. It was necessary to return to Accra where I had to fight
off attempts to transfer me to ATC, before I was handed new orders directing me
to "proceed on original orders" to Karachi, India.
On to Karachi, India
The trip from Accra to Karachi was memorable for a couple of reasons. It had now
been almost six months since I had been in a pilot's seat, and would soon be
ineligible to collect flight pay. The trip across Africa was long and tedious so
it didn't take much to convince the crew that I could serve as an instant
auto-pilot. By the time we reached Karachi, I was able to add 11 hours of C-53
co-pilot time to my log-book. There was an overnight stop in Khartoum and
another chance to enjoy the "Entertaining Wanderers", refugee Central European
singers and dancers who had become marooned in Africa. The stop at Aden, was
extended to the point that we were able to make a sight-seeing trip to
Cleopatra's Wells and surroundings, a real once-in a-lifetime experience. The
following day, after six months on the road, I finally arrived at New Malir
Cantonment, Karachi, India. It was the 15th of December, 1942.
With orders from the Karachi American Air Base Command, I immediately reported
to the 341st Bombardment Group, 490th Bombardment Squadron and was welcomed as
the "Prodigal Son". New Malir, spread over a very large area, housed elements of
the RAF, the British Army, the Indian Army, the US Army, a well equipped
hospital, and sundry other smaller detachments. With the associated airfield and
the city itself being some miles distant, transportation was required to get to
almost anywhere. In our case, we were allotted 2 1935 Ford 4dr sedans for the
entire group of officers, which didn't quite do the job no matter how many we
tried to jam in. At the time, the 490th owned more aircraft than pilots
necessary to fly them so I was back in the air, in a B-25, the day after
reporting for duty. It didn't take long though as new crews were showing up
almost daily, and on January 8, 1943, 24 days after arrival, I was checked out
as first pilot and given the squadron's 10th airplane. Bombing, gunnery and
formation flying training filled our days with 16mm movies and an occasional
wild trip to town took care of the nights for the next few weeks, but by the 1st
of February it was time to get serious, and move out. It was still a long way to
the front but with one final stop at the US Army Supply Depot at Agra, we found
our new home and operational base at Ondal, India. Along with a B-25 of my own,
came a pair of shiny silver bars! A few days after joining the 490th, my new CO
did what he could to make up for my being Shanghaied, for so long, by the Ferry
Command and got me promoted to 1st Lieutenant. The days really were beginning to
look a little brighter. The living conditions at Ondal were quite tolerable and
except for the ever present mosquitoes at night there were few complaints. New
flight crews and airplanes continued to arrive and in about two weeks we were
fully staffed and ready to go to work. Not only ready, but eager, and with a
strong feeling that we were going to do a good job. For reasons that I don't
fully understand, the 490th was a "detached squadron", operating separately from
the 341st group and receiving operational orders directly from the 10th Air
Force. Even though the organization had only been born at Karachi, with bits and
pieces from many different sources, we had become a very tightly knit group that
acted and performed like we had already "been there". I believe that 100% credit
belongs to our first CO, Major James A. Philpot, a hard, fair, tough,
fun-loving, fearless, pearl-handled revolver carrying dare devil. There were
those who complained that his dangerous training tactics were going to kill
someone, but his answer was "perhaps, but a considerably larger number would
live because of the training". Within a few days, all of the ground support had
arrived, new flight crews and airplanes were showing up and being fine tuned.
The war was about to begin!
Ondal-Burma-Ondal
Since it was still a long way to go, from Ondal just to the border of Burma, and
then a good bit further to our intended targets, the B-25 maximum radius of
action became an important factor. There was a forward British airfield at
Argatela that, even though it did not have a paved runway, was capable of
handling a B-25 squadron for a short period of time. Therefore, for our first
mission, it was decided that we would fly to Argatela the first day, at which
time bombs and fuel would be loaded in preparation for the next mornings
take-off. I doubt very much that anyone got much sleep that night, but we were
surely wide awake for the before dawn briefing. Target-- Gokteik Viaduct, a
railway bridge spanning a deep gorge just before the tracks entered a mountain
tunnel. Since every single one of us was on his first mission, there were no
veterans, it seemed only natural to follow our leaders and follow the book, just
the way we had been training. All ten aircraft got off on schedule, made a slow
circle and managed to move into a reasonably loose formation. Oh, I am sure that
there was at least one straggler, it turned out that there was always at least
one, until the going got rough, and then it was a TIGHT formation. As we crossed
the Chin Hills, the sun was well up and at 12,000 feet, there was nothing to see
but solid green jungle for miles and miles and miles ahead. The feeling was hard
to explain. Some combination of excitement, nervousness, exhilaration,
wonderment and, I am sure, some degree of fear. As we strained our eyes trying
to make something out below, it seemed absolutely inconceivable to us to think
that there could be anyone actually down there fighting a ground war. Of course
we also strained to catch sight of expected opposition from Jap aircraft but
thankfully, for at least our first go around, there was none. As we approached
the target area, and began the bombing run, the little "puffs" of smoke began to
appear. If bombs are to hit the target there must be, for at least a brief
period of time, a straight and level run and it is at that time that the Ack-Ack
is most effective. But not today. None of our aircraft were hit but then, I
rather doubt that any of our bombs did a great deal of damage either. Of course
we immediately broke away and headed for home, not completely out of the woods
with yet another two hours over hostile territory, suffering only from numerous
cases of "dry mouth". Once again we headed for Argatela and closed out the
mission in just under four hours flight time. Once again the aircraft were
serviced, refueled and rearmed in readiness for a repeat performance the
following day. This time the victim was to be railroad yards at Thazi Junction.
Once again there was no opposition enroute but the anti-aircraft fire was a bit
more intense. AA fire is something you just don't get used to and it does take
some effort to remain calm when you know there are explosions all around you.
And you do know that they are exploding all around you because you can see the
explosions. If there was any comforting thought, it was that as long as you
could see them all was well. You would never see the one that hit you. This time
we had the option of landing again at Argatela or, if fuel permitted, continuing
all the way to Ondal. After Five hours and fifty five minutes elapsed time we
put down at home base with fuel to spare. Now we were all veterans.
We continued to operate through Argatela or Calcutta's Dum Dum Airport for the
next couple of weeks but no longer without incident. We knew it was coming, so
the surprise was not too great when we encountered our first ZERO fighters.
Fortunately, the Jap early warning system was not very early so we were well on
our way home, and were able to take limited evasive action. Without any type of
fighter escort of our own, our best defense was to stick together and keep our
return fire concentrated. Nevertheless, the lead aircraft of our third element
was seen to pull away, losing speed and altitude rapidly. An effort was made
that afternoon to locate the downed airplane or crew but the fact that it was in
enemy territory did not allow for a very intensive search, and nothing was
found. Around the fireside that evening the biggest question seemed to be "why
weren't we all shot down?". We could see the fighters coming at us and we could
plainly see the tracers seemingly right in our face! Of course, like the
ant-aircraft fire, the stuff that looked like it was coming at us, was really
ending up far behind. From that time on, we encountered sporadic fighter
opposition although it was mercifully always on our way home. The Jap alert
would go out when we were spotted outbound and they would try to catch homeward
bound. As long as the weather allowed, we dropped our bombs from 10,000-12,000
ft, where the fire from the ground was not too effective. There were times
though when cloud cover forced us to descend to much lower levels giving our
bombardiers less chance to make an accurate bomb run, and their gunners a much
closer target to aim at. I must say though, that none of our airplanes were ever
seriously damaged by ground fire while I was a part of the 490th. There had been
damage and even loss of planes due to fighter activity, but no loss of life or
serious injury. My turn did not come until my 32nd mission. Once again, we were
on the way home when the biggest crowd of fighters that we had ever seen showed
up. First reaction was that it was a long awaited RAF escort but, when the
tracers started coming, it was obviously not the good guys. Just when we thought
that we had it made, there was a tremendous explosion just beneath the cockpit
floor. One of the engines went wild and the airplane, although under control,
began to yaw wildly forcing us to pull out of formation. With nothing better to
do, we tried moving the throttle and prop controls and suddenly the engines were
almost synchronized, allowing us to once again pull up with the rest of the
flight. Very shortly we were back over friendly territory, the enemy disappeared
and we were able to back off a bit. With time to think and take stock, we
learned that the bombardier was ok and he learned that there were two pilots
still flying. From the backend we learned that the top gunner had been nicked
just enough to get a purple heart but not enough to require any more than a
band-aid. The turret had been damaged and it appeared that a small piece of one
rudder was missing. There was no visible damage up the front but it did appear
that we had lost all hydraulic pressure, making a quick refresher in emergency
procedures the appropriate course of action. Long before reaching the airport it
was clear that there was no hydraulic pressure so we cranked down some flaps.
When it came time to lower the landing gear our luck held, and the gear fell
into the locked position of its own weight. Long approach, one more notch of
flaps go down, wheels touch and with very slight use of the air brakes, the five
hour and thirty-five minute mission is complete. Climbing down the ladder my
knees gave way and I had a bit of trouble walking the first few steps. It didn't
hurt to be greeted by the CO who treated us like some kind of heroes, even
though all we really did was hang on. Subsequently, the ground crew found the
remains of an explosive shell that had hit the engine and prop control cables
for one engine. Neither one had been completely severed, but with half of the
strands cut, the cables had stretched about an inch, which is just about the way
it looked in the cockpit. The ruptured hydraulic reservoir was in the same area.
The war looked different now.
Kurmitola
As time went by, and we continued to gain experience, our operations through
Argatela were discontinued and we were making nonstop roundtrips from Ondal to
the target and back. But with times ranging up to six hours and forty minutes we
were beginning to waste a good bit of engine time that was not easily replaced.
Another move was in order and, this time, it was to a newly constructed airfield
at Kurmitola, still in India near Dacca, but much closer to the Burmese border.
This move effectively lowered our time enroute by at least two hours, not only
reducing wear and tear on the aircraft but also on the flight crews. By now, we
were a fully equipped squadron of 19 planes, divided into 4 flights of 4, with 3
spares, and a full roster of men to support and fly. I don't think we ever got
16 airplanes in the air at the same time but on many occasions got close, and
considering the area in which we were operating, it was considered acceptable.
Most of the time we were still dropping bombs from medium altitude on bridges or
railroad yards but every now and then, when we weren't having much luck, we
would give it a go at low level. This allowed for much greater accuracy but at
the same time gave the opposition a greater crack at us both from ground fire
and then from their fighters as we struggled to gain altitude to clear the
mountains ahead. On one occasion the crew was forced to bail out of their badly
damaged airplane, survived the drop into the jungle, and somehow all managed to
find their way home with only superficial wounds. On another occasion, two
"healthy" airplanes escorted one of their "limping" comrades to a friendly
airbase before turning for home. Once again there were no injuries except to the
aircraft.
The single runway at Kurmitola was hacked out of a jungle with a railroad spur
running nearby to facilitate delivery of bombs, fuel and whatever else it took
operate an airbase. There was a daily train from Calcutta that passed by every
day about noon which dropped off fresh fruit and vegetables, the morning
newspaper and, if you had ordered in advance, a quart of ice cream. And that
made train arrival the high point of the day. Besides a headquarters building
there were, a mess hall which also served as the briefing room, officer's and
NCO's clubs, numerous low level 2-man to a room living quarters, and a
rudimentary outdoor movie and entertainment area. Not quite up to country club
standards but far better than we had expected and there was plenty of local help
that could be hired to maintain our quarters and handle the laundry. With the
living area located some distance from the airstrip, it had early on become the
habit of pilots returning from other than combat missions to "buzz" the camp
area to signal their imminent arrival. One incident that has already become
legendary, must be recounted. Every military unit, regardless of size, had a
monthly liquor and cigarette allowance, which could not be entrusted to a
delivery by rail. So on the designated day, a B-25 with a temporary pallet
fitted to the bomb-bay, would be dispatched to Calcutta, solely for the purpose
of bringing home the goods. With 8 cans of beer and 2 cartons of cigarettes per
person in addition to one 5th of whiskey per officer, it was the most valuable
B-25 in all of India, and its pilot the man of the hour. This procedure worked
perfectly for the first three deliveries and then disaster. Our "man of the
hour" pulled up too abruptly as he announced his arrival, resulting in the
collapse of the pallet and subsequent, right on target, bombing of home base
with a full load of beer. Although there were a great many damaged beer cans,
and straw rooftops, there were no damaged people and for this one time, we were
happy to report our bombs had been ineffective. For the pilot, it was better
than receiving a medal. He has a place in history and will be remembered
forever.
I don't know whether someone got hung up on the movie "We Strike At Dawn" or for
what reason but, for the longest time, that is just what we were doing. Get up
in the middle of the night, eat breakfast, get briefed and away we go at sun-up.
Aside from the fact that we were home before lunch and had nothing but a boring
afternoon ahead of us, surely the Japs also had it figured out and had a much
better chance of interception. Soon as we began to stagger our departure time,
if nothing else, we got a better nights sleep. And I believe that as time
passed, there were fewer and fewer sleepless night. Experience soon told us
which targets were likely to give us the most trouble and which could be
considered relatively harmless. On a couple of occasions we came close to doing
ourselves in. One day ten airplanes had completed their take-off but before the
squadron had formed up, four had turned back because of engine problems.
Investigation disclosed that automobile fuel had inadvertently been switched
with aviation fuel. And then there was the day we blamed it on the weather.
Anyone who had been there for a week knew that it could rain almost anytime and
it usually did. After all, we were practically living in a rain forest. But, no
matter how hard it came down, it almost always could be counted upon to at least
let-up in a few minutes. So on this particular day, as we return from a mission,
the airfield is out of sight beneath huge rain shower. Perfectly clear a mile
away but just the approach to the runway visible. The customary procedure was to
fly overhead in showboat formation and then break away at proper intervals and
follow the circling leader in to a landing. This would have been a good day to
practice making circles in the clear and wait for the storm to pass. But, by now
we had become the hotshot Burma Bridge Busters and couldn't be bothered by a
little rain. The result was one aircraft off the runway to the right and
totaled. A second airplane clipped its wing on the first and received major
damage. Two more off to the left with minor damage. When it became my turn to
touch down the visibility was slightly more than zero and without knowing what
was ahead there was strong tendency to come down hard on the brakes--especially
after catching a brief glimpse of what had gone before. However, a quick
reminder that this runway had always been long enough before, made "easy does
it" the order for the moment. There was a brief moment of relief when we reached
the end of the runway but the turn-off was blocked by a parked freight train,
leaving no room to turn. Not knowing who or what was still coming behind us
created a near panic situation. We had to get off the runway! Shut down the
engines-- Everybody out-- With brakes off, push on the wheels until clear of the
boxcar--Everybody back in-- Start the engines and get the hell out of there.
Just for the record, the CO had been number one.
All of this time I had been flying the same airplane 41-13161, which was
beginning to show its age. I will be forever grateful to the line crew-chief who
did an outstanding job of keeping it in fighting trim. Mainly because it was
always ready to go, we were constantly fighting to keep it from being used for
anything but its primary purpose, dropping bombs in Burma. Use one of the
clunkers for training, or transportation to Calcutta or whatever. Soon though,
it had reached the limit, with extensions, of hours requiring engine overhaul.
At that time I was given the choice of a newer airplane, with auto pilot, or
going to the Indian aircraft factory at Bangalore where I would be guaranteed
that two new, not rebuilt, engines would be installed. Not much of a choice. I
chose to keep the same crew-chief and we all went for a visit to Bangalore.
By this time with an abundance of flight crews clamoring to fly missions, there
was time for R and R. One crew at a time was given a week off to head for the
mountain playground Darjeeling, or the city playground Calcutta.
Life in India
As the weeks went by, the tempo increased until at least part of the squadron
was somewhere over Burma every day.. With the Jap's being able to rebuild the
bridges at an astonishing rate, we were seemingly hitting the same targets ,
over and over again.. At the same time, there was a marked increase in the
opposition , both from ground fire and from fighter planes. I really don't know
what type of aircraft they were but, as far as we were concerned, if it was
shooting at us it was a "Zero". As a flight commander, I was also responsible
for checking the proficiency of newer pilots, and doing test flights after major
repairs on any of the flights aircraft. We also took turns doing the "weather
check". This consisted of one airplane , alone and minus bomb load, heading out
over Burma in the direction of the target for the day, to get some idea of what
type of weather could be expected.. It was not the type of mission that I looked
forward to! Although it was not necessary to go all the way to the target, there
was deep penetration at times . 10 or 12 B-25s in formation is one thing but ,
all alone, one B-25 does not have a very formidable defense.. More than one
aircraft did not return from a weather mission. Meanwhile, on some of my "days
off", I made another trip to Bangalore to pick up a refurbished B-25, spent a
few days acting as a taxi for a base inspecting Colonel , and managed to sneak
in a couple of five day passes to Calcutta. Calcutta had everything that any
metropolis has, and maybe more than most.. There were grand hotels, grand
government buildings, grand theaters and a grand train station.. The movie
houses had reserved seats and it was in a grand box that I saw "Gone With The
Wind " for the first time. But, it was the signs of abject poverty and filth
that left the greatest impression. The train station was a monstrous building
seemingly filled to capacity with people and garbage. Much of that mass of
humanity never left the building., begging by day and sleeping on the floor by
night.- It was very much the same in the center of the city . The sidewalks were
filled with beggars , many of whom would not move more than a few feet for days
at a time, for fear of losing their claim on that tiny bit of territory. At
night though, it became a different world. As the sun went down and the lights
came on, it was time to leave the sights and move into the splendor of the
Imperial Hotel. Only in the movies had we ever seen anything like this.. High
ceilings with dozens of fans, ornate furniture , immense dining room with
monogrammed china and silverware and a whole platoon in uniform to wait on us..
To top it all of f there was the dinner music that , as the evening wore on ,
blended into the unforgettable Big Band sound of the `40s. It was here that I
experienced "As Time Goes By" for the first time. War or peace, it was all the
same to the British Colonials, life went on!.
During the month of August, 1943, I flew only five combat missions, three of
them as squadron leader., and on September 1st led the squadron on my 61st, and
what turned out to be my last, mission.
There was one more trip to pick up an airplane at Bangalore, one more trip to
Agra to pick up an AT-6, and one more pilot to be checked out as 1st pilot.. My
last assignment as a member of the 490th , one of the most enjoyable, began on
September 18th. A shipload of P-40s had arrived at Karachi en-route to northeast
India where they were to add to the ever growing force protecting the airlift to
China , over "the Hump". For a number of reasons, primarily the distance
involved , the need for frequent fuel stops, and pilots with limited
navigational skills it was deemed desirable to give them an escort -- someone to
follow.. It took a whole week to move 14 P-40s from one end of India to the
other , but that included a three day stop at the Agra Supply Depot for final
aircraft modification and outfitting the pilots with winter equipment.. To give
them a longer range, each P-40 had been fitted with an additional "bathtub" fuel
tank that was slung beneath the fuselage, which slowed them down considerably.
The problem this created was that they could not keep up without overheating
their engines and I felt that I could not fly slowly enough without falling out
of the sky. In this case , I believe I was the one lacking in experience, and
felt it necessary to make a circle from time to time so that the troops would
not fall too far behind.. It was at Agra that I received word that my "go home"
orders had arrived, and I was sorely tempted to turn around and do just that..
But instead, we all got drunk at the Officers Club , piled 14 fighter pilots
into our B-25 and gave them the hair-raising ride of their life, just as the sun
came up! Somehow we all survived,, found our way to the proper airfield nestled
amongst the tea plantations of northern India, and headed home to Kurmitola. For
the moment my war had come to an end.
Hello Taigh,
I have driven by Stockton Field many times in the past few years, and
have often wondered if anything remained of the WW2 activities. It
wasn't until a few days ago, when I stumbled on your website, that I was
aware of the budding museum. Don't know how I missed it since I have
been on the internet for 15 years.
Briefly explaining the Boeing 247--
A few days after graduation, six of us (I have no idea of how we were
chosen) were sent TDY to Air Corps Training Detachment, Reno, Nevada. Three of
us drove to Reno in my spanking new RED 1942 Plymouth
Convertible, on December 22, 1941, and quickly discovered that there was
no "Air Corps Training Detachment". For whatever reason, I don't
remember, we went to the El Cortez Hotel, and there found that it was
the "headquarters" we were looking for. Only difference was that the
show was being run by United Airlines.
After a week of ground school, at the hotel, we started two-engine
flight training. The instructors were United line pilots and the
aircraft we used were regular United planes that were used between their
scheduled flights through Reno. We received a total of 50 hours, 25
B-247 and 25 Dc-3, with an even mix of day, night and instuments. When
finished, we were certified as 2-Engine first pilots, and returned to
Stockton. As you can probably see from the photos, it snowed practically
every day we were there, so it really was some good real world training.
I am not quite sure that I would have felt secure riding as a passenger
behind someone with my limited experience at that point. Since this was
a civilian school, we were required to obtain a student pilot license,
and as military students we were required to carry parachutes.
Since we had just entered the war, Reno had hardly ever seen a
soldier, let alone six 2nd Lts with wings and leather jackets. I have no
idea how it was arranged, but three local socialite families entertained
us royally for the entire Christmas-New Years season. Really tough duty.
Yes, I still have my logbooks, flight records, 201 file and just
about every piece of paper I ever received from the War Department. The
only pictures that I have are of airplanes or individuals--nothing to
show any of the facilities at Stockton.
I hope to stop by sometime in the near future to take a look at your
layout. Since I ended up in B-25s, I am always happy to take a closer
look at these restored beauties.
Regards, Bob
Thanks again Bob for sharing your experiences and thank you for what you did for our Country!
TO ALL OF OUR COUNTRY'S VETERANS, WE HERE AT VINTAGE AIRCRAFT WOULD LIKE TO SAY:
THANK YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID FOR OUR COUNTRY!
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