Of course, the pilots didn’t have what headquarters called a “need to know.” We were only going to fly them. No big deal. I wondered how long the checkout would take, hoping it would be nothing like the P-38 training tedium in California: engines, airframes, hydraulics, flight characteristics, control systems, gunners, skip and dive bombing, on and on. Eventually we knew the Lightnings inside and out, but how would the P-51 transition go? Formal schooling? Was there going to be a flying syllabus? Or would it be an ad hoc transition with some quick briefing from some experienced Mustang drivers?
Colonel Zemke made the official P-51 announcement on September 7. The news was ho-hum by then, but we sat up when he said the first batch of new fighters would arrive the next day. There were some mixed emotions. All of us had been weaned on the P-38. We loved it like a first love, maybe more. Hemingway had written about it. A pilot loves his first fighter and it is never replaced in his affection. As for me, as much as I loved the P-38, I couldn’t wait to get into the Mustang. No more compressibility, better range, and some pilots claimed better maneuverability. We hoped so. In any event, it was coming and I was excited.
The 479th FG was overdue. P-51s had been introduced to the ETO in mid-1943, and their range and performance let the Allies reach out to bring the battle to the enemy’s backyard. Compressibility didn’t seem to hamper the Mustang. There was no beating it with the P-38. Like all aircraft, the faster it went, the more the airflow was accelerated over the curved surfaces. When it accelerated too much, portions of the airframe approached supersonic and a shock wave formed there that stood up perpendicular to the wing, canopy, or fuselage curves. In the P-38, that shock wave from the nose and leading edges blocked the airflow over the elevators. With no pitch control, there was little the pilot could do. At that point bailing out was impossible, and a pilot only got lucky if the denser air at low altitude and flat-blading the props caused enough drag to slow the aircraft down before he ran out of altitude. The P-51 with a new airfoil design they called laminar flow was supposed to help avoid the situation.
We were told all three squadrons would convert half a unit at a time, and that we’d be flying split missions, a couple of flights in P-38s, a couple in the new Mustangs. We glanced at one another at that news, but, what the hell, how about the training program? “Later,” we were told. How much later could they get? The next morning, when the first new bird arrived?
Most of the group pilots were on the flight line the next day when the first flight of four sparkling, Merlin-growling P-51s entered the traffic pattern, pitched out, and executed impressive landing patterns. They taxied up to flight control like an acrobatic team. They swung around in unison, the engines shut down, and the canopies opened. Then came the shocker. The pilots pulled off their leather helmets and shook their heads, and long, feminine blond and brunette hair swirled in the breeze. We looked like a bunch of idiots with our mouths open and our eyes popping out. The female ferry pilots climbed out laughing and came over to us with big grins to shake our outstretched hands. It was obvious they’d done this at other bases, but that didn’t detract a bit from the impression they made. I couldn’t help wondering if the show had been deliberately planned for any of us who might’ve had doubts about flying the Mustang. Never mind. We were duly impressed, with most of the guys hoping the girls would stay overnight.
I went looking for Major Herren. “Sir, when do I get to fly one?”
Herren grinned at me and said, “Tell you what, Olds. You’ll be among the first, just as soon as the engineers and crew chiefs have had a chance to look them over. Give it a week.” Knowing I had never flown a single-engine fighter before, the good major added, “And watch out for the torque. Lots of rudder on takeoff.”
Being among the first to fly was good news. Waiting for maintenance and crew chiefs was bad as far as I was concerned. A week seemed like an eternity, but I had an idea where I could focus my interests for at least the next eighteen hours. There were new girls on base and new airplanes on the flight line, and no one could fault a fighter pilot for wanting to talk about technique with the pilots who’d delivered the birds. Purely professional interest.
It felt like ages before the crew chiefs finished fussing and signaled that the birds were ready to go. In the meantime, I kept flying missions in my P-38 and passed my two-hundred-hour mark. Some other pilots got off in the P-51 before I did, and I urged my crew chief to hurry. Finally, Glen gave me the thumbs-up. I knew so little about the airplane that I didn’t know how to mount the wing to get at the cockpit. The chief had to show me the kick step and recessed handgrip. Once shown, I clambered aboard quickly and buckled up.
What an office! Compared to the P-38s, this cockpit provided plenty of leg, shoulder, and headroom. All the knobs and switches were right at my fingertips. None of the instruments were hidden behind a control yoke. The Mustang had a proper stick grip. Everything in the cockpit felt just right. I was falling in love all over again with a new girl.
Not knowing what half of the switches were meant to do, I turned to the crew chief crouched on the left wing by the cockpit and asked, “How do you start this thing, chief?”
“OK, Captain. Put mixture in idle-cutoff. That’s all the way up. No, you’ve got to squeeze the little latch on the mixture control handle to get it to move. Right, that’s it. But don’t move it yet, it’s already in position. Now, prop control full increase, and crack the throttle just a bit, about an inch. Got that? Don’t open it any more than that. Something happens in the carb and the engine will run away when you start her.”
The chief continued, “OK, now look down here, behind the stick, right between your knees. See that? Fuel selector gauge. You start on the left main. Don’t ask me why. See, you’ve got left and right mains, left and right drops, and fuselage tank. That’s right behind you, and if you twist around over your left shoulder you can see the quantity gauge there on top. They told us not to fill it, so now it shows just a few gallons left over from the last flight.”
He saw my face and laughed. “Here come the fuel guys now. Listen up, the main tank gauges are on the floor on either side of the cockpit just in front of your seat. See them? Radio’s there, but we haven’t had time to change the crystals to local, so you’ll have to use button C to talk to the tower.” While he pointed out things around the cockpit, the fuel guys had the hoses out and were pouring av-gas into the wing tanks.
“OK, one last thing. Like the 38, there’s the engine primer switch, right next to the mag selector switch. Now we’re ready to go. Here’s the drill: We’ll be starting with a battery cart, so leave the battery and generator switches off until you get her started. OK?”
OK already.
“What you’ll do: Hold the primer for a few seconds, then hit the start switch. When the prop has turned over about six blades to build a bit of oil pressure, throw the mag switch to both and push the mixture down into auto-rich. She should fire up immediately. It’ll be running on prime, just like the Lightning, so push the throttle over the detent to idle and you’re good. We’ll pull the battery cart and then you can flip on your battery and generator switches. The rest is up to you. Got all that?”
“Sure have, chief!”
Then he added, “Oh, they tell me the coolant temp is real critical. You gotta make sure she doesn’t overtemp while you’re taxiing. There’s an override switch somewhere there on the right console. The cooler door is supposed to work automatically, but sometimes it doesn’t, they say.”
Gee, that was reassuring. “OK, let’s give it a go.”
The refueling finished, I felt a surge of excitement as I went through the start. The four-bladed prop turned, and suddenly those twelve Merlin cylinders popped, coughed, and caught again. I eased forward on the mixture control. As the engine settled into a popping rhythm the whole machine came to life with that distinctive Merlin roar. Unlike the P-38, which seemed a quiet lady by comparison, the Mustang began with a snarling earnestness, vibrating through my body and
telling me, “I’m ready! You’re ready! Let’s go!”
We went. As I taxied I thought, Wow, this has been some checkout program! I fishtailed down the taxiway recalling the technique from my T-6 training days, stretching first left and then right to see alongside the huge nose cowling. Maybe I should have asked Major Herren what approach speed to shoot for, but then maybe he wouldn’t know either, and I would have embarrassed him. Oh well, first things first. Some stalls to get the feel and a look at how she flies with gear and flaps, and then I’ll know about approach speeds.
The takeoff was smooth. I didn’t blast the throttle, so torque control with lots of right rudder was easy. The beautiful bird simply told me when to ease forward to get the tail up and then it flew off the runway when it was ready. Once I was up, I spent the next thirty minutes feeling out the stall, first clean and then with the garbage hanging. That gave what I needed for landing. Next, I pulled some g and was surprised to find I had to push forward a bit on the stick to keep the nose from tucking up under my chin during the turn. That’s going to take some getting used to, I thought. The single engine created a need to constantly retrim the rudder as airspeed changed. Torque was no issue in the P-38, and the T-6 in training didn’t show much in comparison to the Merlin. So far, so good. I loved it more every minute.
It was time to return to base. Someone else was chomping at the bit, waiting his turn, and I didn’t want to be selfish. I flew the overhead pattern cautiously, got my airspeed just right, and came across the threshold perfectly. Finding the runway was a bit tricky compared to the P-38 because of the nose angle, but I managed to make a safe but sloppy landing. Getting back to tail dragging would take some concentration. Oh well, the next one would be better. I taxied in, giving Glen the thumbs-up. As Bogey had said, it looked like the start of a beautiful friendship.
More Mustangs arrived over the next few days, but I didn’t get to fly one again until the rest of the squadron had their turns. Meanwhile, missions continued in the P-38. During the transition Glenn Miller and his band showed up to entertain us. He set up outside the hangar to the south of our main runway. As luck would have it, I was scheduled to get my second ride in the Mustang at the same hour. I felt sort of important as I taxied around past the gathering toward the takeoff end of the runway. A large crowd had assembled on the grass lining the taxiway to watch the band, and I got quite a bit of attention at the same time. I resisted the temptation to wave at a couple of pretty girls.
The second P-51 flight went better than the first. No surprises in my air work. Someone told us that stick-reversal trick would be corrected in the D model by adding bob weights somewhere in the elevator control system. No sweat there. I returned for landing full of what soon proved to be false confidence. Everything went well right up to the point of touchdown, but this time I couldn’t quite find the surface of the runway. What the hell was the matter? I floated along, waiting for the little bird to sink quietly and perfectly onto the pavement.
It wasn’t going to happen. Suddenly the left wing whipped down and struck the runway. I found myself at a horrible angle to the ground. I kicked right rudder and tried to lift the wing, but also gave the throttle a burst, trying to get some speed to regain control. Whoa, no! That was obviously the wrong thing to do. Torque from the engine and the blast across the rudder sent the bird up into an almost vertical left bank and veering off the runway onto the grass. I yanked the throttle back to idle and fought to get the right wing down where it belonged. The Mustang was living up to its name as we bucked and rolled along on the verge of disaster but, more critically, headed right for Glenn Miller and his band. The spectators could see me coming and scattered in every direction as I crossed the taxiway. In the midst of my gyrations I could see the band members bailing off the platform. The whole episode couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it seemed like minutes before I managed to do a half ground loop and come to a stop in the middle of the spectator area.
I had made an entrance. There I sat, with the engine ticking over, my left wingtip bent up toward the sky, and grass draped across the nose of my bird as if she were some cow grazing. I taxied away without looking at any of the stunned faces glaring at me and just hoped the incident wouldn’t end my flying career.
I’d learned some lessons. One, never think the Mustang was going to float into a landing like the P-38. You had to place the P-51 on the ground; otherwise, it would stay right where you leveled until it decided to quit flying, at which point you’d better be within a few inches of the surface. Two, never, never think you were going to pull out of a stall by blasting the throttle. Torque took over instantly, pulling you up and around to the left, and you were in deep shit.
The heavy-maintenance shop replaced the bent wingtip, but no one volunteered to fix my bent and broken pride. At least the guys understood how I felt and there was a minimum of teasing about my fall from grace. Some had done it and more would do it in the years to come. In any event, missions went on as usual. The gaggles were a mix of Mustangs and Lightnings, but we kept flying.
In a week or two I was assigned my own new bird! My last P-38 was named SCAT III, and now a P-51 was all prettied up with SCAT IV nose art by Fred Hayner, along with my name, five victory flags, and my crew chief Glen Wold’s name stenciled boldly on the canopy rail. It was a thrill. I was on the schedule for the following morning’s mission but just wanted to hang out with the bird on the hardstand. Glen was there, too, fussing around the two 100-gallon drop tanks I would be carrying for the first time. He mumbled something about not dropping them unless I really had to. He implied that he might demand my help in hanging replacements on the bird if necessary. I understood that.
He led me on a walk-around, showing me how things ought to look before flying: fluid levels, inspection plates, control movement, things like that. Nothing too complicated for a dumb pilot (Glen didn’t say that). I really liked this quiet, somewhat reticent man. He had shepherded me through two P-38s, often coming to the club during those long summer evenings. He’d take me to our aircraft and show me how to help him pull inspections, check tires, change spark plugs, or some such task. To tell the truth, I really enjoyed getting my hands greasy, and Glen managed to teach me quite a bit in the process. The biggest lesson was that even the best pilot didn’t go anywhere without maintainers. Teamwork won victories.
That afternoon I sat in the cockpit going over the starting drill and cockpit emergency procedures. Though I had made only two flights in the Mustang, I felt comfortable with it. God knows I had rehashed the proper landing technique a thousand times in my mind before drifting off to sleep. I wasn’t going to make the same stupid mistakes again.
We flew bomber escort missions the first two weeks of September while the Jerries attempted to entertain us with daily buzz-bomb attacks near the field. We were getting the hang of the new Mustangs, all except for Pavlock, who was killed on a takeoff. In mid-September we got the chilling news that Hub Zemke and Lieutenants Gavrys, Matthews, Hendrix, and Rodgers hadn’t returned from a mission. Later we heard that all but Gavrys had landed safely at Roye-Amy and were headed back to Wattisham. What a relief! Sleep was difficult that night as several V-1s impacted near the airfield. The bloody Bosche. I fell into the Brit vernacular regularly.
We went groggily to group briefing the next morning and listened to the standard information about times, checkpoints, rendezvous, altitudes, bomber call signs, and identifying tail markings. The weather both here and in the target area in Holland near the German border was excellent. Air opposition was briefed to be minimal, and the flak would be normal-normal, i.e., heavy and intense on the bomb run.
Field Marshal Montgomery was moving his army slowly up the one road toward Arnhem. We knew that. We had been briefed and had flown over that part of Belgium, Holland, and Germany almost daily in our Lightnings. The Germans had cut the dikes in their retreat to the homeland. The countryside was under water and only the road was passable. The 82nd and 101st Airborne had d
ropped to secure the bridges at Eindhoven and Nijmegen, thus paving the way for the Brits. But the British advance was slow.
We were told we were going to patrol an area to the northeast of Arnhem and were expected to wipe out anything that shot at us. Intel couldn’t tell us what lay in the large forest we were to cover. He could say only that our time over target would be thirty minutes before the Brits dropped their paratroops on both sides of the Rhine just to the west of the town. Apparently, the idea was to capture the bridge crossing the Rhine, thus providing Monty with the privilege of being the first to invade the German homeland.
Now Lieutenant Colonel Herren led. We took four flights of four and set up orbits over our target area. Our idea was for the lead flight to draw flak so the following flights could spot it and strafe. It turned out the Germans weren’t that dumb. Naturally, they shot only at the trailing flight, and we soon found ourselves in something resembling a trophy dash. No one wanted to be last! The tactic was a bust. We were taking hits without doing the enemy any damage. After five or six circuits we moved back toward Arnhem itself just in time to see the parachute force approaching from the west.
An impressive sight! The sky was black with Dakotas and Lancasters. Each smaller Dakota (C-47) towed a glider, and the British Lancasters pulled three each. Then the flak started, and the majestic scene turned into a nightmare. Bombers blew up or went spiraling down, often dragging their gliders. We watched as the battle raged. Then the sky erupted with thousands of parachutes on both sides of the Rhine near Arnhem itself. We watched in awe and wished the troopers well, but the Luftwaffe arrived and we got caught up in what turned out to be the biggest air battle to date for the 434th. When it was all over, the squadron had destroyed eighteen Me-109s and Fw-190s.
Over the next few days, Montgomery’s plan fell apart. The army on the south side of the river failed to cross, and the troopers in the town of Arnhem fought a losing battle against a vastly superior German force. Intel had been unaware that there were two panzer divisions hidden in the woods we had been sent to patrol. They rolled on the Brits in Arnhem, and the rest is history. So much for Monty’s race to the Rhine. He’d eventually be beaten across the following March when Patton crossed at Oppenheim.
Fighter Pilot Page 13
