Forgotten Fifteenth

by Barrett Tillman

  Often one camera was not enough. Oblique shots were best for showing initial points to bombardiers, but two twelve-inch forward obliques proved more useful, slanted at seventeen and thirty-five degrees. The optimum trimetrogon configuration employed two K-17 oblique cameras with six-inch lenses for side-looking coverage mated with K-17 and K-18 vertical cameras mounting twelve- to twenty-four-inch lenses.18

  No time was wasted when the photo flier returned. A pilot inbound to San Severo radioed ahead, giving the code word “tool kit” to alert the operations office that he was landing with imagery onboard. As soon as he shut down, technicians unloaded the negative reel from the Lightning, and the pilot received his chit from the squadron operations officer, good for a free drink in the club.

  Prints were developed off rolls of negatives, sometimes delivered to the interpreters’ hut still damp. Eleven photo interpreters bent over stereo-optic scanners, examining the prints with patient, practiced eyes. Specially trained to look for minute clues, the “PIs” sought anything that might give a clue about new facilities, recent repairs, or other changes. Even a shadow could be the tipoff.

  After a preliminary exam, the interpreters selected the most promising photos and subjected them to more detailed scrutiny. The second-pass pictures were placed under glasses on long legs, giving a focal length that produced a three-dimensional effect.

  The 3-D photos were combined with a written report on the target, time, and location and offering a preliminary analysis. The package then went to Fifteenth headquarters, where another team of interpreters compared the day’s imagery with previous reports. A steady flow of information was available to planners and targeting officers who determined whether a specific refinery, factory, rail yard, or airfield was worth another mission. Photographic damage assessments made it possible to estimate the rate of repair of almost any target and, by extrapolation, to discern near-term enemy production and even intentions.

  Targets of continuing interest were photographed at intervals of three, seven, or fourteen days, depending upon their priorities, though “special jobs” could be assigned anytime. Timely intelligence produced results. On October 13 the Thirty-second Squadron surveyed Seregelyes Airdrome in central Hungary, where interpreters noted an increased number of aircraft—as many as seventy. The next day the Fifty-second Fighter Group descended on Seregelyes and an adjacent field with notable success. Post-mission coverage determined that twenty-nine planes were destroyed and about two dozen damaged at a cost of two P-51s.19

  Recon pilots became professional paranoids, always assuming somebody was stalking them. One Photo Joe explained,

  Speed was our only defense. The P-38 could generally outrun any of the Germans’ airplanes, in both a shallow climb or a dive. One day a group of Messerschmitt Bf 109s jumped me, and I outran them to the coast. I think I made 500 mph, going downhill. But I hit serious turbulence, and thought the airplane was going to come apart. The main spar between the engine booms and the gondola popped a bunch of rivets. When I got back it was a wreck, and they junked the airplane. The crew chief told me (jokingly) that I’d pushed on the throttle handles so hard I’d bent them.

  The bottom line was, “The most survivable photo-recon pilot was the one who was the most scared.”20

  Droop Snoot P-38Js had begun arriving in the summer of 1944. Lockheed technicians in Britain replaced the fighter nose with a Plexiglas enclosure into which a small bombardier could squeeze himself behind a sight. The intent was to use Lightnings as level bombers with the conventional aircraft to “drop on lead” when the Droop Snoot toggled its load. The concept was greeted with ambivalence: bombardiers had a spectacular ride with unrivaled downward visibility—and precious little chance of abandoning ship in an emergency. Droop Snoots, however, could provide radar imagery to enhance photo coverage of targets for attack in darkness or heavy weather.

  The Luftwaffe did not allow photo flights to pass unchallenged. Between mid-November 1944 and early April 1945, Messerschmitt 262 jets made twenty-nine attacks on F-5s, taking down one Lightning on December 2, when a 262 dropped out of the overcast sky, jumping a recon flight north of Munich. The interceptor killed Lieutenant Keith W. Sheetz, and though an escorting P-51 scored hits on the jet, it escaped.

  Sometimes photo pilots snapped pictures of more than factories or railroads. A Thirty-second Squadron pilot, Lieutenant Smith, was intercepted by a Messerschmitt 262. Turning with the turbo fighter, Smith got a favorable angle on the jet and snapped some photos. They were invaluable: the first aerial imagery of the Luftwaffe’s latest threat. Smith’s initiative was rewarded with a Distinguished Flying Cross.21

  During the winter of 1944–1945, as many as six Lightnings or Mustangs began to escort F-5s. The Fifth was conducting its own war against enemy jets, as photo missions monitored more bases and factories. In mid-February, strikes on the jet hatcheries were based on Fifth Group imagery. In one mission, twenty-two jets were destroyed and twenty of sixty-two counted at Regensburg were damaged.

  Occasionally, when a mission plan turned sour, photo pilots took the initiative. On March 20, 1945, Captain James E. Emswiler encountered heavy clouds in his assigned area over central Germany. Computing that he had enough fuel to spare, he diverted northward to Berlin, photographing targets in the southern portion of the capital. His initiative earned him a well-deserved Silver Star.22

  Long after the war, Emswiler expressed the thoughts of thousands of combat veterans when he wrote to his local newspaper,

  Senator Bob Dole in his autobiography asserts that the only heroes from World War II were those who were killed. In a recent TV ad, Bob Felder, famous Cleveland pitcher, claims that the only heroes were those who didn’t come home. Does this mean that Audie Murphy who won every medal that the Army gives was not a hero? Or that all those awarded a Purple Heart for wounds received in action cannot claim to be heroes? As a pilot, I made 56 flights over Germany, including several over Berlin, and was awarded the Silver Star, a Distinguished Flying Cross and 11 Air Medals. If some of the masses of flak that were shot at me had hit my plane and killed me, would that have made me a hero? But based on the above criteria, because I was able to evade the flak and thereby lived, I can make no claim to the title.23

  From the time the Fifth Photo Group joined the Fifteenth in October 1944 until V-E Day in May 1945, it logged 1,873 missions, losing eight pilots in combat or accidents. The recon flights yielded 15,700 “pinpoints” (specific photo targets), with 332,000 negatives producing 809,000 prints. The imagery was included in 1,700 reports forwarded to Fifteenth Air Force headquarters.24 The statistics, however, hardly convey the Photo Joes’ contribution to the strategic air campaign. The mechanics on the flight line, the pilots who usually flew solo sorties hundreds of miles through hostile airspace, the lab techs who processed the film, and the bleary-eyed analysts who stared at thousands of pictures—the members of the Fifth Photo Group fought the Mediterranean air war in relative obscurity. But headquarters at Bari knew their value—and so did the Luftwaffe, which tried hard to stop them.

  THE YUGOSLAV DETACHMENT

  Outbound from Wiener Neustadt on May 24, 1944, an exiled Yugoslav pilot flying a B-24 with the 376th Bomb Group, Captain Vojislav Skakich, was hit by flak. Flight engineer Bodgan Madjarevic was killed, and other crewmen were wounded. Skakich’s controls were damaged, forcing him to engage the autopilot. The trick worked—he coaxed the limping Liberator six hundred miles back to his base at San Pancrazio, in the heel of the Italian boot.

  Circling the field, Skakich wondered if he could land on autopilot. It looked doubtful, and the group commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ted Graff, ordered him to bail out. The pilot refused—he had wounded aboard. Most of the hydraulic system was useless, so the crew lowered flaps and wheels manually. Alternately engaging and disengaging the autopilot, the flight deck crew lined up with the runway and established a steady descent. Upon touchdown the two pilots stood on the brakes, bringing the wounded Liberator to a lurching stop a
t the end of the runway. Men watching from the flight line erupted into cheers. They had witnessed another exceptional feat of airmanship from the Yugoslav Detachment, one of the more unusual components of the Fifteenth Air Force.

  In April 1941 the Yugoslav Royal Air Force was overwhelmed by the Luftwaffe as Germany conquered the country in eleven days. Many Yugoslav fliers fled to Greece and Egypt, seeking employment with the British. In Washington the Yugoslav ambassador requested assistance from President Roosevelt. After Pearl Harbor, the United States was allied with the Yugoslav government in exile, and Roosevelt granted the ambassador’s request. He pledged four B-24Js and offered to train four crews.

  Over the next few months forty candidates were selected and brought to America. They began training in December 1942 and completed their course in October 1943. Though remaining in Yugoslav service, they wore U.S. Army uniforms on detached duty with the AAF. During the commissioning ceremony at Bolling Field outside Washington, the president said, “May these planes fulfill their mission under your guidance. They are built for two great objectives. The first is to drop bombs on our common enemy. . . . The second is to deliver to your compatriots in Yugoslavia much-needed supplies. Remember always that we are comrades in arms.”25

  The four Liberators crossed the Atlantic, proceeding to Dakar, Casablanca, Tripoli, and Cairo. In November, the detachment joined Colonel Keith Compton’s 376th Bomb Group in Tunisia. Assigned to the 512th Squadron, the four bombers became numbers twenty through twenty-three, bearing the Serbian cross and roundel in addition to the AAF’s star and bars. The 512th’s diarist noted, “It was quite an honor to be chosen from all the squadrons of the group as hosts for these American-trained nationals of Yugoslavia, and we have done everything possible to make them at home.”26

  The detachment flew its first combat mission in mid-November, attacking a German airfield in Greece. Soon the group moved to Italy, settling at San Pancrazio. On the second mission, November 24, two detachment bombers accompanied the group to Sofia, Bulgaria. Liberator number twenty-two was cut down by enemy fighters, though the full crew (including an American) survived as prisoners. The detachment’s Yank colleagues offered heartfelt sympathy, but the Liberandos were old hands. They had seen loss before and got on with the war.

  More heartache followed. On December 23, Liberator number twenty-one, flown by Major Dusan Milojevic, was shot out of formation by Luftwaffe fighters over Germany. No parachutes were seen, and no survivors turned up. Despite the losses, the surviving members of the Yugoslav detachment served dinner to their squadron mates on January 7, 1944—Christmas Day in the Serbian Orthodox calendar.

  Yet 50-percent losses took a toll. In early March three fliers decided to join Josip Broz Tito’s Communist guerrillas in Yugoslavia, while another simply walked away, never to be seen again. The remaining Yugoslavs consolidated into one oversized crew, taking turns flying missions. On March 24 number twenty nearly collided with an oncoming formation in heavy cloud. A gunner abandoned ship and, upon return to base, another man quit. Four British-trained Slovenians filled some of the gaps. By the summer of 1944, attrition and rotations home left the detachment’s fliers the most senior crews in the squadron.

  Having been warmly welcomed by the AAF, the Yugoslavs offered a gesture of thanks. On October 3 Captain Skakich presented wings of the Yugoslav Royal Air Force to Twining, Brigadier General Hugo Rush of the Forty-seventh Wing, and Brigadier General Charles Born, Fifteenth operations officer. The next month, however, amid continuing uncertainty in Yugoslavia, four detachment fliers chose to join Tito. Two Slovenians opted for Trieste.

  The remaining fliers completed their tour in early 1945. Having nowhere to go—other than Yugoslavia, which had no air force—the men elected to stay in Italy. Without regular pay for over a year, they hopped a flight to Cairo to settle their British accounts, then returned to San Pancrazio, which they found deserted. The 376th had rotated home, leaving the now-orphaned Yugoslavs on their own. For several weeks they wandered like nomads from base to base, ignoring Tito’s demand that they join him. In August the remaining men were inducted into the U.S. Army, and finally in October eleven boarded the remaining “pink bomber” (still bearing its North Africa camouflage) and flew to America.

  Once “home,” the detachment fliers fought another battle—to attain American citizenship. At length they prevailed, becoming U.S. citizens in July 1947. Six made careers in the newly independent U.S. Air Force, two retiring as full colonels: Vojislav Skakich and Milosh Jelich.

  Nowhere in the Second World War was the meaning of “allies” better illustrated than by the Yugoslav Detachment of the Liberando bomb group.

  SPECIAL MISSIONS

  The lights were dimmed on the Liberator’s flight deck as the four Pratt & Whitney engines droned through the Balkan night. The pilot and copilot had dimmed the instrument lights to preserve their nocturnal vision as they flew at a low level over some of Europe’s most mountainous terrain.

  The twenty-one-year-old navigator sat at his chart table in the nose, behind the front turret, facing aft. He was accustomed to reading a map backwards from the direction of flight, and looking to his right for a view out the left side of the aircraft was second nature. He double-checked his “howgozit” track for the dead-reckoning course, and, satisfied that he was reading the wind drift accurately, he pressed his intercom button. “Ten minutes.”

  The twenty-four-year-old pilot squirmed in his seat—he had been sitting in the same position for almost two hours—and mentally prepared himself. He visualized the geometry of the situation: the B-24 approaching the drop zone from the southwest, ready to turn east-southeast for the best approach down the designated valley. Dropping bundles of weapons and supplies was no different from dropping bombs—range errors always exceeded lateral error. Better to drop short or long rather than left or right with hills on either side.

  On the navigator’s “hack,” the pilots eased their bomber into a standard-rate turn. Settled on the run-in heading, the pilots and the nose and top turret gunners scanned the darkness for the expected signal. The waning quarter moon cast faint, harsh shadows across the landscape where hills obscured much of the terrain.

  “Two minutes,” the navigator called.

  The time ticked off, each second with a beginning, middle, and end. Too long an approach gave the Germans and their Fascist partners time to anticipate the destination. Too short and the crew might miss a last-minute checkpoint.

  “Lights ahead. One o’clock.” The nose gunner caught the blinking signal. Marshal Tito’s Partisans had heard the approaching bomber and held their signal as long as they dared.

  In the rear of the aircraft other fliers prepared to drop a precious cargo, human and otherwise. Several stout canisters went out the hatch, containing weapons, ammunition, and supplies. Moments later two “Joes”—OSS agents—leapt into the dark void, their camouflaged parachute canopies blossoming quickly. Both men were on the ground in less than a minute, warmly greeted by their new comrades. Between them, the Serbs and the Americans would concoct a troublesome brew for the occupiers of Yugoslavia.

  The navigator’s work was not yet done. In fact, his task was not finished until the plane’s base was in sight. “Come right, one niner five.” The youngster knew that a smart mission planner always took a different route back than the track inbound. A southern dogleg would make it more difficult for the enemy to detect a target that was nearly defenseless against interceptors and vulnerable to flak.

  The mission was called Operation Carpetbagger. It was a British concept, dating back four years—the aerial phase of Winston Churchill’s plan to “set Europe ablaze” with commando raids and guerrilla forces far behind enemy lines.

  The Eighth Air Force launched the American contribution to Carpetbagger in 1943, dropping tons of leaflets with information and propaganda for the civilian populations of northwestern Europe. But the “nickeling” missions (so called after the British term for leaflets) evolved
into full-fledged Carpetbagger operations, inserting agents of the Office of Strategic Services—both “Joes” and “Janes” who gathered on-site intelligence or worked with French Maquis resistance forces.

  Two Carpetbagger squadrons were attached to a regular B-24 group, and by D-Day two more special operations (“spec ops”) outfits were formed into a provisional bomb group. Among them they had more than forty Liberators, eventually being assigned to the 492nd Bomb Group.

  By the summer of 1944 the situation in northwestern Europe was much changed as Allied armies pushed the Germans ever eastward. With less clandestine work to be done, some assets were transferred southward.

  The 885th Bombardment Squadron was activated at Blida, Italy, in April 1944 under Colonel Monro MacCloskey, a stern former artilleryman from West Point’s class of ’24. Flying B-17s and B-24s, the squadron performed Carpetbagger operations throughout the Mediterranean Theater. Its operating area extended from France to the Balkans, and the special-ops airmen quickly discovered the theater’s challenges; in their first full month they completed only forty-five sorties of seventy-two launched, a success rate of 64 percent. The reasons were many: poor weather, difficult night navigation, and failure to contact the intended recipients on the ground. A partial solution was found in the Eureka navigational beacon provided to resistance cells, permitting the aircraft to pinpoint the friendly forces.

  The raw numbers were impressive. A fully loaded Carpetbagger bomber carried six thousand pounds of supplies, six or more four-thousand-leaflet nickels, and one or more agents. In 692 Balkan sorties, the squadron delivered eighteen agents and 2,900,000 pounds of weapons and supplies. One mission went to Germany (two agents and nine hundred pounds) and nine to Austria, with four agents and 7,830 pounds.27

  Some cargo was decidedly nonstandard. In one instance the 885th delivered carrier pigeons from Corsica to southern France. Only four birds were known to reach their destinations, as wartime rationing left Corsicans hungry for protein.