by Stout, Jay
The following day, December 11, Righetti again led the 55th on a similar sweep through central Germany. No enemy aircraft were sighted and Righetti split the group and took the 338th down to the deck where he shot up three locomotives. His reputation in the group as a leader who would find action—weather, fuel, ammunition and orders permitting—was growing. Leedom John, who flew most of his missions with Righetti, liked his aggressiveness. “You could bet you were going to be shooting at something somewhere. He was always looking for targets of opportunity—and finding them.”
Back at home the same day, Cathryn and little Kyle continued living normal, domestic lives. Kyle had been ill and Cathryn described how a regimen that included laxatives, fasting and various other procedures restored her health. “She has a new lease on life now.”
That the labor shortage created by the war was still a problem during late 1944 was evident when Cathryn went shopping. “I was in Sears on Saturday afternoon and before I could get out of the store, three different people asked me if I wanted a job. When I said maybe, they practically had me on the payroll.”
When the Eighth’s first fighter groups traded in their Spitfires and began flying escort missions with P-47s during the spring of 1943, they typically launched about a dozen aircraft from each of their three squadrons. And, if they were available, a handful of spare aircraft were sent to fill the gaps left by aircraft that had to abort—usually for mechanical issues. So then, once the typical fighter group got airborne, assembled, and underway, it usually motored into Europe with about three dozen aircraft.
However, as the great American industrial complex leaned into the harness, more and more aircraft were delivered to the fighter groups. The receipt of those increased numbers of fighters coincided neatly with the arrival of more and better-trained pilots. Those eager young men were the products of the aircrew training machine within which Righetti had labored so assiduously for the last several years. Consequently, by the summer of 1944, these greater numbers of pilots and aircraft, together with the men to maintain and support them—and a lower-than-expected attrition rate—gave the fighter groups the ability to launch fifty or more aircraft per mission. In fact, by the end of the war some groups were able to send more than seventy aircraft airborne at a time.
This great surfeit of resources created options. First, of course, VIII Fighter Command could simply task a group to fly as a single large formation to be deployed at the group leader’s discretion upon rendezvousing with the bomber stream. Usually, one squadron was sent to patrol along one side of the bombers, while a second was responsible for the other side, and another squadron was kept high. This ensured greater coverage and flexibility as compared to a single, unwieldy and monolithic formation.
Another option was to task a group to fly more than one mission per day which sometimes meant that the available aircraft were split between the missions and not used on more than one. And later during the war, at approximately the same time that Righetti arrived, the fighter groups were often split and tasked to fly as two separate formations, an “A” group and a “B” group. On rare occasions, the units were additionally directed to sortie a third formation, a “C” group. The takeoff times were coincident and generally the tasking was the same. However, splitting the group into two or three formations with their own flight leaders gave a degree of flexibility and ease of handling beyond what was possible with a single formation of fifty or more aircraft.
The 55th and the squadrons that comprised it were all identified by unique radio callsigns. During the period Righetti was with the 55th it was identified as “Windsor.” So then, if he was leading the group on a mission, his callsign was Windsor Lead. If there was a “B” group, its callsign was “Graphic.” On those very infrequent occasions when there was a “C” group, it was called “Kodak.”
Within the group formation, the callsigns of the 38th, 338th and 343rd Fighter Squadrons were “Hellcat,” “Acorn,” and “Tudor,” respectively. If the squadrons were flying as part of a “B” group, their callsigns were “Program,” “Richard” and “Saucy.” There were no unique squadron callsigns for aircraft flying as part of a “C” group. Finally, the callsign for the airfield at Wormingford was “Fusspot.”
The 55th’s squadrons were divided into individual flights, designated by color, White—in which the squadron leader flew—and Red, Blue, and Yellow. The corresponding callsigns were complex and cumbersome especially as a pilot’s callsign changed between missions depending on which position he flew. For instance, the wingman of the Blue Flight leader in the 338th was Acorn Blue 2. On his next mission he might be the element leader’s wingman in Yellow Flight in “B” group in which case his callsign would be Richard Yellow 4. During the heat of battle the pilots sometimes couldn’t remember who was using which radio callsign and simply resorted to shouting out names. For instance it was much easier to shout “Bill, break left!” than it was to remember and call out, “Hellcat Yellow Four, break left!” Certainly it was better to drop the naming convention and keep a comrade alive, than it was to see him shot down in flames because a callsign couldn’t be remembered.
Individual aircraft also carried unique letter-code markings on their fuselages. All the squadrons in VIII Fighter Command were given two-letter designators which were painted on the side of the fuselage forward of the “Stars and Bars” national insignia. The 38th, 338th and 343rd designators were CG, CL and CY respectively. Additionally, from late 1944, the rudders of the aircraft in each squadron were painted different colors. The 338th’s was dark green, and the 343rd’s was yellow. The 38th’s assigned color was red, and was not used until March 1945.
Aft of the national insignia, on the fuselage, the first letter of the last name of the aircraft’s pilot was painted. For instance, Ed Giller’s Millie G was painted with the 343rd’s CY in front of the national insignia, and with a G aft of it. However, as there were usually several pilots whose last names started with the same letter, the letters were modified in various ways, such as with underscores or “bars.” Or sometimes the convention wasn’t followed at all. For instance, Frank Birtciel’s Miss Velma was marked with CY for the 343rd Fighter Squadron, and with a D, which had nothing to do with his last name. Similarly, Righetti’s Katydid was marked CL for the 338th Fighter Squadron, and with an M for its aircraft unique marking. No matter which way it was turned, there was no M in Elwyn Guido Righetti.
It had long been an axiom that the key to keeping the American fighting man happy was to ensure that he was paid on time, adequately fed and in receipt of regular mail. Whereas Righetti rarely mentioned food or pay, it was obvious that he craved news from home. And he was a demanding correspondent. “Please write me more,” he pleaded upon arriving in England, “no letter in several days.” This was a request that he made over and over again during his time overseas.
He regularly admonished Cathryn and the rest of the family when he felt they lagged in keeping him caught up: “You can’t possibly know how much letters from home mean.” And his excitement upon receiving mail was evident in his praise: “Your wonderful V-mails continue to be the spark that keeps me going. Honest, they’re wonderful. The pictures arriving today, Sis, are truly tops. Everyone looks so well.”
The government definitely understood how important it was for the men to receive reliable and regular mail.3 Aside from combat, nothing affected morale more. In fact, guidelines were promulgated to families through posters, print ads and movie reels. For instance, chatty news about family and friends was encouraged, as was information about goings-on within the community. Sad or disheartening news was to be avoided or softened. The folks back home were additionally advised to write regularly so that their men felt connected and loved.
Wives were advised that poisonous gossip traveled just fine via the mail and that they were to guard against behavior that might cause their faraway husbands any upset. Also they were to refrain from troubling their men about petty problems about which they could do not
hing, separated as they were by time and distance:
Soldiers are occupied with the fundamentals of existence. Yours, as well as theirs, only most of you are too far away from the terribleness of war and what a Nazi-dominated world could mean, to realize it. Yes, I know. It’s very hard to suddenly become a psychologist and an author overnight merely because your man went away. But it’s worth your while to try. For just as the right kind of letters will tighten your romances—or your bonds of affection with son, brother, or husband—so will the wrong kind loosen them”4
Cathryn might have been especially good at sheltering Righetti from the typical annoyances or problems that dogged the wife of every man who was overseas. In fact, he had to solicit this information from her: “Tell me about your finances and worries. How are you making out? Can you use more money?” But whatever she shared or didn’t, she still owned his heart: “Miss you and love you more than ever—squeeze Kyle for me.” He signed off as “Rig.”
Much of the mail from mid-1943 until the end of the war was “Victory Mail,” or “V-mail.” It was used by both the men overseas, and by family and friends back home. Certainly Righetti and his family used it a great deal. It was a concept borrowed from the collaboration between Eastman Kodak and the British that saved cargo weight and space better used for war material.
The mechanics of V-mail letter writing were simple. Specially sized and formatted sheets were picked up at the post office and messages were written on one side, with the delivery address clearly penned at the top. Once the sheet was folded and sealed, the delivery address was also added to the outside before it was mailed.
After arriving at various processing centers, the letter was opened and microfilmed onto a roll of specialty film before being discarded. The state-of-the-art equipment used to photograph and process the letters was manufactured by the Eastman Kodak company. Each roll of microfilm could be imaged with more than 1,500 letters. Accordingly, the rolls of microfilmed letters that filled one postal bag at a weight of 45 pounds would have required 37 postal bags weighing well more than a ton if they had been traditionally mailed.
After arriving at a processing center in the locality of their final destinations, the microfilmed letters were printed onto small sheets and delivered by the postal service. The process proved to be fast and efficient and certainly saved valuable cargo space even if it did require the introduction of a new layer of postal infrastructure and the trained people necessary to operate it.
In practice, V-mail was popular because of its ease of use. Moreover, because there was only limited space on the specially formatted sheets, it was possible to generate many letters at a sitting without the writer feeling guilty at not filling several pages of stationery. And it moved faster than regular mail, as indicated by Righetti in a V-mail he wrote on January 12: “Got your swell V-mails yesterday which is pretty swell service. They were written Xmas eve and day—much faster than air mail.” On the other hand, his letter the next day, January 13, underscored how inefficient the postal service could be with traditional mail: “Got five letters from you all and Katy yesterday dated 25 September to 29 October.”
Righetti’s letters and those of his family are interesting because there are so few spelling or grammatical errors. Although Righetti often truncated sentences or used slang—for example, “tonite” rather than “tonight”—his spelling was nearly always perfect, as was that of his family. It was an indication of the importance the family put on education.
On the other hand, Righetti and his family were direct and to the point. Letters were tools written to communicate, or to entertain, or—certainly on his part—simply to let Cathryn and the folks know he was still alive and thinking of them. Interesting events were shared such as his experience while on a pass to London on December 12, 1944: “V-2 [ballistic missile] last nite flipped us out of our chairs—landed about 400 yards off. I think I’d rather be shot at by bullets.” And in a separate letter to the folks: “We’ve got lots of V-1s [primitive cruise missiles] here yet, but you can hear them coming and hit the shelter if they’re close. Quite a war.”
And wants were articulated. In particular, Righetti asked regularly for jerky—it was a Righetti specialty that he missed sorely. And he was always interested in news from home: “Sure would like snapshots of home activities if possible. Also jerky.”
But rarely was there any attempt to practice florid prose or to explore philosophical complexities. This didn’t mean that Righetti didn’t deal with emotional issues or conflicts; in his situation he couldn’t help but experience some degree of angst or inner turmoil. Perhaps the closest he came to sharing his introspection was in a note he sent just before Christmas, after nearly two months of combat operations. “Glad you think I’m still tenderhearted, Mom. Sometimes I wonder. I wonder too, occasionally, if I’m changing a little. That frets me.”
The V-1s that Righetti mentioned were not uncommon at Wormingford, as recalled by Herman Schonenberg, a young pilot with the 338th. “We were located on a bit of a hill and were on the run to London. The V-1s came in very low over our base. In fact, once we got used to them we tried several times to shoot them down with our .45s. This was really stupid, but there wasn’t much else to do.”
It was during this time that the Germans made final preparations for a last desperate attack in the West that came to be known as the Ardennes Offensive, or more popularly, the Battle of the Bulge. In strict secrecy—and using the cover of darkness and poor weather—the Germans moved more than two hundred thousand men, hundreds of tanks and more than a thousand artillery pieces into positions across from thinly held American lines in Belgium. Hitler’s objective was the Belgian port of Antwerp through which the Allies moved a major portion of their logistics train.
Regardless of Hitler’s objective, the Wehrmacht and the Waffen SS simply didn’t have the necessary manpower, fuel and equipment. Nor was the Luftwaffe capable of protecting them from Allied airpower once the weather cleared. That being the case, the German plan to encircle and destroy various Allied armies following the unlikely capture of Antwerp was preposterous.
However, the armored thrust that began during the early morning hours of December 16, 1944, caught the defending Americans completely by surprise. Timed to coincide with miserable weather that kept the American airmen grounded, the attack reached deep into Belgium and caused panic and confusion as commanders tried to make sense of reports that described a massive attack where none was expected or even believed possible.
When Righetti wrote home the following day, December 17, it was apparent that he wasn’t yet aware that the Germans had launched a major offensive. “Dearest family—Nothing much to report tonite. Led the group again yesterday and English weather forced me into France [Reims] with the whole outfit.” Although the weather low over the Ardennes was foul, it wasn’t as bad over southern Germany and the 55th was able to escort B-17s of the 3d Air Division to Stuttgart.
After leaving the bombers, Righetti had taken his 338th Fighter Squadron down to the deck in the vicinity of Ulm. “Got three more locos yesterday to bring total to nineteen.” He went on to list a grab bag of other target types to include freight cars, trucks and factory buildings. “Stinking weather, but very successful mission.”
Righetti also tried to describe the beauty of the snow-covered countryside that, perversely, was made more spectacular by the machines of war. “Some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen—in foothills of the Alps, sixty miles from the Swiss border. Wonderful green pine forests, all snow-covered. Locos were similar to our Rocky Malibus. Three-to-four hundred miles per hour over country like that is something I’ll never forget. Then, machine guns flashing and great orange flame patches on the ground. Green pine background—beautiful.”
“WE TRY NOT TO HIT THE CREW”
Locomotive killing was akin to a sport for the American pilots. Righetti’s enthusiasm for it was obvious in his letters in which he described them as, “the prettiest things when they
burst. They most always see you coming, so if possible they put the steam to it. You hit them broadside, starting firing at 300–400 yards, and close in to probably 25 to 30. You’re on the deck all the way and pull up to go over them. If you’re right they go all to pieces—chunks of plate all over. Many, however,” he continued, “just break inside and all the steam goes out the stack. We try not to hit the crew, but occasionally get too eager.”
There were times when it didn’t matter whether or not the pilots aimed at the crew. Crewing the trains was dangerous work and there were apocryphal stories of engineers who were chained to their locomotives in order to keep them from fleeing. However, it seems that most were dedicated to their work. A case in point was August Grabmann, a 68-year-old engineer aboard a munitions train stopped in the village of Sülzenbrüken, near Arnstadt in central Germany. When American fighters were spotted, the crew hurried to move the train into the countryside lest the village be blown to smithereens in the event the munitions were hit and exploded.
Their instincts were correct, but while the village was spared, the train was attacked and did indeed explode, blowing its crew to bits. Grabmann’s obituary recalled him as a “lifetime companion,” a “beloved father” and “the best grandfather,” who “was taken away from us when he was killed in the line of carrying out his duty during a strafing attack. We are all gripped in the deepest of sorrow.”1
