by Stout, Jay
Brookes Liles was hit and flames reached back from his engine. “I was right above him,” said squadron mate Marvin Satenstein, “and could see that his aircraft was still under control, but he couldn’t get much power out of it.” Satenstein followed the stricken aircraft for another minute or so until Liles bellied it into a field. “I watched him get out of his aircraft and just then it caught fire.”10
Satenstein and a handful of squadron mates—including Bernard Howes—circled Liles. Howes and Liles were very close friends, having gone through flight training together. Howes surprised everyone by announcing that he intended to land and retrieve Liles.
A handful of such rescues had been successfully made during the previous year. The press loved it while Doolittle, the head of the Eighth Air Force, hated it. In fact, he forbade the practice as it was too dangerous and risked losing two men instead of just one. Nevertheless, more than one airman had disobeyed Doolittle’s order and Howes readied to do the same in order to save his friend.
After making a pass over the field where Liles had crashed, Howes made another circuit, lowered his landing gear, and set his aircraft, My L’il Honey, down. Liles ran to meet him and the two men shed equipment—to include parachutes—to make enough room inside the already-snug cockpit. Finally, with enemy ground fire growing intense they shoehorned themselves into the little fighter and started their takeoff roll. The aircraft accelerated and Howes made a radio call, “Gang, keep your fingers crossed and we’ll make it.”
Crossed fingers were not enough and a German bullet blew the throttle from Howes’s hand. “The Mustang rose for a little bit,” Satenstein said, “but didn’t have the speed and settled back on the ground.” On making contact the aircraft bounced then cartwheeled and crashed, catching fire as it did so.
Miraculously, the two pilots were not killed. Liles’s nose was broken and Howes sustained a blow to the head that gave him a concussion and temporarily blinded him. Their squadron mates circled overhead while Liles dragged Howes away from the burning aircraft. “I buzzed the wreck,” said Satenstein. “I saw both Howes and Liles walking to the east towards a large highway. Both looked okay and waved to me as I passed over them.” Both men were quickly captured and made POWs. They survived the war and Howes’s eyesight returned as his concussion abated.
Although he made no mention of it, it is possible that Righetti had to answer to higher headquarters for the forbidden stunt. Doolittle had given orders against these attempts because he anticipated the sorts of failures that Howes and Liles so aptly showcased. Still, no one anywhere denied that reining in the devotion of the men to each other was a good problem to have. On the other hand, ordering that same sort of loyalty would have been very difficult indeed.
Ultimately, Robert Cox’s claims for the two Do-217s destroyed over Kitzingen that day, as well as the five destroyed on the ground, were disallowed. Beginning in 1943, the Eighth Air Force’s Fighter Command, or VIII FC, periodically convened Victory Credit Boards, or VCBs. Their purpose was to evaluate the claims of pilots—for both ground and air targets—against available evidence. This evidence typically included the individual pilot’s statement, usually in the form of a Pilot’s Personal Encounter Report, as well as witness reports and gun camera film. The board members were experienced pilots with the technical expertise necessary to adjudicate the many claims.
This validation of claims by a higher authority provided a level of standardization and sense of fairness among the Eighth’s fighter pilots. It helped ensure that the claims of all the pilots were held to the same level of scrutiny regardless of rank or affiliation. This meant that a group commander’s claims were evaluated with the same rigor as the lowliest lieutenant’s.
Still, the system was imperfect. Gun camera film was notoriously unreliable and could be rendered useless by any number of factors to include camera failure, improper aperture settings, dirty camera ports, airframe vibration, and bad handling and processing. Victorious pilots often waited anxiously for days as the gun camera film necessary to support their claims was developed. More than a few were crushed to learn that the imagery was so poor that nothing could be ascertained.
That the gun camera was so unreliable is evidenced by the paucity of good, clear, gun camera imagery when considered against the enormous numbers of aircraft that were shot down. Certainly, much footage has been lost, destroyed or abandoned but it was never dependable and the Victory Credit Board was often put in a difficult position when presented with fuzzy and indistinct imagery that represented a pilot’s claim for victory.
On the other hand, the film sometimes added clarity to claims. More than a month after the event, on December 5, 1944, Righetti wrote of the Me-109 for which he and Cramer shared credit after knocking it down on November 2. “Confirmation came through yesterday on my Me-109. Four more and I’ll be an ace. Pictures gave me full, instead of shared, credit.” In the end he did nothing to try to change the initial finding of shared credit. He was likely satisfied in knowing that he had inflicted the lion’s share of the damage, and additionally did not want to run the risk of ruining the good relationship—and friendship—he shared with Cramer.
If the system had a weakness, it was in the witness statements. In the absence of usable gun camera film, total reliance was on the honor and integrity of the men and what they wrote in their witness reports. It assumed that high-ranking officers did not bully or otherwise influence their junior counterparts. It also had to presume that friends did not bolster each other’s claims based simply on their relationships. Although it would be naïve to believe that such behaviors did not occur at all, it is generally accepted that they did not to any great degree.
In Cox’s case, he was alone and could offer no witness statements. At the top of his encounter report there was a handwritten notation, “film all white,” which indicated that his gun camera film showed nothing and consequently failed to support his account. At the bottom of the encounter report there was another handwritten note: “Colonel Righetti will call General Woodbury on this claim.” Across the page, there was one more scrawl: “Group officials believe pilot’s story okay.”11
The notion that Righetti would approach the wing commander to support the claims of one of his pilots was consistent with his personality. “He always took up for the pilots,” recalled Carroll Henry. “Especially the ones he liked. He would chew somebody to pieces if he felt like it … he chewed on a few I guess.” Of course it is unlikely that Righetti tore into General Woodbury, but it is quite probable that he pled Cox’s case to him. Ultimately, however, Cox’s claims were disallowed.12 He was only one of many pilots whose achievements were never officially recognized for the valid reason that they simply could not be proved.
On March 3, 1945, the same day that Howes botched his rescue of Liles, and the same day that Cox shot down the Do-217s, the United States Strategic Air Forces in Europe—headed by Carl Spaatz—recognized Righetti and the 55th with a news release. “Lt. Col Elwyn G. Righetti’s train-busting 55th Fighter Group has cost the Germans more than half a thousand locomotives since the first of the year in strafing sweeps over the enemy rail network. Pilots of the 55th, one of the ‘hottest’ train-busting units in the Eighth Air Force, Saturday shot up 23 [actually, 21] locomotives in Czechoslovakia, increasing the total to 534 immobilized since January 1.”13
Although he preferred flying over staff work, Righetti readily acknowledged that there were aspects about the non-flying duties of his new command that were rewarding. He was called to an Eighth Air Force planning conference on March 6 and admitted that he felt “very important planning the war as well as fighting it. Felt very proud when introduced to General Doolittle to have him say, ‘I’ve heard a lot of you, Righetti.’”
In the same letter he reported that he had, “a new Katydid. It’s fresh from the factory with all the latest Hun headaches [improvements]. It’s a beauty—the original Katydid was war weary.” Righetti’s regular crew chief, Millard “Doak” Eas
ton, remembered both the original Katydid and the later aircraft, Serial Number 44-72227. “When Righetti came along he got an old airplane, well broken in and noisy from wear. He liked it and remarked on how noisy it was.” However, it was only a few months before Katydid reached the mark of 350 combat hours—the point at which the P-51s were removed from combat duty.
When replacement aircraft arrived, they weren’t immediately put into service. Instead, they were assigned to a pilot whose ground crew was responsible for ensuring the ship was compliant with the latest technical orders. Easton remembered that the process typically consumed three days, and that it took a similar period for him to prepare Righetti’s new Katydid. “I had a new P-51 all ready for him,” he recalled. Righetti was excited about his new ship and immediately took it for a test hop. “When he came back,” Easton recalled, “he said, ‘You know, this one is too damned quiet!’”
Righetti was appropriately businesslike with Easton and the rest of his ground crew. “I never saw him except when he was going to fly, and then, not for long.” For his part, that was fine with Easton who had already been through several pilots since the group had been flying P-38s back in the States. “I never tried to get too close as it’s hard to get over sending a man out and have him not come back.”
Happily for Easton and the rest of the crew, Righetti didn’t waste their time with petty maintenance gripes or ambiguous complaints. “He never gave me any tough write-ups,” said Easton. “But he told me if the engine was even a slight bit rough.” Righetti’s sensitivity in this regard was hardly unique. “Once over the North Sea,” Frank Birtciel said, “every pilot I knew became very sensitive to every little rumble or tick or pop the engine made.”14
Righetti closed the letter about his new aircraft with a declaration that was especially curious. “Something I never thought of before. Don’t ever worry about me. I’ll get home okay.” It is obvious he meant to reassure the family. But it was nevertheless an odd statement to make as it stood in stark contrast to the several references he had already made to the grim possibility that he might not survive his combat tour. Nevertheless, his positive attitude persisted at least until the next day when after explaining that the Luftwaffe rarely rose to contest the 55th any longer, he wrote, “It all boils down to this—my chances of getting home now are 80% or 90%, at least.”
“I HIT THE DECK”
Although the majority of the Luftwaffe’s flyers during early 1945 were markedly inexperienced when compared to their Allied counterparts, the March 18 encounter of Thomas Kiernan of the 338th Fighter Squadron showed that the Germans were not totally bereft of skilled pilots. On that morning while the 338th flew on a southwest heading just slightly north of Giessen, Germany, bogies—unidentified aircraft—were spotted through a gap in the clouds. Kiernan led his Red Flight down to investigate. The squadron’s Yellow Flight accompanied him.
“The first plane I saw as we reached their altitude was a Spit[fire], so I called them in as friendly. Immediately thereafter I saw an FW-190 and then saw five more 190s and two 109s in a rat race with the Spitfire.” The FW-190s were “long-nosed” FW-190Ds, powered by the inline, liquid-cooled Junkers Jumo 213 rather than the BMW 801, air-cooled radial engine that powered earlier variants. Kiernan immediately pitched into the fight and called the rest of the squadron down to assist.
“I got on the tail of a 190 but couldn’t get a shot at him because of his extremely sharp maneuvers,” said Kiernan. “He tried rolls, quick turns and practically split-essed from 1,000 feet.” Kiernan and the German continued their one-on-one duel for several minutes before Kiernan was able to score. “We finally got into a tight turn right on the treetops, and I got in a high deflection burst, observing one or two strikes on his left wing.”
The enemy flyer turned hard back under Kiernan. “I put my nose almost straight down and fired two short bursts from directly above him and saw good strikes on the rear of his canopy and in his fuselage near the tail. He went right on into the ground from this half-roll in a vertical dive.”
Kiernan commented on the skill of the vanquished German. “This Jerry was very aggressive and skillful at evasive action. At no time did he present anything but a high deflection shot. He did not try to run, although he was at all times close to clouds, which he could have used for evasion.”1
Archie Dargan was Yellow Flight’s number four man. Unlike Kiernan’s opponent, his adversary did in fact try to take advantage of the clouds. As he entered the fight Dargan spotted one of the long-nosed FW-190Ds closing on his tail. He turned hard into the German who then turned his attention to another pilot from Yellow Flight. Dargan chased him and the enemy pilot rolled violently and dived before pulling straight up and climbing into the cloud layer. “He spun out of the clouds,” Dargan said, “recovered, and then repeated the procedure. I did not try to follow him in the clouds, but caught him each time as he came out.” Dargan finally got in three short bursts of gunfire which set the enemy aircraft on fire and into the ground with its pilot still aboard.
As Dargan climbed back to altitude he spotted another FW-190D diving on him, head-on. “He did not fire,” Dargan said. “I fired a quarter-second burst and noticed that only one gun in my right wing was still firing.” Dargan noted no effects from his gunfire and turned to engage the enemy pilot. “The enemy aircraft constantly reversed his turn and did barrel rolls, but finally leveled out, and as he did I got in a half-second burst from dead astern, observing a few strikes. Almost [as soon] as I started getting strikes the pilot jettisoned his canopy and bailed from about 4,000 feet.”2
It was encounters such as Kiernan’s and Dargan’s—multiplied many times by many pilots across many fighter groups over a period of many months—that inexorably ground the Luftwaffe into impotency.
New pilots continued to arrive at the 55th during the late winter and early spring of 1945, even as the Allies pushed the Nazis deeper and deeper into Germany. Few questioned how the war would end, but everyone understood that the fighting would have to continue until that end was reached. And the newcomers were expected to do their share—whatever it might be.
The attitudes of Righetti and his old hands toward the newly joined pilots were probably consistent with the theme of a speech that General George Patton, the commander of the Third Army, gave to one of his unblooded divisions in early March 1945. “You, the American soldier, are the greatest soldier in the world,” Patton declared. “You are part of an army that has done the greatest thing in the world. You are fighting for the greatest country in the world. And now the fight is won and almost over, so you can’t help but be goddamn heroes.”
“You men are lucky, very lucky,” he continued. “Now, when you go back home, and in later years when your descendants ask you, ‘Grandpop, what did you do in the Second World War?’ you won’t have to say, ‘Well, sonny, I shoveled shit in Alabama.’” Through the speech, Patton exhorted the men to be unmercifully aggressive toward the Germans regardless of the fact that the fighting was almost finished. And he closed with an unabashed reminder: “Shoot and keep shooting. Attack quickly and decisively. Take care of yourself. Never trust a German.”3
For the most part, the 55th’s men did “shoot and keep shooting.” But it came at a cost. Of the fifteen groups in the Eighth Air Force’s Fighter Command, the 55th lost more aircraft than all but two, and both of those units had been in combat longer. The 55th was also near the bottom of the heap in terms of enemy aircraft destroyed when compared to the number of aircraft it lost. It is impossible to pin that poor performance on any one factor with certainty, although part of it was likely attributable to the problematic P-38 which the 55th operated during the first part of its combat career from October 1943 to July 1944. Moreover, the group’s leadership had not always been of the highest caliber.
Another important factor was the emphasis the group put on strafing, especially during Righetti’s time with the 55th. Down low, the aircraft were within the effective range of every antiaircra
ft weapon the Germans fielded. In fact, even light infantry guns achieved some success against strafing fighters. Still, the 55th wasn’t unique in its attacks against enemy airfields as several other units also racked up considerable strafing scores—and losses.
Moreover, the P-51 was especially susceptible to gunfire. Its inline engine’s heat was carried away by a mixture of water and glycol that was cooled as it passed through an air-cooled radiator. This radiator and the coolant, or “header,” tank was not protected or redundant. Neither was the circuit of lines than ran between the engine and the radiator. Consequently, a punctured header tank or a severed coolant line guaranteed engine failure. The only variable was the period of time it took before the engine overheated and seized completely.
In fact, many Missing Air Crew Reports (MACR) included a variation of the same statement: “I caught sight of his aircraft and could see a stream of coolant coming from the underside.” This statement was invariably followed by something similar to: “He called over the radio that his engine had quit and that he was bailing out.”
The P-51 was not unique in its vulnerability to ground fire. In fact, almost all aircraft powered by liquid-cooled engines were similarly susceptible; the RAF’s excellent Spitfire was an example, as was the P-38. An exception was the Red Air Force’s Il-2 Sturmovik which was very heavily armored. That the P-51 had such a poor reputation as a ground strafer was due in part to the fact that it was so often compared to its contemporary, the P-47. The big and heavily gunned “Jug” was powered by the air-cooled Pratt & Whitney R-2800 radial engine that was spectacularly rugged, and capable of absorbing extreme levels of punishment.
