by Stout, Jay
The 55th was sent on two missions on March 21, 1945. The first was to Hopsten, a Luftwaffe airfield approximately twenty miles from Germany’s border with the Netherlands, east of the Rhine. Although it wasn’t an important base early in the war, it hosted more units and grew increasingly critical during 1944 and 1945 as the Allied strategic bombing campaign intensified. Consequently, with the British scheduled to cross the Rhine from the Netherlands on March 23, its neutralization was essential.
Righetti led 58 P-51s out of Wormingford on that date. Unusually, 33 of the aircraft were loaded with a single Mk29 five hundred-pound cluster bomb. These bombs were in turn loaded with ninety four-pound fragmentation bombs designed to scatter across the target area when the main bomb body broke apart at a predetermined altitude. The Mk29—a virtual copy of a German design—was intended to be used against “soft” targets such as troops, trucks, and aircraft on the ground.
Notwithstanding the curious bomb load that many of the aircraft carried, the 55th was still tasked with escorting 1st Air Division B-17s to Hopsten. As it developed, the bombers were unmolested and Righetti pulled the group aside as the big aircraft dumped their loads on the airfield. “Bombing results by the heavies were perfect and obliterated the airdrome, practically all bombs either dropping on the runways or the built up installations.”
The 55th’s bombs were icing on the cake. Before the smoke from the B-17 raid had time to settle, Righetti led the 38th Fighter Squadron down on the gun emplacements that protected Hopsten’s east side. “After dropping my frag,” said Righetti, “I hit the deck on the south side of the field and did two complete turns around the perimeter track at zero altitude.”4 He spotted only two FW-190s. For his trouble, even though the antiaircraft gunners had just endured a raid by heavy bombers, Righetti’s aircraft was hit in the tail by a 37-millimeter cannon round. As close as he was to the ground, he nevertheless maintained control of Katydid.
Righetti’s wingman, June Stallings, was not so fortunate. A relative newcomer—having only joined the group less than a month earlier—he was caught in a stream of antiaircraft fire, knocked down and killed. Anxious to suppress the enemy guns, Righetti radioed their locations to the 343rd Fighter Squadron which was still orbiting overhead. “I called in the gun positions, and Tudor Squadron frag bombed them.”
“I pulled up and out while this bombing was in progress,” Righetti said, “and determined that my aircraft was in satisfactory condition for an attack upon the FW-190s which I had previously spotted.” He indulged himself with an inventive attack. “I then approached from northeast to southwest and fired a two-second burst at 400-to-300 yards, deck level, through a small shed behind which the grounded fighter was sitting. I observed good strikes and a small explosion and left the FW-190 burning brightly.”
Righetti set up for an attack on the other enemy fighter. “I broke into the smoke of the burning hangar, then turned right and returned out of the sun for a fast diving pass at the only remaining undamaged aircraft that I could locate.” He had no need for trick shooting on this pass and fired his guns from a range of eight hundred yards. “This FW-190 burst into flames and continued burning throughout the next ten to fifteen minutes.”
Aside from the two aircraft Righetti set afire, only four others were discovered. These were flamed by pilots of the 343rd. The scarcity of aircraft at Hopsten caught the group by surprise as photoreconnaissance just two days earlier had uncovered nearly 80 aircraft. “It is believed that the Heinies had wind of this attack and moved out in advance,” noted the mission summary report.
But whereas enemy aircraft were scarce, the antiaircraft fire—despite the bombing raid—was concentrated and intense as noted in the mission summary report. “Flak positions encountered were of a mound type built up about 8 feet above the ground,” recounted the mission summary report. “At the top they are about 14 feet in diameter with a pit 6–8 feet across for the gun, and the rest, protective revetment. Frag bombs were relatively ineffective as only one direct hit was seen, and on the succeeding passes the Heinies were back on the guns. Dive strafing also seemed to have only momentary effects.”
“After 15 minutes of agitating the target,” the mission summary report noted, “a box of big friends [bombers] of the fourth force called in over “C” [channel] requesting to bomb our target. We moved over and all their bombs burst perfectly on the East–West runway.” After this interlude the 55th went back to work. Righetti, in particular, was determined to find more aircraft: “Group leader cased the airdrome at deck level for half an hour, but search only revealed that enemy aircraft were conspicuous by their absence.”
With no more aircraft on which to direct their guns, the group’s pilots shot up everything else on the airfield—refueling points, antiaircraft guns, outbuildings, and the main hangar that was already ablaze. But the “shoot ’em up” wasn’t one-sided. Aside from June Stallings, Dudley Amoss was also caught by antiaircraft fire. “Our flight, in taking evasive action, became split up and my aircraft was hit. I called my leader [Righetti] and notified him of my trouble and said I was taking a course of 240 for friendly territory.” Amoss cleared the area to the west while the rest of the 55th continued its rampage.
Hopsten, notwithstanding its very active antiaircraft gunners, was put out of commission for the short term. The bombers had cratered its runways and many of its buildings were afire. The 55th had shot up what aircraft its pilots could find as well as everything else that presented itself as a worthwhile target. After nearly half an hour of strafing, there remained little that was worth the risk of being shot down. “Flak continued intense,” said Righetti, “and since this airdrome could not be further considered in the big dividend class, I called my boys together and we set course for home.”
After being hit early during the action at Hopsten that day, Dudley Amoss headed west. The smoke that filled his cockpit seeped through his goggles and burned his eyes. “I had been flying for about six minutes on this course at 1,000 feet,” he said, “when I spotted five FW-190s at two o’clock below me at tree top level. Since my aircraft, though still pouring smoke into the cockpit, was behaving fairly well, I decided to attack.”5
The enemy aircraft passed under Amoss in a loose vee formation. “Pulling around to the left, I got on the tail of the trailing FW-190 on the right, and at 200 yards gave him a short burst. He immediately exploded in midair.”
Amoss continued up the right leg of the vee formation and lined up on the next enemy fighter. “Almost as soon as I opened fire, the Jerry skidded off to the right and mushed right down into the trees. For some reason, the other three 190s still hadn’t spotted me, so I headed after the leader. As I squeezed the trigger he started violent evasive action and I’m not certain whether I scored any hits on him or not. At any rate he suddenly did a snap to the right and went straight in and exploded.”
Amoss’s engine finally failed a few minutes later. He weaved through a copse of trees before setting the aircraft down in an open field. German civilians were on the scene almost immediately and threatened him as he climbed from the cockpit. Amoss reached for his pistol and there ensued a short standoff until a Luftwaffe officer arrived, made him a prisoner, and spirited him away to safety.
It is interesting to note that after being liberated from Stalag Luft I at the end of the war, Amoss filed an encounter report together with a sworn statement.6 Suprisingly, the Victory Credit Board allowed his claim for the destruction of three FW-190s.7 This was done despite the fact that there were no eyewitness statements and certainly no gun camera film evidence. This stands in marked contrast to the disallowal of the claims made by Robert Cox for the destruction of seven Do-217s on March 3, for which he likewise had no witnesses or gun camera film.
Why Amoss’s claims were allowed can only be guessed at. It might have been an unofficial concession to compensate him for his time as a POW. Or, postwar, the Victory Credit Board might simply have been ready to close up shop and honoring Amoss’s clai
m might have been the most expeditious means to resolve the case. Regardless, awarding him credit for downing three enemy aircraft, despite the fact that he had no witnesses or gun camera film, was unusual. As a result, because he had earlier downed a trainer as well as an Me-262, he achieved ace status.
Righetti lost his wingman, June Stallings, on March 21. He had lost another wingman, Ken Griffith, a few months earlier on December 24. In the make-believe world of perfect fighter piloting there was sometimes a stigma attached to a flight leader who lost a wingman. In this fanciful construct, the flight leader was supposed to nurture, protect and mentor his wingman while introducing him to the harsh realities of combat in measured doses. Ultimately, the carefully coddled wingman was supposed to evolve into a topnotch teammate with whom the flight leader could sweep the skies clear of the enemy.
Although there were examples of combat pairings in the USAAF that were deadly effective, the reality was that these were rare. In truth, although most men regularly flew with a handful of other pilots, the demands of wartime operations didn’t allow the same pilots to fly together on every mission. Illness, rest requirements, aircraft availability, reassignment and combat losses were only some of the factors at play.
In Righetti’s case, as the group commander, he flew with each of the three squadrons rather than exclusively with one. Consequently, there was no reasonable way for him to fly with the same wingman on every sortie. In fact, he often flew with wingmen with whom he never flew again. Certainly there were no opportunities for him to spend extended periods mentoring anyone. However, he did fly with some men more than once—Carroll Henry being an example. “He was the greatest pilot I ever flew with,” said Henry. “I just liked flying with him.”
Further, the notion that a flight leader could protect a wingman from every danger was flawed. Certainly, especially dangerous situations might be avoided. However, the nature of their work was such that the men were often required to operate in those especially dangerous situations; it was their job. The loss of June Stallings at Hopsten offers a good example. The group’s mission was to bomb and strafe the airfield, and Righetti led the men in doing just that. There was no way that he could have done so while keeping Stallings safe from enemy fire.
Moreover, wingmen were generally younger and inexperienced. Accordingly, no matter how much mentoring they received, they often made mistakes that were deadly. Also, their primary job was to protect their flight leader, especially from threats originating from the rear. It was a task that sometimes put them in unfavorable positions, and unfavorable positions often produced unhappy results. Finally, although skill and guile might be used by a flight leader to ensure that he and his wingman prevailed over enemy pilots, skill and guile were of little value against bad luck. In particular, there was little a flight leader could do to protect his wingman against mechanical failure, or an unlucky flak burst. Frank Birtciel, who flew two combat tours, recollected that, “Strafing and flak evasion was mostly just ‘outhouse luck’ luck as far as getting hit.”
Ultimately, the reality was that half the pilots on every mission were wingmen. Therefore, wingmen were regularly shot down. Holding their flight leaders accountable—without cause—made no sense at all and generally did not happen. Certainly no one with any credibility attached any blame to Righetti for the wingmen he lost.
Tom Welch was the 55th’s intelligence officer and a friend of Righetti’s. As the intelligence officer he did not fly but rather was responsible for briefing the group’s pilots on enemy activities and capabilities both in general and for specific missions. He was also responsible for creating the group’s mission summary reports after the pilots returned to Wormingford. Welch, like Righetti, had a big, fun-loving personality and a good sense of humor.
He was also, like many men of the time, an unabashed admirer of Damon Runyon. Runyon started his career as a reporter and sportswriter and became especially well known for his short stories, a few of which formed the basis for the classic play, Guys and Dolls. Runyon’s stories featured colorful characters such as thugs, and down-and-outters and men-done-wrong. These colorful characters had equally colorful names such as, Bookie Bob, Harry the Horse, Izzy Cheesecake and Spanish John, and always talked in the present tense, rarely using contractions. Their “wise-guy” patter was characterized by a type of slang and street-savvy smartness that was widely imitated as it wended its way into the American vernacular.
It was during mid-March 1945 that Welch started crafting the narratives for the group’s mission summary reports in a Runyonesque style that stood in stark contrast to the cryptic feel that was typical of official documents of that sort. He debuted his new style in the mission summary report for the second mission of March 21, a pure fighter sweep. With no bombers to escort, Righetti was free to take the 55th hunting however he wanted. It was a fantastic opportunity ruined by the fact that the group could find little that was worthy of attention. He led the group through and around the area between Wurzburg and Giebelstadt with no luck as recorded by the mission summary report “with apologies to Damon Runyan [sic]”:
We are charging along thru the lesser Reich, all rodded up, looking for some live ones with a little less than somewhat of our usual success. As we are chugging across Giebelstadt we are not seeing anything of Jerries, but a bunch of flak passers pre-flighting their roscoes. However, we are not having any truck with these Heinies, and are tossing them the chill as we have already agitated a few too many of this particular type Heinie this morning and they are no kind of Heinie to be going around in the company of, expecially if they are all sored up at you.
And then, something caught the group’s attention. “We are thinking we have been slipped the phonus bolonus, when who are we seeing near Ochenfurt but some of Der Fuehrer’s young ’uns playing with some pull jobs or gliders.” Righetti and the 55th had found a glider school.
Glider clubs were popular in Germany following World War I when the restrictions imposed by the Versailles Treaty—particularly against anything resembling military aircraft—were so onerous. Glider training continued to be important to the Luftwaffe in various degrees before and during the war and was especially popular with the Hitler Youth. However, regardless of whether or not a budding pilot was trained on gliders it still took well more than a year to be made ready for combat. Consequently, it was curious that glider training was still being conducted when the war was quite obviously nearing its end, and Allied fighters were everywhere. That being said, it is quite possible that the students the 55th had discovered that day were being prepared to pilot one of Germany’s wonder weapons.
In fact, the Heinkel He-162 Volksjäger, or People’s Fighter, was nearing operational status. A very simple design powered by a single jet engine, it was constructed of wood and other readily available materials, and was intended to be quickly manufactured in enormous numbers by semi-skilled and unskilled labor. Göring, who essentially considered the He-162 to be disposable, pushed to have it introduced into combat as quickly as possible.
The popular notion was that the new jet was to be flown by pilots with a minimum of training, many of whom would be drawn from the Hitler Youth. The bulk of their training was to be conducted with gliders which were also readily manufactured and could be operated with little or no fuel. In the event, the idea was absurd as the He-162, although reputedly a fine flying aircraft, demanded more skill than a hastily trained glider pilot could bring to the cockpit.
Righetti and the rest of the 55th didn’t know or care about any of this. Rather, they dove on the gliders where they were parked on the side of a hill. “It must have been a preflight school of some kind,” recalled Leedom John of the 338th Fighter Squadron, “because there were young men in a number of groups gathered around gliders. They did not know we were there until we hit them on the first pass, still gathered around the gliders.”
The terrified youngsters scattered as the 55th wheeled around for another firing run. The group’s pilots fired on everythi
ng—the fleeing students, their abandoned gliders and the airfield’s hangar. “On the second pass,” said Leedom John, “they were running up the hill toward a woods but a lot of them never made it, as they were easy targets right out in the open with no cover. I’ll remember it until the day I die.” For his part, although he shot up several of the unpowered crates and presumably sprayed the students, Righetti’s recollection was less dramatic as he barely mentioned the episode when he wrote home a few days later.
“I’M PRETTY MUCH TIRED”
The Luftwaffe’s units were continuously chased from their airfields as the Allies thrust deeper into Germany during the last few weeks of the war. As the various German staffs, and support personnel and flyers retreated, they sent large numbers of serviceable aircraft into the heart of the Reich. They also took their antiaircraft weapons with them. Consequently, the shrinking numbers of airfields still under Nazi control were packed with aircraft and the guns necessary to defend them. Attacking the airfields—always a dangerous job—became even more so. So, it was reasonable for the pilots, some from the 55th, to question whether or not it was necessary to make these risky attacks given the obvious fact that Germany was going to lose the war.
No one knew for sure. On the one hand, assuming enough fuel was set aside, there was absolutely no reason to believe that Germany wouldn’t or couldn’t mount another version of the massive surprise attack—Bodenplatte—that achieved limited success a few months earlier on New Year’s Day. Although that effort had failed to achieve its most ambitious objectives, Germany had little to lose by trying again. Certainly there were enough aircraft available and probably, with careful planning, adequate fuel. By scraping the very bottom of the pilot barrel to round up every airman available—to include the wounded—it might have been possible to launch something even bigger than Bodenplatte.
