by Stout, Jay
On the other hand, no one on either side believed that such an attack, even if it caused great damage, would change the outcome of the war. The Allies could have absorbed any punishment that Germany was able to deliver at that point. Still, there was nothing to argue against the idea that a large, desperate, last-ditch effort might cause many military and civilian casualties.
Consequently, if the 55th—and every other fighter unit—lost a dozen, or even twenty or more pilots during a concerted campaign of airfield attacks, who was to say that those men and machines were more valuable than the hundreds or even thousands of lives that might be lost in a massive German air strike that hit London neighborhoods, or Parisian rail stations, or Antwerp dockyards? The answer was unknowable and Righetti intended to engage the Germans until he was called off, or until they surrendered or were utterly destroyed.
And he intended to do so, because it was his job. When distilled, his orders were to use the 55th to escort the Eighth’s heavy bombers, and to help destroy the Luftwaffe in particular and the German war machine in general. His orders were not to keep his men from being killed. Had that been the case there would have been no need for the group to ever leave Wormingford. Certainly, he was not expected to be reckless with the lives of his men, but neither was he to avoid tough targets. And to his credit—and theirs—his men always followed him, as Herman Schonenberg said: “I don’t think the colonel [Righetti] really ever worried about us pilots following him.”
Still, there was grumbling. “There was some talk about [how] the price we were paying was not worth the aircraft on the ground, and we were paying a pretty hefty price,” said Paul Reeves. But if the enemy does not come up to meet you, then you best go get him in the bushes.” Another pilot recalled, “At the latter part of the war we didn’t have to take unnecessary chances for a few ground kills. That’s how I looked at it. Most of us did as directed and a lot of pilots paid dearly.” For his part, Roy Cooper, a young lieutenant, noted that he considered it “an honor” to fly as Righetti’s wingman, “even though I came home with a few hits [to his aircraft] during these missions.”1
John Cunnick was a young lieutenant who liked Righetti. “I think he was a little crazy,” he said. “He was very competitive. It was rumored that he and John Landers had a thing going to see who could get the most targets.” Landers was a former 55th pilot who, at that time, commanded the 78th Fighter Group.
Although interesting, there is no substantive evidence to support such a supposition. However, it is virtually certain that Righetti and Landers knew each other. In fact, Landers left the 55th for another fighter group just as Righetti arrived. Moreover, they both became group commanders on the same day; Landers relieved Righetti’s old friend Fred Gray at the 78th on the same day that Righetti relieved Crowell at the 55th. Those similarities notwithstanding, Landers had been flying combat since early in the war and had scored six aerial victories against the Japanese by the end of 1942 during the time that Righetti was still yoked to the training command. Since that time, while flying both P-38s and P-51s, Landers had scored eight more.
However, in terms of strafing victories, the two men were neck and neck. Landers made a play to put it away when he scored a single-sortie record of eight strafing victories in early April. The story was carried by the 3d Air Division’s magazine, Strikes. And it was a story that Righetti likely saw. So, the idea of an “ace race” between the two men is not totally without merit.
In fact, it is given some weight by Jack Ilfrey who was a colorful ace and squadron commander with combat experience dating from the early years of the war in North Africa. “I met Righetti—he was hell bent for leather,” Ilfrey said. Although he knew Righetti only casually, he was very close to Landers, having attended Texas A&M with him as well as flight training. Indeed the two shared Stateside assignments after their first combat tours. Ilfrey insisted that the competition between Righetti and Landers was real, although it was based on nothing more than his familiarity with the two men. “That was no rumor—it was an absolute fact. Those were two very gung ho pilots. Unofficially I was rooting for Landers, but officially I sided with other squadron and group commanders [who believed] that they were taking too many risks and losing too many planes and pilots. But believe me, that was the ultimate thrill. When you think about it, we actually had a license to kill.”2
Certainly Righetti was aggressive, if not, “a little crazy.” And he was, outwardly at least, supremely self-confident. It was part of his nature and it was what was necessary to perform his duties. In fact, even his enemy counterparts recognized the need for audacious action by men who already lived at the very edge of recklessness. The great German ace Walter Krupinski, who was credited with 197 aerial victories, spoke of the need for these qualities. “I would not want to fly in combat with a pilot who did not have a healthy ego, and a good sense of self-respect. Call us a little narcissistic perhaps, but if you don’t have that kind of arrogance in the cockpit, you will die. That is what makes you aggressive, and active aggression is most of what is needed to achieve victory over your opponent.”3
It was in Righetti’s nature to look after his family, especially his younger brother Maurice. Since before the time Maurice had gone into the service, Elwyn had readily shared his knowledge and advice, and had mentioned more than once that he was anxious for the two of them to serve together, although Maurice had been directed into bombers. Nevertheless, Righetti campaigned intensively over a period of several months to get his brother to England and into the Eighth Air Force.
“A bit of news,” he wrote. “I thought you all might like to know that Junior will be under my wing before you all read this. I called his replacement pool here in the UK just now and though he hasn’t arrived yet, he is expected momentarily. The second he hits there, certain wheels will start rolling, assigning him to my division. I’ll let him fly enough of his bomb missions to decide whether or not it’s the place for him, then take whatever steps I feel are best for all concerned. I can have him in fighters immediately if I want him, but hardly think it fair. I’ll keep you posted day-to-day.”
As it developed, the plans that Righetti had so carefully crafted for his younger brother went unrealized. Maurice was assigned to a B-29 unit in India. “We were at first sorry to know that Maurice is in India,” wrote sister Betty, “especially since you counted on him being in England; but you know you can’t be his keeper, or even help him much in the really tight spots, and it might hinder you.”
Betty was much like her brother—concerned and anxious about everyone in the family. And strong-willed. “So, since he’s in the good ship [B-29] he is, we’re glad he’s having new experiences and a life of his own. If he’ll only get his head out, and appreciate his opportunities, Pop and Mom will be a lot happier. They feel badly only because Maurice still seems so unhappy and unresigned [sic] at the Army’s way of doing things.” In fact, Maurice had excelled. And if he was “unhappy and unresigned” at the Army’s way of doing things, he was no different than the many millions of uniformed men who often felt similarly.
Betty’s advice to Righetti was good. Aside from his wife and young child, Righetti was additionally responsible for the nearly two thousand men of the 55th and its support elements, as well as his own person. Trying to take care of his brother and control what the USAAF was doing with him—or wasn’t—was distracting and counterproductive, if not hurtful.
Betty was a proud aunt and bragged fondly about Righetti’s daughter in the same letter. “Kyle’s the sweetest, most affectionate, smart little devil—she’s certainly a composite of her parents.” Betty, who inherited more than her share of the Righetti family’s strong-mindedness, also confessed to upsetting his wife, Cathryn, who was back at the ranch from San Antonio. “And Kyle’s mama is quite a gal too. Generally, we get along pretty well. But she got pretty sore the other nite at me. Guess she ought to have been sore. I wouldn’t appreciate the crack I made about her relatives if she’d made it about mine. Ot
herwise we live in peace and amity. Mom is out taking care of Grampaw, and Katy and I are concocting all sorts of strange and delightful dishes to serve as meals to a sometimes startled Pop and Ernie.”
Ultimately, Righetti reconciled himself to Maurice’s unexpected assignment, despite the fact that it upset his plans. “Everything’s rosy except that Junior’s coming here was a false steer. Ain’t too bad though. I’ve had three letters from him in the last four days and he seems very happy. He ought to be, he has one of the best deals in the Air Corps.”
Early April was uneventful for Righetti and the 55th. No missions were flown on April 1, and nothing remarkable occurred during the escort missions that were flown during the next five days. They were bone-numbingly cold, high-altitude penetrations deep into Germany. The five hours or more that the men spent in the unpressurized cockpits of their P-51s dulled their senses despite the fact that they wore oxygen masks. And although alertness was an imperative, the discipline to remain so was difficult to maintain when the enemy so seldom made an appearance. In fact, many of the men, particularly the later arrivals, had never even seen an enemy aircraft aloft; at the rate the war was drawing to a close that might remain the case. A poorly composed poem at the end of the group’s mission summary report for April 6 captured their collective attitude at the absence of their German foes:
Der Luftwaffie is in a mighty blue mood,
They’ve run out of everything, including altitude,
In fact those Heinies are so weak in the knees,
They won’t even come up and shoot the breeze.
It is likely that many more “Heinie” fliers would have liked to have “come up and shoot the breeze,” than was actually the case. However, the Luftwaffe was strangled for fuel. It is true that the majority of the Luftwaffe’s pilots at that time were green and ill-trained, but they were still capable of flying. Only the lack of fuel kept them from flying more, as indicated by the recollection of a German pilot and aircraft maintenance officer: “Getting fuel for the fighters was not so much a logistics operation, more of an intelligence battle. We would send tankers on circuitous journeys, picking up 5,000 litres in one place, 2,500 litres at another; sometimes it might take as long as a week to collect the twenty tons of fuel needed for a single fighter operation.”4
Another German pilot confirmed that fuel, rather than aircraft, was the critical shortcoming during the chaotic closing weeks of the war when it was easier to get new aircraft rather than repair those that were damaged: “We simply went to the depot nearby, where they had hundreds of brand-new [Me-]109s—G-10s, G-14s and even the very latest K models [these were variants of the Me-109]. There was no proper organization anymore. The depot staff just said, ‘There are the aircraft, take what you want and go away.’ But getting fuel—that was more difficult.”5
Of the five missions the 55th flew from April 2 to April 6, Righetti went on only one, an unexceptional bomber escort to Kiel on April 3. By that time it was clear to him that the war was winding down and would possibly be finished before he reached the magic number of three hundred combat hours required to complete his overseas tour. “War looks very fine from this angle at this time,” he wrote. “Reckon its termination is now pretty much the governing factor of my return home.”
He was also, as a group commander, keen to be promoted although he professed indifference. “Still no eagles here [promotion to colonel], so I sweat, sweat, sweat—not that it makes any particular difference with me, Kay, but I did want to raise your allotment and will the day I get mine raised. Also I have a new battle jacket with eagles embroidered on it and sure want to wear it.” And he was weary. “I’m pretty much tired and have nothing to say, so I’ll ring off—see you all soon.”
Although the April 3 mission had been uneventful for Righetti and the rest of the group, it was far from that for Frank Birtciel, one of the 55th’s original cadre. “We were specifically briefed that there was to be no strafing on the mission. The front lines were very fluid at that point and no one was sure exactly where Patton’s army was. They didn’t want us to accidentally shoot up our own units.”6
“Gene Ryan was leading the 343rd that day and I was leading Yellow Flight,” said Birtciel. “The rendezvous and escort with the bombers went fine. It was uneventful and pretty much a milk run.” On the return leg Ryan dragged the squadron across Holland and over the North Sea. “I started to notice brown spots on my canopy as we got to a point about a third of the way across the water,” said Birtciel. “I wasn’t sure where it was coming from and so I flew up and looked over the aircraft flying in front of me.” Birtciel saw nothing obvious on the other P-51s and came to the uncomfortable conclusion that the mysterious brown spots were coming from his own aircraft. Engine trouble over the North Sea was a nightmare that dogged every pilot of the Eighth Air Force.
“And then,” said Birtciel, “it was as if someone threw a white sheet over my canopy. I couldn’t see anything.” Part of the engine’s coolant system—the header engine tank which sat just behind the propeller hub—had blown. The mixture of ethylene glycol and water that streamed back over the windscreen and canopy blocked Birtciel’s vision.
“I called out Mayday three times,” said Birtciel, “and immediately turned back toward land. My first priority was to get away from the water.” He had good reason to be concerned; Air/Sea Rescue, or ASR, had improved dramatically since the early days of the war, but the North Sea in early April was still numbingly cold and his chances of surviving a bailout over land were dramatically better than they would have been had he jumped out over the water.
“The other three pilots in Yellow Flight escorted me back toward the coast while the coolant mixture slowly dissipated from my windscreen and canopy,” recalled Birtciel. “In the meantime I had to figure out where to go—what to do. The Germans still held Ostend, but there was a highway that ran out of Ostend to Brussels and I planned to follow that to an airfield I had landed at a few months earlier when I had also had engine trouble.”
Birtciel coaxed his aircraft back across the coast south of Ostend while the engine—robbed of cooling—chewed itself apart. “Pieces of pistons and rings and other bits flew out the exhaust stacks. It was as if there was a small volcano on each side of the nose.” It was becoming apparent to Birtciel that his odds of making it to Brussels were quickly diminishing.
“I was a little worried about losing that airplane, the Millie G,” he remembered. “It was brand new and had been assigned to our squadron commander, Ed Giller. I was flying it on its first mission and I was a little concerned that I might get into some hot water if I didn’t bring it back.” In fact, Birtciel was flying a brand-new Millie G because Giller’s previous Millie G had been shot down just a couple of weeks earlier while flown by another pilot. It was a disturbing trend. In fact, Giller was assigned four different P-51s with the Millie G name.
Birtciel’s anxiety about losing Giller’s new aircraft quickly became secondary to his own survival when the engine fire burned a hole through the firewall next to his left foot. The cockpit quickly became uninhabitable. “I released my harness and radio cords and oxygen and such,” said Birtciel, “and opened the canopy. But when I stood up to jump out I was jerked back by my G-suit hose. I had forgotten to disconnect it.” While Birtciel—still partly out of the cockpit—wrestled with the hose, the aircraft fell into a spin from about four thousand feet.
“When I finally got myself free I went over the right side of the aircraft and my feet were smashed against the horizontal stabilizer which started me tumbling head-over-heels. I threw my arms out to stop the tumbling but the only thing that happened was that my gloves filled with air and were torn off.”
Plummeting earthward, Birtciel saw his aircraft hit the ground and burst into flames. “It was a pretty big explosion,” he recalled. “There was still plenty of gas on board.” But as spectacular as the explosion might have been, Birtciel had little time to dwell on it. “By that time the ground was really rushin
g up and I pulled the ripcord. It took a little time for the pilot chute to open and pull out the main chute, but I was in a bit of a hurry so I pulled the ripcord again. It came right out of its harness and the parachute opened just as it was supposed to.”
It was a close thing. The parachute opened with a hard crack and snapped Birtciel’s fall to something that was survivable only a few seconds before he would have slammed to his death. “I floated down through some telephone wires,” he said, “and hit the ground hard. It was like a movie with a segment missing. I only remembered the parachute opening. The next thing I recalled, I was lying on my back with a bunch of Belgians standing over me.”
Birtciel had landed at the edge of a recently tilled field. “There was a pair of men who tried to help me off of the ground, but I couldn’t get up. I looked down at my feet but my legs ended at my knees. I thought for a moment that my lower legs had been chopped off when I had hit the airplane.” But the reality was that he had sunk deeply into the soft earth. Had the ground not been so well-turned, his legs—and more—would have been badly shattered by the fall.
“They helped pulled me out of the soil and I was able to stand on my own. As it was,” said Birtciel, “Except for some bruises I was uninjured. When I got my bearings I saw that the Belgian women were wasting no time cutting my parachute to pieces—the material was valuable. And there was a crowd of people standing around the burning airplane. Ammunition was cooking off and I shouted at them to get away, but they either didn’t understand or didn’t care. Anyway, they didn’t move. The rest of my flight was circling overhead and I waved at them to let them know I was alright. Then, they headed to England.”
Although the location where Birtciel came down was in Allied hands, it was dangerous enough that the RAF men who arrived in a jeep to retrieve him urged him to hurry aboard. “They took me to a building that had been converted to a hospital and looked me over,” remembered Birtciel. “The doctor said that I was okay but would be very sore during the next few days. He sure wasn’t wrong.”
