by Stout, Jay
Few go through life without encountering a certain something that tickles their fancy. Those tickles sometimes develop into pleasant diversions such as woodworking or coin collecting or bird watching. Occasionally, stronger interests or infatuations are developed that cause a certain level of discomfiture as they consume energy and attention and time, often to no good end. Rarely, those fixations become soul—and body—destroying addictions. Familiar examples include drugs, alcohol, and food.
Tony Meldahl’s fascination with the Righetti story, if not quite an addiction, was almost certainly an obsession. An Army veteran who served in Germany during the 1970s, he was fluent in German and taught it in the classroom following his military service. He was also a rabid researcher who had worked with the late Iris Chang, author of The Rape of Nanking: The Forgotten Holocaust of World War II.
Meldahl recalled the spark that ignited his passion for the story: “I saw a reprint of a wartime article on Righetti. I never wanted to write this story and I knew nothing about World War II air warfare. I was just surprised that practically nothing had been written on him and I felt bad that his story might never be told.”
Researching Righetti was a project that consumed Meldahl to varying degrees for more than twenty years. It is impossible to know what about the Righetti story was so compelling to him, but it is reasonable to believe that he was incredulous that such a famous fighter ace—and there is no denying Righetti’s celebrity during the last few weeks of the war—could so wholly and utterly disappear. It was a mystery that he was driven to solve.
Meldahl embarked on that effort almost immediately after reading the article. He scoured the publicly available records to learn whatever he could and additionally contacted Righetti’s family. Mom and Pop had long since passed away, but he did get in touch with Elwyn’s siblings. He also corresponded with Righetti’s comrades from the 55th. Importantly, he reached across the Atlantic to contact a journalist who lived in the town of Riesa, near where Righetti was shot down. That journalist, Rudolf Daum, had flown sport gliders as a young man during the early years of the war and still had a keen interest in aviation. When Meldahl contacted him, Daum’s interest in Righetti was excited and he readily agreed to help however he was able.
By the late spring of 1993 the two men had created a plan for a comprehensive publicity campaign in Riesa and the surrounding communities. Their objective was to determine—definitively—what happened to Righetti and, if possible, find his grave. Not only would it solve the mystery, but it would bring some measure of closure to the family. Both Meldahl and Daum believed that someone in Riesa or the surrounding communities had to know something, notwithstanding the fact that nearly fifty years had passed since Righetti had gone down.
Meldahl meticulously outlined to Daum the circumstances and specifics of Righetti’s last flight. In particular, Meldahl made certain that the material from which Daum would create newspaper copy was consistent with the wartime statement of Carroll Henry, Righetti’s wingman on April 17, 1945. Moreover, Meldahl plotted on a map an area to the west of Riesa where it was most likely that Righetti had gone down. This was based on Henry’s recollection that Righetti had declared he was headed west after making his last strafing run at the airfield at Riesa. Meldahl’s plot additionally took into account the distance that the P-51 could have traveled from the airfield during the brief period before Righetti called over the radio that he had crash-landed his aircraft and was not badly hurt. Narrowing the search area was imperative to the effort’s chances of success.
Whereas Meldahl contributed facts and analysis from the United States, Daum was actually on the scene, albeit long after the event. And as a reporter for a regional newspaper—with backing from his editors—he had a powerful tool with which to jump-start the search. He started using that tool with vigor during June and July of 1993.
During that period Daum wrote five different articles. He used different angles for each and described how Meldahl, an “Amerikanischen historiker,” was trying to determine the fate of a famous American fighter pilot. In each of the articles Daum briefly outlined Righetti’s story, laid out the associated facts and described the progress made to that point. In one of the articles he made an overt attempt to relate Righetti to a famous German fighter pilot when he colorfully described him as the “Richthofen of the Strafers.” Manfred von Richthofen had been the Red Baron of World War I fame.
Aside from Daum’s newspaper articles, handbills were posted across the region. A local printing shop donated two thousand brightly colored sheets that described the search. The handbills were specifically directed at the citizens of towns and villages that fell within the area that Meldahl plotted.
Importantly, a promise was made that, “Your clues, upon your request, will be treated with utmost confidentiality.”1 This was considered an imperative as the fall of the Berlin Wall had only just occurred two years earlier during 1991. People were still wary of speaking out. They had lived for many decades—first under the Nazis, and then, the communists—knowing that it was in their best interest to keep secrets to themselves. Seldom did good things come from speaking with the authorities, and certainly a person did not work with outsiders. Indeed, the wives of two respondents approached Daum privately after he interviewed their husbands. They asked that their husbands not be identified by name in whatever story he might write.
The responses to the campaign were encouraging if not overwhelming. As with any broad investigation, much information was collected that was not relevant. For instance, many people reported on the demise of one or more American bombers. And more than one respondent asked why there was a search being made for an American pilot. Most of the population believed that the Americans played only a minor part in the war and certainly had little to do with the fight against the Germans. Such a grotesque misunderstanding of history was due to the fact that the children educated after the war were taught that Nazi Germany’s defeat was solely the work of the Soviets and the Red Army. The effort was also unusual because similar searches for missing German servicemen—and there were untold thousands—were rarely ever made.
Nevertheless, there were some interesting leads. Werner Struck was seventeen years old at the close of the war and had just been released from his duties with an antiaircraft unit on April 17, 1945, so that he could go home to plant potatoes.2 He was cycling near Frauenhain, about ten miles northeast of Riesa, when he spotted an aircraft circling a few thousand feet above the countryside. His antiaircraft training helped him to immediately identify the fighter as a P-51. The aircraft was afire and its pilot jumped clear and opened his parachute. Struck pedaled furiously in the direction of the descending figure.
Karl Augusten was a 34-year-old German soldier who had been wounded and was convalescing in the area.3 He, like Struck, was on a bicycle when he spotted the American. He arrived on the scene to find the enemy pilot already out of his parachute harness and gesticulating animatedly with a pair of Polish POWs that had been impressed as farm laborers. Augusten noted that the lower part of the American’s trousers were burned away and he looked as if he were wearing shorts. His face was red, as if it was burned.
Struck arrived soon after Augusten. His recollection of the flyer’s burned trousers matched Augusten’s account. Struck recalled that the pilot was tall and athletic and he saw hair underneath the pilot’s helmet that he described as dark blonde. It wasn’t long before two Luftwaffe officers arrived in a Kübelwagen. The American raised his hands and surrendered his pistol. Struck noted that one of the Luftwaffe officers translated and that the American seemed to make a good impression as he asked for something to drink and to be taken to the hospital. The American was soon afterward taken away in the direction of Grossenhain, about eight miles to the south. Augusten recalled that he was allowed to keep the flyer’s parachute.
Hildegard Wachtel told of an American flyer, badly burned, taken to a farmhouse at Wildenhain, just west of Grossenhain. There he was given something to drin
k. The farm wife tore linen into strips and dressed his wounds. There was also a Schutzstaffel, or SS, man there who had a hook in place of his left hand. His name was Rahn and he shooed curious onlookers away.4
An additional eyewitness account of the American flyer came from ten-year-old Wilfried Treppe. He recalled that, just a few days before the Russians occupied the town, the authorities took a “big, strong blonde man” through Grossenhain. The man’s trousers were burned.5
This scorched American flyer, in all likelihood, was not Righetti but rather Robert K. Thacker of the 55th’s 338th Fighter Squadron. Frederick Wirth’s statement on the MACR noted that the 338th made a pass over Riesa at about 4,500 feet and then returned to scrutinize it further. “At an altitude of 4,500 feet three bursts of flak (heavy) exploded right under Lt. Thacker’s plane and immediately he began streaming black smoke. He veered off to the northwest and I followed him, attempting to get tight on his wing for a good visual check on his plane.”6
Wirth was unable to catch Thacker before the latter bailed out. “I circled as his chute opened and he floated to the ground. He landed safely and gathered up his chute and ran for the woods. His aircraft hit the ground and exploded.” Once Thacker reached the ground, Wirth’s account is not exactly consistent with those of Augusten and Struck, but it is close.
And although Thacker’s aircraft certainly threw up a considerable quantity of earth when it struck the ground, it probably did not explode. Of the more than twenty tips received, two witnesses described an aircraft with its nose buried in the ground at an angle and its tail pointed skyward at the end of a crumpled but intact fuselage. Both wings were bent but not broken. Hildegard Wachtel went with her sister to the crash site and crawled into the aircraft’s cockpit two different times. She recalled that there were papers scattered around the cockpit and that the aircraft was hauled away within a day or two.
Although the different accounts place Thacker not too far from Riesa where Righetti likely went down, Thacker had bailed out whereas Righetti had crash-landed Katydid. This is obvious because he made a radio call after he reached the ground; he would have had no radio with which to communicate had he parachuted. Thacker likewise matched the description provided by the Germans; he was tall, fit and blonde. As it developed, Thacker was eventually moved to Stalag Luft VIIA and was back in American hands on May 2, just two weeks later.
Of all the accounts that came of Daum and Meldahl’s campaign, only a couple offered promise of being pertinent to Righetti. Klaus Neidhardt recalled an American fighter crashing during this time between Koblen and Wolkish in, or near, the Koblen River.7 The pilot was supposedly arrested by a group of Hitler Youth and kept overnight at the fire station in nearby Oberlommatzsch. This was about five miles southeast of Riesa, toward Dresden. The next day the pilot was supposed to have been taken to Meissen, about halfway between Riesa and Dresden. Neidhardt noted that the pilot was “dark” which might have been consistent with Righetti’s olive complexion. Unfortunately, Neidhardt was unable to offer any more information.
Werner Schäfer from Großrügeln, Germany, was a teenager who saw a “one-motor” aircraft make an emergency landing during this time at Zaußwitz on the road between Stehle and Borna only about three miles northwest of the Riesa airfield.8 The pilot was long gone by the time he reached the aircraft but he clambered over it with his friends and, naturally, as any teenage boy might, attempted to fire the guns. He had no success. Schäfer declared that a flight of P-38s later bombed the aircraft. Reiner Proschwitz remembered the same aircraft and noted that it came to rest close to a small train station.9 Of all the many leads, especially because of its location, it seems that this one is most consistent with Righetti’s actions as described by his wingman, Carroll Henry.
That there were so many accounts of Thacker, but virtually nothing of Righetti is not totally surprising. Thacker parachuted from his aircraft and was obviously seen by many people as he slowly drifted down. On the other hand, Righetti presumably flew at treetop level until he finally bellied his aircraft onto the ground. Consequently, at a lower altitude—and assuming he did not go down in a populated area—he would not have been so easily spotted by as many people.
As much effort as Rudolf Daum, Tony Meldahl and others put into the search for Righetti, they ultimately did not succeed in resolving the mystery or in finding his remains. Notwithstanding their careful analysis and the information they did manage to collect, they were still amateurs without any sort of relevant training, credentials, or the authority or backing of an official agency or organization. Still, there was no denying their commitment to solve the mystery for the Righetti family even though they had no obligation to do so.
Whether or not the United States government was, or is, equally committed is difficult to ascertain. Various organizations were active in collecting and identifying the remains of missing servicemen during the years following World War II. Likewise, similar activities were conducted following subsequent conflicts. However such efforts weren’t put under the umbrella of a single command until January 2015 when, in the pall of ineptitude and venality, the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command, also known as JPAC, was merged with the Defense Prisoner of War/Missing Personnel Office, or DPMO, and elements of the Air Force’s Life Sciences Lab. The newly created organization is the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency, or DPAA.
Of the three organizations, JPAC had been the most visible. Although it focused during much of its early existence on recovering the remains of servicemen lost during the Vietnam War, JPAC also sent teams elsewhere around the world to look for those who disappeared in other conflicts. The mission was obviously important and quite public as evidenced by occasional high-profile news stories that described how the government located and brought home to grateful families the remains of their lost sons.
However, despite JPAC’s successes, there was much that was rotten within the organization. Its mission was unique and each case that it sought to resolve was similarly unique with its own peculiar geographic, cultural, environmental, diplomatic and legal considerations. For instance the recovery of a pilot who had smashed his aircraft into Vietnam’s Annamese mountain range was quite different from the investigation of remains discovered in a Belgian barn lot.
When it is considered that JPAC fielded eighteen teams of a dozen or more personnel—not including locals often hired on location—the opportunities for mismanagement, waste and fraud were manifold. This was particularly true because JPAC’s commanders typically had little experience outside the organization with leading such an effort; there was literally nowhere else in the world to get it. Additional stress came from heartbreaking inquiries by family members, many of them aging, who were desperate for closure. Often included with those inquiries were leads and information that consumed resources but regularly proved to be of little value. Thin budgets were additionally problematic as there was no end of leads to investigate, but not enough resources to chase them all.
And prioritizing when, where and for whom to search was also difficult. For instance, evidence might indicate a high percentage of success for an effort to recover the remains of a particular serviceman. But if that serviceman had no living relatives, was it worth retrieving him rather than investigating the less-promising case of another serviceman whose family was vigorously represented by an influential congressman?
JPAC struggled with these issues and more, including disinterested oversight, fragmented organizational structures, and multiple and confusing chains of command. The organization’s efficiency faltered as the average time to resolve a set of remains once it was recovered slipped from four years during the 1990s to eleven years a decade later. Rather than embracing new technologies, JPAC clung to outdated methods for everything from the cataloguing of remains to forensic practices.
It all came to a head during 2012 when the Pentagon completed—and initially suppressed—an internal report. The findings were stunning. JPAC was described as mismanaged, “acutely dysfunc
tional” and at risk of “total failure.” The organization was criticized for staging sham ceremonies that misled the public and the families of missing servicemen into believing that flag-draped caskets, supposedly flown in from overseas locations, held the remains of their loved ones when such was sometimes not the case.
Moreover, the overseas conduct of some team members was under investigation. Many of the missions sent into the field were characterized as unfocused, unproductive and little more than “military tourism.” There was a backlog of hundreds of sets of recovered remains and little hope of identifying even two hundred sets per year. During the previous five years, more than half-a-billion dollars had been spent, yet the yearly average of remains identified was only 72.10
The level of effort expended by the government to find Righetti following the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1991 is unknown. JPAC typically did not communicate with the families of service members for whom it was searching as it did not want to create false hopes. Certainly, none of the Righettis were ever told that a search was conducted specifically to look for Elwyn. However, in his Individual Deceased Personnel File (IDPF) there is a cryptic scribble on a copy of a report dated January 30, 1951. The report was generated by a board formed to determine the recoverability of various sets of remains. The board determined that Righetti’s remains were not recoverable. The scribble, dated February 23, 1992, more than forty years after the report was generated, read: “It seems to me that either the graves registration detachment didn’t try very hard or someone wasn’t cooperating.” The note was unsigned. Whether or not it was related to any sort of official investigation during 1992 is unknown.11
