Then the colonel called for instructions and clearance to take off. He turned to me and over the intercom asked, “Are you ready to take off?” I answered, “I am if you are.” He just looked at me, then he said, “Let the pilot get in there.” I got up, the pilot got in the seat and we took off.
When we got back down on the ground after the check-flight, he turned to the pilot, “I must congratulate you for taking the trouble to teach your engineer how to taxi and everything that goes with it. I am pretty sure he could have handled that plane taking it off.” And Dick said, “Oh yeah.” (No, I hadn’t told the pilot or the crew that I had been an aviation cadet or that I knew how to fly.)
Anyway, a couple of days later we were ready to leave. When you leave, you have to line up in front of your airplane, and go through roll call. All of the planes are lined up, and you’re supposed to be there. We were all there except the pilot, the co-pilot and the bombardier. This was because the pilot was married and he was living in town. The bombardier and the co-pilot had gone to town with him the night before but they weren’t back yet because the pilot was the only one with a car.
So we are all lined up and they begin roll call. Willie Olsen the navigator is there, but that’s it for the officers. Right down the line, crew chiefs are all stepping forward “all present or accounted for.” The two crews on either side of us are looking over and not seeing the pilot, the co-pilot and the bombardier. When it came our turn, I stepped forward and called out, “All present or accounted for” – after all, they were accounted for, they were in town. A few minutes later they came running across the field. Nothing was said, they didn’t get into any trouble.
Next, we shipped out to Kearney, Nebraska, where the pilot and I signed out a brand new B-17 bomber. We loaded up the plane and flew it across the North Atlantic to Ireland. Then we were stationed at Horham in England, half way between Ipswich and Norwich, just outside the town of Diss. We were assigned to the 95th bomb group, the 335th bomb squadron.
Flying Combat Missions out of Horham Airbase
At Horham, we were quartered in a tin Quonset hut with another crew (enlisted personnel only). The debris on the floor of the Quonset hut was about a foot and a half high. You waded through it, through the paper, bottles, trash, and cans– all kinds of junk. We all had our bunks. There was one stove in the middle for heat.
Every night at 7 you looked out the window and watched the flag pole. If the red flag went up, it meant maximum effort – tomorrow everybody flies. If the yellow flag went up, it meant some of you are flying. If the green flag went up, it meant nobody is flying.
Every night after the flag went up, a man used to come around with suitcases full of liquor – bottles of booze – this was by order of Colonel Truesdell. It was the only job this guy had, go around, get rid of the booze, then go out the next morning to get some more. We used to buy it, then we’d sit around the hut.
The crew we shared the hut with had already flown more than 20 missions – they were a daylight lead crew. The name of their ship, I believe, was the “Impatient Virgin.” I’m almost sure that was it. Their jackets had a picture of a female on them, but the paint was coming off. It was hardly visible from wear. They had been there for a while. They got a hold of some oil paint so I sat there and touched up their jackets so they would look decent. They didn’t fly very often.
Every morning when we were called up to fly the first Sergeant used to come in. He wouldn’t turn on the lights, he had a flashlight. He would come over to me, shine the light on the floor, shake my shoulder and shake me awake telling me that we had to fly that day. It was my job to get my crew up. We’d go to breakfast. We had fresh eggs, sausages, you name it. Then we’d go on our mission.
Our first mission was easy, just six hours long. We hit lots of flak but no enemy fighters. The flak was scary but interesting, big black popcorn with a red center. It was deadly, some planes got hit hard.
The Berlin raid is the first one that I really remember, it was our third mission. It was a fantastic raid. I would do it over again. It was that impressive. That was the most exciting of all the raids, because we were among the first groups over the target. After bombs away, there was two-way traffic, like an interstate highway. I think every airplane that the 8th Air Force had was in the air going to Berlin. It was an awesome sight to see.
Then the German fighters showed up. Once we had dropped our bombs, they didn’t bother with us. They were going after the planes that were still full. Our plane caught a lot of black popcorn – flak – but nothing too serious, no injuries. You could see other planes getting blown out of the sky, others on fire and going down. It made you realize what a war is.
It was a long flight home and I was kept busy switching gas from one engine to another. It was the longest flight possible for a B-17. After Berlin, we were old pros. Nothing could compare to Berlin.
We went on five missions in a row. Then we were grounded, because they said we needed to cool it. The missions were missions – you got up there, you got shot at, you dropped your bombs, and you came back. While we were grounded, the lead crew we roomed with got called for a raid on Leipzig. They never came back. You know how it is. Bad. We were shook up.
Then there was a 200-mission party with Glenn Miller, Rosemary Clooney, Bing Crosby, and all kinds of people there. For three days, no flying. They brought in every hooker they could find in London – they called them USO girls, but they were all British.
This flight engineer from this other crew brought one of these ladies back to the barracks. I don’t remember where we were, out doing something, enjoying the party. Anyway, we came back and we could see the floor, like what the hell was this? She stayed after the party in one of the spare bunks, she used to cleaned up, and whatever.
My friend and I, Al Pelz, kept in touch. He was stationed in England too. He came over one day and he stayed overnight. The following morning we were being punished, we had to go up on a practice mission. So I told him, “We’re being punished, we got to go up on a practice mission over Scotland.” He said, “I’ll come with you.”
So we flew, the pilot, me, Al, the tail gunner, the radio operator, and the navigator. The co-pilot stayed down, the ball gunner stayed down, the bombardier stayed down, and I signed the form checking off that everyone was flying – hell, no one was going to know. Filling out those forms was part of my job. I would fill them out every time we went up, filling in all the crew’s names, ranks, and serial numbers. And I would check out the airplane and if there was a problem, that would go on the form too.
So we went on this practice hump, and Al was on the airplane and everything was fine. I was flying as the co-pilot, by now the pilot knew what I wanted him to know and it was not a problem. All of a sudden, Al came up front, coming through the bomb bay, carrying his parachute rather than wearing it. It was a tough squeeze, but rather than turn sideways, he stepped on the bomb bay doors.
Now, you need to understand, 100 pounds of pressure and the doors open by themselves. And I am there with my mouth open, the tail gunner is in the waist – and no amount of hollering is going to help – he couldn’t hear me. What saved Al is that he was hanging on, meaning not all his weight was on the doors, otherwise they’d have flapped open and he would’ve been gone. When he got up on the flight deck I plugged him into the intercom and screamed, “You dumb idiot.”
Al was due to come back again on the morning of Nov. 5. In the meantime, I had managed to scrounge up a good quart bottle of American whiskey, which was very rare. It was sitting on the shelf over my bunk. Al had brought with him one of those great big cans of fruit cocktail and the deal was he’d be back next Sunday and bring more goodies. We’d have a party. Why not?
That morning, we were called up for a mission. This mission was a run over Ludwigshafen. Al hadn’t gotten there yet.
We went on that mission and we never came back. We never did get to have that party, I wonder if he ever drank that booze.
Ludwigsh
afen – Our Last Mission
I don’t remember all of our missions. Most of them were basic combat runs. But I do remember Berlin and Ludwigshafen.
Our tenth and last mission was Ludwigshafen, Germany. It was supposed to be an easy target. That was on the 5th of November, 1944.
We were flying as lead ship. From my position as engineer I operated the top turret guns. We were flying at 31,000 feet and the sky was clear. The only clouds were below us. No enemy fighters, no flak. It looked like it was going to be an easy day, a so called “milk run.” We turned and started our bomb run. As soon as we were over the target and the bombardier said, “Bombs away,” all hell broke loose. Our quiet morning was over.
The only flak came then. Three rounds of ‘88s blew holes in the left wing and exploded just above the aircraft. I will read from an account written by the pilot, Dick Wright:
“On the Ludwigshafen mission we were hit by flak over the target. Gas lines to the #1 engine were ruptured with gasoline flooding the wing. We feathered that engine. The #2 engine was hit and the propeller ran away, making the aircraft very difficult to control. My oxygen system was hit giving me gas fumes instead of air and the hydraulic system was also hit. William Olsen and Roscoe Hayes were both wounded, neither seriously.”
When the pilot’s oxygen system went out, I got out of my turret and gave him mine, and put on a walk-around. No one panicked. Everyone did what they were trained to do. We radioed for help because a crippled B-17 is a sitting duck. The prettiest site to behold was the P-51 Mustang that answered our call.
As per the pilot’s account:
“...We were unable to stay with the formation and spent some time and altitude trying to throw the runaway prop which then caught fire. With the wing full of loose 100 octane gasoline and flames on the engine, I ordered the crew to bail out. They left quickly and in good order until we were left with Co-Pilot Wolfson in the bomb bay and Bombardier Levin in the nose hatch, and myself, out of my seat, holding the control column with one hand, and hooking on my ‘chute on with the other.”
“At this moment, the #2 prop and all the engines forward of the cylinders broke away, the metal having burned or melted from the heat and excessive friction, and sailed over the nose taking the fire with it. I shouted at Stan Wolfson and Irv Levin to wait but Stan had his back to me and dove out the bomb bay. Irv could see me yelling and could also see 22,000 feet of air with Germany at the bottom, so he came back to the flight deck. With Irv flying as Co-Pilot and aided by a P-51 we brought the plane to a field near Mirecourt, France, south of Nancy.”
When the order for bailout came, my job was to get from the front of the airplane to the back of the ship and check the crew out, which I did. The only one left was Roscoe Hayes, the ball gunner. And he was sitting in the hatchway ready to go. All it took was a little nudge and out he went. I waved to the pilot and the co-pilot, said a prayer, and dove out the waist hatch.
Bailing Out Over Germany
There were no practice jumps during training, all we knew was what we had been told by guys who had jumped in the past. The experience of bailing out was exhilarating. Once you left that noisy airplane, everything was peaceful and quiet. It was great. The only thought in my mind was what do I do now?
All the training, all the lectures, and all of sudden you knew what to do. I bailed out at somewhere around 24,000 feet. All I could remember was the meteorological report from that morning’s briefing, something about the layers of clouds at such and such an altitude.
On this particular day, there were three layers of clouds, the high layer, the middle layer, and the lower one. I remembered this as I floated down. I went through the first layer, I went through the second layer, and knew that the third layer was at roughly 3000 ft. When I saw those clouds below me, I flipped over onto my back, and pulled the ripcord on my chest pack parachute. First the pilot chute popped open, a beautiful square of white nylon. The pilot chute pulled the main chute out with such a jolt that it knocked me out for a moment.
I looked down and what did I see? I was about to land in a pond. A big pond. This being November and I don’t like being cold and getting wet, I started to steer the chute away from the pond. Fortunately I did and I landed in the woods. I got hung up between two trees about 20 ft. off the ground. I cut myself out of the harness and dropped to the ground.
I had landed in a cultivated forest. All the trees were in perfect alignment. There was no underbrush. I was alone in a beautiful woodland. It was cloudy and cold.
Nobody saw me. I was all alone and I guess I was in a bit of shock because I don’t remember what happened right after that. I do know that I pulled out the map they gave us as part of the escape kit we all carried, and the compass. I looked at the map and tried to figure out where I was and which way to go. I started following the map.
I started walking towards France. I came to a road with a sign “Wiesbaden,” and I stayed in the woods and followed alongside the road. I did everything I was taught and got nowhere. After a while, I needed water. I had pills to keep me going but I needed water. They taught us that if you get stuck and you are in the countryside, go watch a farm house. If nothing is happening there, you could walk up and ask for water or help.
I walked up to one little farmhouse and knocked on the door. A gray-haired old lady came to the door and told me to get lost. She closed the door on me.
I continued to walk, I don’t know how long, I don’t remember. I do know that I could hear a train and I was walking across a field that had been plowed when I heard an airplane. I could tell it was one of ours because I recognized the sound of those P-47 engines. I looked around hoping the pilot might see me or something, but he was out to get that train. He was strafing that train. I watched those 50 caliber bullets kicking up the dirt and got the hell out of there quick.
Capture
I watched another farm house later that day. One house, with nobody around. Then an old man came out and went to a chicken coop about 100 yards from the house. He was feeding the chickens and whatever other animals they had there. At this point I figured well I’d watched the house for about an hour, no other activity – which is what they tell you to look for. I finally was thinking I had to do it. So I walked out of the woods and walked towards the chicken coop.
You got to understand that I was not in uniform. I had on a heated nylon suit, with heated nylon boots that were not made for walking. I had on plain GI pants and a shirt under the heated suit. The heated suit was all nylon and it was bright green. I must have looked like a man from Mars.
When the man saw me, he started yelling and a large group of men came running out of that house. The men were armed with shot guns and they surrounded me. They were abusive, and not very nice. No one spoke English and I didn’t speak German. In the meantime a group of 6-8 women came out of the house and hollered at the men. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but the women must have won because the men stopped being abusive.
I asked for water, and one of the women sent a man into the house to get water. He came back out and threw the water in my face. He caught hell from the women. Then one of the women went in and got water, and gave me the water to drink.
They had weapons, they had guns, and after a lot of conversation they decided to bring me into the village. We walked across the mountain on a hiking trail. The going was tough in the nylon boots. On the way in, after about an hour of climbing up and down mountains we came to a fork in the road. “Walter Brennan” was waiting there with a horse and wagon. The reason I call him Walter Brennan is he was just like Walter Brennan in the movies. He was an old man, he had no teeth, and he had a horse and a wagon, a lot like an old buckboard. Old Walter Brennan had a rope tied in a hangman’s noose hung over the limb of a tree and was hollering for them to bring me over. But I think the men were afraid of the women, because they killed that idea – for which I was very thankful.
Strange thing, and I got to tell you this, I was not afraid. Because there
wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it anyway. Hey, do your damnedest.
So we kept walking, and poor disappointed “Walter Brennan” had to leave.
Anyhow, as we were finally entering the village, there was a fork in the road, and I could see the main road which was a black top. At the intersection there was a German staff car with five German Luftwaffe pilots standing alongside it. They too were young kids. Not that I was exactly an old man at the time either.
As we walked up, the five of them snapped to attention, clicked their heels in good German style, and gave me a high ball, which is a salute. I in turn did the same thing. I figured what the hell, that’s like Errol Flynn did in the movie “Dawn Patrol.” It was thrilling. There was something to it. Hard to explain, but it felt great. It was one of the high points in my GI life.
The farmers turned me over to the local Burgermeister [Mayor]. I believe the name of the village was Trippstadt. This was a very small village. The Burgermeister’s office was in his house.
The Burgermeister was a short fat German gentleman and his wife was the same. When they brought me in, he could see who I was and what I was. Right away his wife started cooking. Then she started baking. She made an apple strudel and something else the name of which I can’t remember, but it was good.
The Burgermeister could see that I needed a shave, I had about six days of growth. This was because the oxygen masks made your face itch if you were clean shaven. He gave me a razor and soap, and I shaved and washed up at the kitchen sink. Then we sat down for dinner, which was surprising when you think that these were some of the people I was dropping bombs on. It was hard to think of these nice people as the enemy.
In the meantime, the Burgermeister had sent someone out to find one of the local boys who was studying English in school. After dinner this teenager came over; he spoke broken English but understood a bit, and we had a nice conversation for an hour or two hours.
Ever the Patriot: Recollections of Vincent J. Riccio, World War II Veteran and POW Page 3
