On 16 December 1944 Germany launched the Ardennes Offensive (Battle of the Bulge). Very poor flying weather ensued and the 339th Fighter Group did not fly any missions from 19 December through 27 December, 1944. The narrative below describes a weather flight flown during that time period by the author of the article below, Lt. Cecil Byrd, of the 505th Fighter Squadron, 339th Fighter Group. The Squadron Operations Officer of the 505th was Major Archie "Flak" Tower.

DELIVERANCE

author, Lt. Cecil Byrd Squadron Ops Officer, Major Archie 'Flak' Tower

Fowlmere, England - December 1944

    Brilliant sunlight suddenly surrounded me as I popped through the top of the cloud layer. I immediately felt the warm rays that penetrated the Plexiglas canopy of my P-51 mustang. During the climb out, a coating of ice formed on the leading edge of the wings and other surfaces of the airplane. Characteristically, the ice began to evaporate when I reached the clear air and sunlight, but this hazard awaited me each time I descended into the clouds. Ascending from the dark interior of the clouds into the glare of the sun blinded me temporarily. I lowered my sun goggles and leveled off at three thousand feet. I couldn't spot a cloud anywhere above my present altitude. Below, all the way to the ground, the low level scud hid the earth from view in all directions. In pilot jargon, it was really socked in.

    The purpose of the flight faded to the back of my mind as I darted in and out of the rolling cloud tops. My proximity to the clouds seemed to magnify the speed of the airplane as I accelerated to two hundred sixty miles per hour. I set the engine controls for cruising:

    I felt like a kid again. Like I did when I got my first new bicycle. The airplane and engine functioned at peek performance, thanks to Sergeant O'Jannen. I had the best Crew Chief in the Squadron. I considered myself lucky. It helped me relax in the air. O'Jannen and the other ground crews always greeted us with enthusiasm and obvious relief when we returned from the skies over Germany. They kept the vigil. Lonely hours for them that we never really talked about. We didn't have to. Of course we had losses. It was a sad time for all when an aircraft failed to return. Out on top, a feeling of serenity crept over me. For a moment I thought, 'If I had enough fuel I could fly forever'---but in reality I knew I had to touch ground eventually. I didn't relish any choice or method available to me. The remaining fuel in the main wing tanks was good for about ninety minutes flying time. The fuel supply was of no real consequence, however, since weather-wise there were no decent alternate airports available. The control tower advised me of the extremely poor weather conditions everywhere.

    Uneasiness crept into my mind as I began to ponder the seriousness of my predicament. When I passed over the airfield control tower at three hundred feet, on my second attempt to find the airfield, Gas Pump advised me they did not see the aircraft but heard the engine noise. Suddenly, it occurred to me that someone at local headquarters wanted to get higher command off their back. That must have been the reason for ordering the weather check flight: To prove we could not fly our assigned mission without excessive risk to the pilots and aircraft. I began to think I had been pretty stupid when I volunteered for the flight. In a combat situation against enemy aircraft or anti-aircraft fire you can usually take evasive action or fight back. Fighting bad weather with no low approach landing aids seemed almost futile.

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    Soon after take off, some forty minutes earlier, I climbed out to the East toward the European continent and leveled off over the North Sea at twenty thousand feet. At this altitude I had unlimited visibility. I couldn't see a break in the low overcast anywhere. All of western Europe and the British Isles appeared trapped under this blanket of white. I must have been the only fighter pilot in the Eighth Air Force flying this cold December day. According to Intelligence reports given at the early morning briefing, poor weather conditions also grounded the Ninth Air Force based in France. Following the mission briefing the Pilots and Ground Crews of the 505th Fighter Squadron lingered near flight operations waiting for the weather to improve. We had not flown for five consecutive days and continued to sweat out the cold, wet, winter weather. Intermittent freezing precipitation and heavy fog compounded a bad situation.

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    Major "Flak" Tower, our Squadron Operation Officer, finished his conversation and jammed the field phone receiver back into its leather bag. He appeared angry when he announced, "Group Headquarters wants an airborne weather check." I'm sure he looked straight at me when he asked for a volunteer. A formidable German ground force, backed by tanks and heavy armor, began a major counter offensive a few days earlier. The brunt of the attack was near a Belgium town named Bastogne. This must have unnerved Allied Command headquarters. The Germans took advantage of the fact that our Air Forces probably would not be able to furnish air support for the hard pressed US ground troops. Eventually, this attack became famous and known as, THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE. Adolf Hitler had made a desperate and late attempt to regain the initiative in the war.

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    Colonel John B. Henry, our 339th Fighter Group Commander, entered the control tower when I took off for the weather check. I know he went there to give me all the support he could. He called me on the radio to remind me of the twin, two hundred foot radio towers just south of the airfield.

    The towers, shrouded in the low level clouds and fog, posed another hazard to avoid while maneuvering at low altitude near the airfield. John B. Henry, an outstanding Officer and one of the youngest Colonels in the Army Air Corps, pinned the eagles on his shirt collar at the age of twenty-eight. His rank and age reflect the high attrition rate of pilots we suffered in the battle against the Third Reich. The 505th Fighter Squadron suffered 35% casualties (killed wounded and captured) during 12 months of combat flight operations in the European Theater of War. Some promotions came rapidly; especially to a few officers with combat experience in P-40 aircraft. They had logged combat time while flying with General Claire Chenault's "Flying Tigers" in China. Most of the pilots who joined the Squadron as replacements had less than two hundred hours flying time and no combat experience. The majority belonged to the Reserve Officer Corps or held commissions in the Army of the United States. Colonel Henry surely watched with anxiety as the lone P-51 disappeared into the fog and freezing drizzle after take-off. Ice began to form on the aircraft surfaces immediately, but I emerged from the top of the cloud layer within a couple of minutes and the ice build up rapidly disappeared. I didn't know the altitude of the cloud tops when I took off, but surprise and delight greeted me as I broke out into the bright sunshine at three thousand feet.

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    Gas Pump's radio call stopped my musing and brought my attention back to the task at hand. I punched the microphone button on the throttle control with my left thumb and returned their call.

    The call sign, Gas Pump, identified a Homing device operated from a radio shack located near the airfield Control Tower. Simply explained, a homing device is a radio used in conjunction with a loop antenna. The position of an aircraft can be determined within a 360 degree radius of the airfield; provided you are within radio voice range. When the radio operator receives voice transmissions from the pilot, such as a slow count from one to ten, he determines the bearing of the aircraft from the radio station and gives the pilot a reverse compass heading or steer to the airfield. It usually works pretty well, but can be time consuming.

    I ran through a routine cockpit check: Fuel tanks, fuel mixture control full rich, propeller control forward, pitot tube heater switch on. Once again I left the open blue sky and the bright sunshine that penetrated the Plexiglas canopy and warmed both the cockpit and me. I descended into the dark cocoon and realized the termination of the flight would come soon. I wondered for a moment what the outcome would be. The rate of the icing buildup appeared to have diminished somewhat but remained a problem as long as I was in the clouds. I asked Gas Pump for the latest ground level weather report. They reported continuing poor conditions with intermittent freezing drizzle, one half mile visibility in fog and an obscured cloud base. I leveled off in the soup at three hundred feet and slowed the aircraft to one-hundred-fifty miles per hour to lower the landing gear. Now I knew why "Flak" Tower sent me to the Link Instrument Flight trainer last week. Watch your needle, ball and airspeed. Trim the aircraft controls and keep it level. I set my altimeter on zero before take off and Gas Pump advised me the barometric pressure had not changed. The Control Tower called me on the radio and shot flares as I passed over the airfield at three-hundred feet, on a northeast heading. I did not see the flares. I had to try to stay close to the airfield and seek some visual contact with the ground. I held my heading for about ten seconds and began a slow descent.

    I leveled off at two hundred feet above the ground. There was no forward visibility, but I could see a dim outline of the tree tops directly below. This should be the tree line just west of the airfield. I remembered the area surrounding the airfield and knew the local English countryside topography quite well. The local farmland was all practically the same elevation. I felt a strong urge to stare at the treetops but realized such a tactic probably meant vertigo and disaster at this extremely low altitude. Normal instrument flight procedures while maneuvering close to the ground demands a pilot's full attention. I had to try to remain in control. After several more seconds I left the tree area behind. I made a left turn to the southwest runway heading and began a slow decent. The urge to sneak a frequent look outside the cockpit haunted me. I hoped for a tell-tale sign of the landing area. Check: Propeller control forward, fuel mixture control full rich, landing gear down & locked. I put down twenty degrees of wing flaps.

    As I approached within a few feet of the ground, it suddenly occurred to me, I was left of the landing area---heading straight for the Squadron Operations shack. I thrust the throttle forward to start a go-around. I had no other choice. The sixteen-hundred horsepower twelve cylinder engine responded without hesitation and I felt the welcome pressure of being pressed against the padded parachute back pack. The low pitch setting of the four bladed propeller allowed the engine to accelerate smoothly to three thousand RPM. I needed all the oomph I could get to clear the roof of the operations building. This skillful maneuver scared the hell out of me. I almost wiped out a large portion of the Squadron in one big splash. At least the guys wouldn't forget me. Even though I came close to killing them, they probably didn't want to trade places with me. After all, they were safe and secure on the ground. SAFE? Such a "buzz job" under most other circumstances would have been rewarded with court martial proceedings. I left the landing gear down and after clearing the roof of the Operation's shack, raised the wing flaps and leveled off.

    I gently rolled the aircraft into a shallow left turn to a northeast heading. The sudden change in power, the low level turn and changes in aircraft configuration called for precision flying. A missed approach and go around constitutes one of the most difficult maneuvers when flying under instrument flight conditions. I didn't want to relinquish even a little bit of visual contact with the ground, but again I knew I had to concentrate on the cockpit flight instruments. The altimeter read one hundred fifty feet.

    I couldn't stay airborne much longer due to the ice buildup unless I climbed back on top to the open air and sunlight. After thirty seconds, I started a left turn to a southwest runway heading, hoping to line up fairly well with the landing area. I had a better idea this time of my location to the airfield. I still had the option of using my parachute, a procedure we never practiced, but I had no desire to abandon the airplane. It had already brought me safely home many times and occasionally with battle damage. Ice was still building on the leading edge of the wings. A wave of chilling fear suddenly engulfed me, but the sensation subsided almost immediately. Surprisingly, the thought of failure seemed of more concern to me than the danger involved. I believe most pilots think this way.

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    Sure, "Flak" Tower had been angry with me. I drank a few beers at the Quonset hut the other night and shot off my mouth again. I wondered if "Flak" deliberately showed contempt for all Lieutenants or if he just picked on me? I always thought of him as stern and aloof. Perhaps I misjudged him. The Methodist Chaplain joined us at the bar, drinking his usual Rum and Coke. He seemed to agree with my point of view. I could never get used to watching him drink. I wondered if he was ever in trouble with HIS boss.

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    I began a slow descent and because of the icing, maintained a slightly higher than normal approach speed. "Please, God, let the field be there this time." He must have heard my short plea for help. I caught sight of the Fowlmere Church steeple just off the right wing.

    I had forgotten the Church steeple until it suddenly appeared. The "Old Man," Colonel Henry, still in the control tower, must have forgotten about the Church also. He never mentioned it to me on the radio. What a reassuring sight. I could use the Church steeple as a reference point to help line up with the landing strip. I had new reason to hope for success. My confidence increased when I sighted the Church steeple, but as I made visual contact with the ground I realized I would land at least half way down the field. In my excitement I forgot to lower the wing flaps. I did not intend to go around for another try. I touched down long and soon discovered the pierced steel planking landing surface was very slippery. I unlocked the canopy and rolled it back. I closed the fuel mixture control to shut down the engine and started turning off switches. After my forward speed diminished somewhat, I moved the control stick forward to unlock the tail wheel and attempted to ground loop the aircraft. I managed to turn the nose of the P-51 about forty-five degrees to the left, but continued to slide straight ahead. The red and white checkered nose Mustang stopped abruptly off the end of the airfield. The right landing gear collapsed and the wing buckled when I piled into a shallow ditch filled with rocks. My body slammed against the right side if the cockpit hard enough to knock the wind out of me. A strong smell of gasoline penetrated my nostrils and prompted me to evacuate the aircraft without further delay. I collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, as I slid off the leading edge of the wing. After a short while I regained near normal breathing. I considered myself in pretty good condition except for my pride. Later, our Flight Surgeon, Dr. Scroggin, treated me for a badly bruised right arm and very sore ribs. I waited in the cold silence for what seemed an eternity. I never felt so alone in my life, but it felt good to have my feet planted on solid ground again. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching through the fog.

    It was "Flak" Tower and the Squadron Commander in a jeep. I promised myself I would never volunteer for ANYTHING again. I remembered I had a good ally in the control tower. Besides, wasn't any landing you could walk away from a good one? Funny thing . . . "Flak" said he was really glad to see me. He put his arm around my shoulder and helped me into the Jeep. He never said a thing about the broken airplane.


CECIL L. BYRD
Copyright © 1994