I think of my brief career with the 339th Fighter Group as beginning in basic flying school. If it hadn’t been for a lucky break in basic, though, I would have ended up flying multi-engined. At that time- Class 44D - anyone who was taller than 5’ 10" or weighed more than 170 lbs. was destined for multi-engined advanced. Sure enough, my buddy, Warren Martin and I were on orders to multi-engine advanced; he weighed about 185 and I was 6’2". However, we had resolved to be fighter pilots and related our aspirations to the captain in charge to no avail. We took our frustration to the first sergeant - after all, who runs the military?. He listened to our earnest appeal and said he didn’t think he could help us. Then he went on to say that if we could turn in a couple short guys who were reluctant to be single engined pilots, then maybe he could help. "Fat Warren" Martin and I scoured the camp and actually found TWO of those little guys who wanted no part of fighters. The switch was made, and we were off to our fighter training at Marianna, FL, where our height and weight were the subject of much curiosity!
My time with the 503rd Fighter Squadron at Fowlmere was brief. I arrived in Oct 44 after P-51 transition at Goxhill, and I was shot down on 31 Dec 44. That final mission began as had several others in the past - we bordered on being "socked in" with limited visibility and a very low ceiling. We started off with our usual hearty breakfast at the squadron flight line mess and briefing. We headed for the line, wondering if we would be able to take off or would just sit in the cockpit for awhile on a scrubbed mission. However, we were given the order to go. Bill Bryan was leading the squadron, and I was in the second flight as wingman to Lt. Col. Carl Goldenberg in the second flight. As I recall, he had been recently assigned as group deputy commander and this was his second or third mission. We escorted B-17s into the Hamburg area.
I was flying my brand new P-51D #44-15700 and feeling right proud! Our element leader was Charles Coe and Ralph Hill was No. 4 in the flight. Shortly after takeoff and join-up in close formation, we were into the clouds. We all hung in there very tightly, and after what seemed to be an eternity, we broke out well over 20,000 feet. At that point we spread out to get our bearings and to take our assigned positions. we were separated from the rest of the squadron but continued on course to rendezvous and rejoined them, only to get separated again by flak before reaching the target area. Lt. Col. Goldenberg began a shallow turn to the right with me on his right. The element began their crossover and I was in the process of sliding under to take position on his left wing. Before this could be completed and without any warning, I was jolted by a large explosion. I was quite surprised and upset to see a large hole in my left wing. I fought the controls for what seemed to be at least 5,000 feet. Since there was no fire I believed I could recover and get the Mustang under control. I learned later from Ralph Hill after returning home that I had been hit in the tail as well and that the controls had been damaged. Also found out that it was a ME-262 jet coming out of the sun that shot me down. With all my efforts to control the aircraft failing, I decided to get out. Bailing out proved to be difficult, too, because by then the plane was gyrating violently. I jettisoned the canopy, unplugged my G-suit and harness and struggled. Centrifugal force had me pinned for quite a while, but the gyration let up for a moment and I suddenly popped out. I kept thinking -- this couldn’t be happening to me -- it was always someone else who got hit. Obviously, I was at the WRONG PLACE at the WRONG TIME! It seemed then, as now, miraculous. As I regained my senses, I knew I still had a lot of altitude to lose, maybe 8,000’ and that I should free fall awhile before pulling the D-ring. Oddly, this period seemed very peaceful with no sense of falling for what seemed to be an eternity. Then I decided I’d better see if my chute worked. It gave me a rough jolt, and the dinghy I sat on promptly parted company from me. There are others like me who will always be grateful to our chute packers. It turned out I still popped my chute too soon. I was probably still at around 7,000’ above the ground and this being my first and last jump, what did I know!
In that area below Hamburg the weather was clear and windy. I recalled that I should have the extreme wind at my back to tumble forward. I tried to guide my chute to miss trees and ended up landing in a frozen field ploughed in deep furrows. All was fine until I hit and tumbled forward. Due to the deep furrows I went off to the right and landed hard on my right shoulder, losing the use of my right arm. I was dragged 100 yards before I could collapse my chute with my left hand. Then came the chore of getting out of the harness. Trying to undo one of those push-and-turn fasteners was difficult with one hand. Finally, it was done and I was flat on my back, bloodied from being dragged. I found out later that I had a badly dislocated right shoulder. Within moments I was surrounded by five men, one of whom was older and in uniform with a gun. I was no threat whatsoever, since we were no longer carrying the .45 automatic. They took me to a tiny village to the mayor’s house, half of which was a small barn. For five hours I was on exhibit for every villager to see until the SS came to pick me up.
I recall little of the next few days except my unusable right arm which was not treated. After five or six days I was taken to a small dispensary where a German doctor finally got my shoulder and arm together. Then I went to another small base not far from Hamburg where I joined a larger number of POWs, mostly bomber crews. Then it was on a crowded train for five days through Berlin south to Frankfurt. The most harrowing time of my total confinement were the train rides, or rather the intervals when we had to get of f the trains due to Allied air raids. We spent those periods in big city air raid shelters along with the civilian population. Civilians spat on us, threw rocks, and I’m convinced would have hung us if it weren’t for the guards.
We finally arrived at the interrogation center where I was isolated in a small cell. I was given the usual interrogation routine -- days of repeating name, rank and serial number. I was surprised to realize just how much the interrogators already knew about the 339th. It was Hans Scharff, the gentlemanly master interrogator, who questioned me to no avail. I had little to say, mostly because I really did not know anything, including what had hit me. Afterward, I was moved to Dulag Luft for several days, where I met Col. Charles Stark, the senior Allied officer - who later became senior air advisor during my early years with the New Jersey Air National Guard.
From the processing center, Dulag Luft, I went on another five day train ride to Stalagluft I at Barth on the Baltic -- once more sweating out air raids in civilian shelters and being protected by our guards. After so many days of uncertainty, I was relieved to arrive at Stalag Luft I. I was in great company there. Col. Hub Zemke was camp commander, Col. Henry R Spicer was in solitary confinement supposedly awaiting execution (which never happened), Lt. Col. Harvey Henderson occupied one of the compounds and Lt. Col. Gabby Gabreski was also the commander of our compound. The strong camaraderie and moral support were tremendous here, even though 95% of my barracks mates and 100% of my roommates were bomber crew! Thanks to my comrades I learned to play bridge. But the main topic was FOOD. Although I had been hungry up to my arrival at Stalag I, hunger took on a new meaning. We kept hunger at bay by copying down recipes and talking endlessly about food. Do you remember KLIM milk spelled backwards - that all-important, necessary ingredient! By liberation I was down to 118 lbs., 6’2" string bean. I thought about "Fat Warren" Martin and Jim Mankie, the two oversized guys who set out to be fighter jocks. Talk about a crash diet!
During the last month of our confinement, we knew something was happening. Our guards were steadily being replaced by elderly men, as the younger men were shipped to the front. Then we began hearing rumors about the Soviet advances. On 30 Apr 45 our guards vanished. We were on our own. What follows are notes from a diary I kept -- virtually empty except for some personal notes, some recipes, and the following two entries for those final days:
Monday, 1 May 45 Today really started off with a bang. Before the break of dawn we discovered that Americans were in the towers instead of Jerries. The Jerries had pulled out about 11 PM and our men took over the camp at 1 A.M this morning. This morning the burgermeister of Barth sent his car out for the CO’s use. A white flag now flies over Barth. It has been rumored that Col. Zemke left camp to try to contact the Russians who supposedly are very close.
4:30 PM - We just got eighteen Red Cross parcels in the room. Right now we’re eating more than we can hold!
10 PM - The Russians have reached the camp at last. The lights are to be left on an extra hour tonight so we can celebrate. I imagine we’ll be leaving here in a couple days.
Saturday 13 May 45 - I was wrong. Today we leave. It has been quite a long wait. We were treated to a Russian U.S.O. type show. Left Barth today at 1600 never to return Oh happy day!!! Left in a Flying Fort and arrived in Rheims at 1900. Next morning hopped a C-47 and went to Le Harve.
That’s the end of my story about those days. We were on our way home on a Liberty ship.