Prologue
These are the World War II experiences of C-47 Pilot/Instructor First Lieutenant Harry E. Watson Jr., a veteran of twenty-seven combat missions, recipient of three Air Medals, and seven Battle Stars. Conversations and speeches have been recreated to the best of Harry’s excellent memory.
Harry’s wife Donna is my editor’s aunt and was the reason we drove from Phoenix, Arizona, to visit them at their California home. I was mildly aware Harry was a World War II veteran. It didn’t take long for us to hit it off. After all, I was writing World War II stories, and he’d served in the war. We spent several long weekends with them at their home in Riverside, California, across two years.
Harry and I would sit together for hours on end while I took notes, and he relived his experiences, beginning as a child and continuing right through the war. I knew Harry and Donna were devout Christians, we went to their church with them, but Harry seldom went to a formal church service before the war. It was a subject he was hesitant to speak of. But my interview process is based on patience and establishing a close rapport with my interviewee as we develop a friendship.
In between visits, I researched Harry’s story as I sought to verify myriad details. We spoke and emailed almost daily as I worked on the initial, full draft. Then we’d drive to California for a long weekend when Harry and I would hammer out the various aspects of his story. As with all my previous interviews with World War II vets, the best details were the most elusive.
Eventually, Harry revealed he’d been skeptical concerning the existence of a supreme being, that is, until the day of his initial solo flight. I worked through the sequences of that flight numerous times until he announced that what I had written had made him relive the experience as if it were happening again. Only after achieving such a degree of accuracy did he begin to feel comfortable enough to share some very private thoughts about his wartime experience.
CHAPTER ONE, FUELING PATTON'S TANKS.
First Lieutenant Harry Watson, eyes closed, his body sunk deep into his bunk at Greenham Common Airbase, England, was enjoying a slow start to what was scheduled as his first day off in a week. A copy of Stars and Stripes was propped on his knees, but his thoughts were drifting to a future life as the pilot of a Pan-Am clipper flying boat, soaring over the peaceful expanses of the Pacific Ocean. It was his childhood dream, a dream he never considered possible until the opportunity to join the U.S. Army Air Corps presented itself.
The day before, he’d been flying under miserable weather conditions for hours on end while routinely intercepting radio traffic alerting him to the fact German fighter planes were sharing the sky with him. The enemy activity compounded the stress he was experiencing following a week of running supply missions, frequently in foul weather, and often landing in hastily mown fields.
It wasn’t long before his respite was interrupted by the all too familiar sound of a Jeep grinding to a halt over loose gravel. He slowly sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bunk while simultaneously tossing the paper to the side. Harry was considering how he might intimidate some hapless young private he assumed was about to intrude upon him when, to his surprise, he heard his co-pilot, Al, calling to him.
“Harry, are you in there?” Harry recognized Al’s usually upbeat tone was missing and lost no time responding as he jumped to action and quickly scurried to the front of the tent.
“Al, I’m here,” he said, while deftly slipping through the unfastened canvas flaps. He blinked his eyes a few times as he adjusted to the midday sun before returning his attention to Al. “What’s the big deal?”
Al appeared to be both annoyed and anxious as he explained Colonel Donalson wanted to see him, “as-in right now, and it sure didn’t sound like he’s going to invite you to a dance party, so let’s get a move-on!”
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Al paused a moment, tossed his cigarette onto the gravel, ground it with the toe of his right boot to make sure it was out, then removed a fresh cigarette from a pocket in his brown leather flight jacket and lit it. Harry recognized the behavior as indicating Al was worried. Truly worried because Al only smoked when he was nervous, anxious, or both, and ever since their unorthodox flight to Orly Airport in August, just the mention of Donalson was enough to put both men on edge.
“Well, hell,” Harry replied, “I haven’t done anything out-of-the-ordinary, at least for me anyway, and our plane’s waiting for a new number one engine. Just like you predicted, they couldn’t fix it, so I don’t have the faintest idea what the fuss is all about.” Harry thought for a moment and continued: “There’s no way he can blame me for that engine, it was flak damage, plain and simple.”
Harry took a deep breath, put his hand on his head, and realized he’d forgotten his cap. “Hold on a minute while I get my cap.”
“Shake a leg Harry, you don’t want to make things any worse!”
Harry disappeared into the tent and momentarily returned, cap in hand.
The two men jumped into the Jeep, and as Harry began to adjust his cap, Al hit the gas, catching him by surprise. The hat went flying behind them, forcing Al to turn around to retrieve it. Al leapt out, picked it up, and plopped back into the driver’s seat. Just as he was about to place it into Harry’s outstretched hand, he came to an abrupt halt. His mouth dropped open as he stared at Harry’s uncovered hair.
“Geez Harry, I never realized your hair’s turned half grey, when did that happen?”
“I first noticed it after the Orly trip, and I’ve been trying to keep my cap on ever since.”
Harry grasped the cap from Al’s hand, firmly placed it on his head, and, with a wry smile said: “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to keep Donalson waiting any longer, so if you’d floor it, I’d be most obliged.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Donalson probably wants you to instruct some new arrivals on night landings. I doubt he’s still holding a grudge, or we’d both be out of here and hauling freight over the ‘Hump’ in Burma. But then, why does he still list us as MIA on that forsaken blackboard of his?”
“I don’t pay any attention to it, though I got to admit I’m always worried he might change his mind about that court-martial,” replied Harry.
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16-03-2021 18:17:48
The two men were silent until Al slammed the brakes and slid to a halt in front of Colonel Donalson’s Quonset hut. Harry jumped out and wasted no time making his way to Staff Sergeant Kane, who was staffing the desk outside Donalson’s office. Kane, buried behind a mountain of paperwork, peered around the stacks of files when he heard Harry hurriedly walking towards him, the noise from his hard, rubber-heeled, leather boots reverberating on the plank flooring alerting him to Harry’s approach.
“Hi lieutenant,” said Kane, smiling, “where’ve you been? I sent for you more than an hour ago.” Kane didn’t expect a reply and continued. “Doesn’t matter, you’re here now so I’ll tell the colonel.” Kane walked to the door, lightly tapped two times, and waited for permission to enter before disappearing into the office.
Harry began wishing he hadn’t skipped noon chow and noticed his palms were sweaty, for he was beginning to suspect his plans for the remainder of the day were about to change, and probably not in a good way. He tried to relax by reasoning that Kane had smiled at him, but was it a smile or more of a smirk? Did he really summon Harry an hour ago, or was he bullshitting? The one thing Harry knew for sure was Donalson wasn’t one to be kept waiting.
Soon enough, the door opened, and Kane beckoned him to enter. Harry walked in and confidently approached Donalson who, his back to Harry, was examining a wall-size map of the European Theatre of Operations. Harry held his salute, but Donalson was lost in thought.
Harry felt a bit odd, for Donalson wasn’t much for formalities such as saluting. Still, since his Orly mission, he always played it safe and saluted any senior officer he happened upon. After a few moments Donalson noticed Harry was obediently standing nearby and turned to face him.
“At ease, Harry, have yourself a seat.” He motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “I’ve got a special mission for you,” Donalson said, “and it ought to be right up your alley.” Kane knocked on the door and stuck his head into the opening. “Colonel, your plane will be ready to go in 15!” Donalson nodded an acknowledgment, and Kane returned to his desk, softly closing the door behind him.
Addressing Harry by his first name should have been enough to place him at ease for the simple reason Donalson never called him by anything other than ‘lieutenant’, or ‘Watson.’ Harry realized it was the first time Donalson ever addressed him by his first name, and until that moment, he wasn’t sure Donalson even knew what it was.
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Inexplicably he began to feel nervous all over again when the thought occurred to him that Donalson might have addressed him as Harry because he was about to deliver awful news. He considered the possibility some big-shot general had learned of his Orly trip and decided to bring him up on charges. His palms were sweating so severely he realized he’d been unconsciously rubbing them on his slacks.
Donalson, still standing, turned and pointed to a speck on the map and motioned for Harry to approach him. “See this area?” He didn’t expect an answer. “The Luftwaffe had been using a makeshift airfield as an auxiliary to their main base in Reims, located right about here.” Harry moved alongside Donalson as he followed his finger, and they jointly began to carefully examine the specific point on the map.
“One of Patton’s recon units has been exploiting a breach in the German lines and managed to run out of fuel. They’re dug-in near this field, and I need you to fly them a plane-load of Jerry cans so they don’t get themselves massacred. HQ tells me there are some shell-holes scattered about the landing area, so be sure to do a fly-over before you go in, this is not a paved runway.” Donalson took a deep breath.
“As you can imagine, there’s a significant degree of urgency here. You’ve already demonstrated an uncanny ability to locate just about anything when it’s foggy and rainy, and today you’ll be looking at both, except today there won’t be any electronic guides for you. This mission’s going to be good old-fashioned, 100 percent seat-of-the-pants flying.” He paused as he looked Harry in the eyes and, with a slight smile, said: “As I said, this ought to be right up your alley.”
Donalson lit a cigarette and offered one to Harry. “Thank you Sir, but I don’t smoke.”
“Sorry, I forgot. In fact, if I remember correctly, you don’t spend any money on cigarettes or booze, and you send practically all your pay home to your mom and wife. I admire that, it tells me you’re responsible, though after that Orly affair, I had reason to wonder about you.” Donalson paused a few moments to gather his thoughts. “You’re from Pennsylvania coal country, right?”
“That’s correct, Sir.”
“Lots of good folks back where you come from, hard workers, and tough as nails, so I know where you get it.”
“Thank-you Sir.” Harry tried to conceal his surprise at the compliment but did let a hint of a smile slip. If Donalson noticed, he didn’t let on. They both returned to studying the map.
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“Colonel, I’m sure I can locate the airstrip, especially with these topographical features over here being so obvious.” Harry pointed to various locations on the map surrounding the landing strip, “The only problem is, my C-47 is missing an engine.”
“That’s why you’ll be flying mine. It’s being loaded as we speak and will be ready when you are. And Watson, I’d appreciate returning it to me in one piece, I don’t want you running into one of those shell-holes and ripping her up.” Donalson smiled and motioned Harry to return to his chair.
Harry sat on the edge of the seat and began looking at a few reconnaissance photos of the landing strip scattered across the desktop. He was still staring at them when Donalson continued.
“There’s nobody else I dare send in there, not under these conditions. The weather report calls for continuous fog and rain, without let-up, possibly right through daybreak tomorrow. And as you can see from the map, a precise location of the landing strip isn’t exactly clear-cut, but these recon photos are only a day old. Feel free to take them with you. Watson, you’re the best damn navigator and foul weather pilot I’ve got, which is why this critical mission falls to you. We don’t want our boys caught by surprise with no fuel for their Sherman tanks. Time is of the essence Watson, any questions?”
While Donalson was speaking, Harry’s thoughts were racing. He considered the supplies he’d need; survival kits, firearms, ammo, food, water, bedrolls, and more. Once the essentials were covered, his mind wandered. Supply needs were replaced by an image of a Messerschmitt 109 pouring fire into his plane. Exploding Jerry cans engulfed the cabin, trapping him and Al, a scene interrupted when he realized Donalson was waiting for an answer. Quickly recovering, he replied:
“Just one. Have the troops on the ground been told I could use a little guidance after I’ve landed?”
“Good question. You can anticipate ground flares, but don’t count on it. You’re flying right into the front lines, and you just can’t be sure what to expect once you’re on the ground. If they don’t use signal flares, assume it’s because it’s too dangerous. However, on the bright side, there is a small hangar there. It’s a good landmark, but don’t be alarmed when you land and see it’s occupied by a Messerschmitt 262. It’s out of commission, but other than the jet, G2 tells me the Germans have cleared out and believe you should be fine. As usual, maintain strict radio silence because, as you know, the Luftwaffe hasn’t exactly given up yet.”
“Sir, I’ll get the fuel there no sweat, but it might be risky to take-off again if the weather, more specifically, the fog gets too heavy.” Harry
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paused as he further considered the situation. “I might need to delay my return flight and wait for better conditions because the very last thing I want to do is find myself bogged down in the mud, or worse, so I’ll play it by ear.” Harry paused as another thought came to mind. “Will I be taking out any casualties?”
“No word on casualties, at least not as of now. But if there are casualties to ferry back, you’ll be advised where to take them. And Watson, I don’t want any more bad weather shenanigans on your part, so use your head. If you find yourself sopped-in, don’t attempt to return until it’s safe, even if you have a planeload of wounded. Transporting casualties is not a ticket to take unwarranted risks, and by that, I’m referring to your excursion to Orly last month.”
Harry stood as Donalson reached across the desk and shook his hand. “Oh, and as far as getting your crew together, don’t sweat it, I’ve attended to that. Good luck, and remember I don’t want you doing anything stupid. I want my plane back in one piece and you and your crew with it.” Donalson returned to his seat as Harry replied, “Yes Sir!”
It was just past 1600 hours and they’d been flying for more than two hours at altitudes between 200 and 500 feet. Once in a while Harry or Al would spot patches of farm fields and, much to their relief, they occasionally recognized geographical features confirming they were on course. Fog and low-lying clouds eventually merged into one, further hampering their visibility. It had been some time since they last spotted a landmark, and Al was growing more anxious by the moment.
“Harry, did you hear that?” Al said excitedly.
Harry acknowledged overhearing the radio message alerting them a formation of C-47s somewhere “out there” reported they’d been engaged by German fighters and were ducking into the clouds. He cautioned Al to “simmer down”, assuring him there was no chance they could be spotted in this “pea soup”. Harry recalls making a conscious effort not to reveal so much as a hint of trepidation.
About half an hour after the radio intercept, Al mentioned he couldn’t see more than about a mile ahead through the “muck” and wondered if they dared take her a little lower. Al had been making continuous attempts to view the landscape by poking his head out the side window.
At one point, as he was sticking his head through the open side-window, Al shouted he was catching glimpses of what looked to him to be nothing but endless farm fields. His tone of voice conveyed his frustration. He failed to locate any of the landmarks Harry had noted on the map and again urged Harry to take her lower.
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Harry’s plane, ‘Wee Junie’, on the homeward leg of a successful supply mission.
Harry said they were already below 300 feet, and as near as he could tell, they should be on top of the landing site any minute. He told Al they didn’t dare drop any lower because the recon photos had revealed hills and forested areas surrounded the landing field, so dropping any lower would be a dangerous proposition.The two men were soon joined by their also antsy crew chief, “Chief,” all of whom were intently watching the landscape whenever it would
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Possibly the airfield and hangar Harry encountered. Note the forest in the background.
appear through occasional openings in the clouds and nearly relentless fog. Suddenly, Al practically jumped out of his seat and excitedly shouted: “Over there, at one o’clock!” He was pointing through the windscreen, excited as a kid who had just hit a home run in his little league game.
“Before you get yourself all riled up, I’m going to circle round first and get us a closer look. Whatever you do, don’t lose sight of it!” Harry ordered.
He dipped the right-wing into a hard bank and began to maneuver toward the airstrip, flying a bit south before turning back.
Harry dropped to about 200 feet as they overflew the landing strip, such as it was. Al leaned forward as hard as he could as he searched for bomb craters.“There’s a ton of craters down there. And there’s a couple of real doozies near the hangar, so we’d better keep to the left, I think it’s our best shot,” said Al.
“Got it. I’ll just make one more swing around to be sure, then it’s time to hold onto your cap!” Harry said.
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The radio again sprung to life with another sighting of German fighter planes somewhere in their general vicinity. Al mentioned it would be nice if they had a better idea where the Germans were – it could be a few miles from here, or fifty, “I’d just like to know.”
Harry conducted a final fly-over, circled the field, and set up an approach to “take her in on the left side” of the landing strip, which wasn’t much more than a mostly flat, grassy field. The bomb craters would have seemed unexpected, save for the appearance of the lone hangar indicating the meadow was an airfield and, therefore, a legitimate military target.
Harry lowered the landing gear and held his breath as he waited to learn whether he had brought them around, in the near-zero visibility, to where they needed to be for a proper landing.
“That a-way!” exclaimed Chief as he pointed straight ahead, directly at the landing strip. “I’ll be damned if you don’t get us lined up first time, every damn time! Good goin’!”
As they drew closer to the landing strip, it was apparent there was “nary a soul” to be seen. There was no signal flare, let alone any trucks to haul away the Jerry cans. Nobody was rushing out to greet them, which Harry considered to be odd. He’d assumed there’d be some sort of ad-hoc reception waiting for them and found himself growing anxious. He briefly considered the possibility he was putting them down onto the wrong field and foughtoff the thought he might be landing behind enemy lines.
Once on the ground, he taxied toward the hangar, being careful to avoid several large shell craters in the process, as both he and Al found it necessary to poke their heads out the side windows to determine what obstacles might be waiting from them. When he was about 50 feet from the front of the hangar, he brought the plane to a halt and ordered Al not to cut the engines just yet.
The recon photos didn’t disclose sufficient detail to determine whether the hangar doors were open – which they were. One of the two doors was bent and twisted, while the other door displayed evidence of significant shrapnel damage. Sitting inside was a disabled Messerschmitt 262 “Swallow” jet fighter painted in a summer camouflage pattern. It was the lone occupant of an otherwise empty hangar and served as confirmation that Harry had landed at the correct location.
Harry stared at what was his first “up-close look” at a Messerschmitt 262. He was momentarily transfixed as his eyes locked-in on the four cannons mounted in the nose of the plane. He thought to himself he’d been awful lucky to have never come up against one as he’d heard how fast and
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well-armed they were. He noticed the sides of the left engine had been stripped open and concluded it was likely undergoing repairs when the German occupants abandoned the place. He mused that they must have been in one hell of a hurry because they didn’t take the time to destroy the valuable jet fighter.
Harry knew they were sitting ducks. They remained stationary, engines idling, for what seemed like an hour, but was probably no more than a long minute. Just about the time Harry began thinking they might have a problem, he noticed someone cautiously peeking his head from around the far side of the hangar. When the man recognized the Army Air Force markings on the fuselage he, along with four other infantrymen, came running towards the plane wearing huge smiles. Harry stuck his head out the side window as the first soldier, a very youthful sergeant, ran to his window and looked up at Harry.
“Hey sergeant,” called out Harry, “I hope you’re expecting me. I’ve got a planeload of gas I’d like to get rid of lickety-split if you know what I mean.”
“That’s swell lieutenant! By the way, the name’s Bridewell, but everyone calls me Sarge.”
“Ok, Sarge.” Harry glanced around the field and didn’t notice anyone else in the area. “It’s just the five of you?”
A Messerschmitt 262, the “Swallow”, in summer camouflage similar to the aircraft Harry encountered on the ground. Harry recalls it was the left engine (not the right engine as shown above) that appeared to have been undergoing repairs.
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“Not quite Sir. We’ve got a couple of half-tracks tucked up against the backside of that hangar.” He advised Harry each half-track had two men in the cabs, and with the help of Harry’s crew, they’d get the plane unloaded pronto.
Harry told him it sounded like a good plan, and then he could get the hell out of there. He expressed the fact he didn’t want to get caught on the ground, to which Sarge responded they’d heard planes flying around all day, but he really couldn’t tell the difference between “Kraut” plane engines and ours, unless it was “one of them screaming jets”.
“I just lay flat and wait till they’re gone.” His inability to identify various types of aircraft was, he confessed, the reason he waited so long before coming over, and he’d intentionally failed to set up any signal flares in the event that it caught the attention of the Luftwaffe. Sarge said he thought Harry may have been a planeload of “Krauts” flying in so they could grab the jet and that he “wasn’t taking no chances”. At the sound of truck engines coming to life, Sarge turned and looked toward the far side of the hangar where the first of what would prove to be two half-tracks was appearing from around the corner.
“Where’s everyone else? I thought there were tanks around here.” Harry asked.
“They’ve hunkered down about a mile that away,” Sarge said as he pointed west.He explained everyone else was dug in a few hundred yards back, and he and his squad were the only ones around. He beckoned for Harry to come on down, so he could explain the tactical situation.
Harry swiveled around in his seat to face Al and Chief. “I think we’d better chip-in as the man says.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth then the skies opened up, and it began to rain with a punishing force, reducing visibility to near-zero. The deluge was accompanied by an unsettling series of nearby lightning strikes, and the thunder was deafening to the point it drowned out the clatter of the still-idling engines. Harry found himself shouting to be heard above the racket as the rain pounded against the metal skin of the plane: “Cut the engines and pray that lightning doesn’t blow us to Kingdom come!”
“Right, brakes on, engines off!” Al replied.
Harry quickly worked his way through the narrow opening between the floor-to-ceiling stacks of 5-gallon Jerry cans. Chief opened the hatch for Harry who, without even looking, jumped to the ground, landing directly in the center of a puddle of muddy water.
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“Damn! Every time I come to France it rains!” Harry was talking to himself, but Sarge heard him and laughed.
“Sorry lieutenant, they tell me the weather’s going to get worse as the day wears on.”
Harry watched the half-tracks back up as close as they could to the open hatch. The infantrymen proceeded to quickly form a pair of lines leading from the open hatch to the first half-track while Chief and Harry’s radioman, “Sparky”, began handing-down Jerry cans, which were passed from man to man for fast loading.
Al, having completed his duties, joined Harry and Sarge, who asked them to take a short walk with him. He said they needed to be apprised of the tactical situation they had flown themselves into. Harry grew concerned when he heard the words “tactical situation”, despite the fact the sergeant’s body language was relaxed, and his tone of voice was nonchalant.
“Lead the way,” Harry said as he pulled his cap down over his brow in an attempt to shield his eyes from the relentless downpour.
Sarge led Harry and Al about 100 yards beyond the hangar where, without saying a word, he dropped to his right knee. They were on the crest of a small knoll that was covered by 4 to 5 feet high stands of willowy grass. Harry and Al, despite the ongoing deluge, followed suit as each man took a knee. Sarge pointed in the direction of a heavily wooded area a few hundred yards distant.
“See that?” He asked.
“Yeah, what of it? Those trees aren’t even in my flight path,” replied Harry.
He chuckled as if what Harry had just said was laughable, annoying both Harry and Al.
“What’s so funny?” Al asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you. There’s seven German tanks in those woods, and they’re backed-up by at least 800 infantry. They’ve got themselves halftracks, some artillery, and God only knows what else.” He paused to let the information sink in. Harry looked at him, wondering if Sarge was yanking his chain. Before Harry could decide whether Sarge was bullshitting them, the sergeant said:
“Right now those Krauts are probably hunkered down for the night, all warm and cozy in them woods. But come daybreak, you can be damned certain they’re going to make a dash for this road and high-tail it east just as fast as they can. You ought to be happy they aren’t SS.” Sarge paused and, with a sly smile, said, “At least I don’t think they’re SS.”
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The road to which he referred was not more than 50 yards from where they knelt.
“What? Are you kidding me? 800 Germans, and they’ve got tanks?” Harry paused to take a breath and said: “Well, if that ain’t the kiss-off, I don’t know what is.”
Harry could barely contain himself as a vision of Colonel Donalson screaming at him when learning his plane had been destroyed by German tanks danced through his mind. The intensity of the downpour was increasing almost as quickly as Harry’s discomfort level. Sarge, apparently realizing he may have over-stated the facts said:
“Relax lieutenant. Those Krauts ain’t looking for a fight, they just want to get back to their lines ’cause they’re cut-off. They probably don’t know we’re out of fuel here or they might’ve broken out already. Who knows, maybe they’re short of fuel too, which is why I parked the trucks between your plane and the woods so they can’t see what the hell we’re unloading.”
“What do you mean they’re cut off? G-2 said nothing about them. And why should I relax?” Harry’s voice fully reflected his anxiety.
“Lieutenant, we’ve got ’em covered on three sides of that forest, but we don’t have the tanks we need to flush ’em out because they’re out of gas. That’s why you’re here and not at some cozy pub back in England enjoying some warm English brews with a couple of English dames on each arm. I gotta say, you flyboys have it made. And as for G-2, those guys aren’t even going to get their boots muddy, so I wouldn’t pay them no heed.
Harry didn’t bother to respond as he and Al were staring at the forest. To Harry, all seemed calm enough. There were absolutely no signs of any Germans out there or anything else for that matter.
“It looks quiet enough to me.” Al said.
“Well, if you don’t believe me…” Sarge didn’t finish the thought because Harry cut him off.
“We believe you, but we’ll be out of here in short order, so what’s it to us?”
Sarge glanced at the sky, looked around the airfield, noticed they were rapidly becoming fogged-in, and visibility was growing tenuous. Large puddles of water were forming on the surface of what had become a waterlogged runway, to the point where distinguishing between a puddle and a shell crater filled with water was no longer possible.
“It seems to me like you ought to start thinking about staying the night.”
“Stay the night? Are you nuts?” Harry nervously glanced in the direction of the forest. Satisfied all still appeared calm, he realized he’d been so
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focused on the supposedly German-occupied forest he’d completely failed to recognize how much the weather conditions had deteriorated.
“Right, I see your point. We can bed down in the plane and fly out at first light.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If anything goes wrong and it turns into a shooting match, you can be damned certain your plane will be a helluva tempting target for some trigger-happy Kraut.”
“So what do you suggest we do? Bed down in the hangar?” Harry nervously glanced at the forest, now just barely visible in the continuing torrential downpour and the onset of an ever-thickening fog. The thunder and lightning combined to create something of a surreal aspect to the situation, causing Harry to experience ever-increasing discomfort. He looked at Al and noticed he had a soggy cigarette hanging from between his lips, telegraphing the fact he was very nervous.
They were accustomed to dodging flak and the occasional German fighter plane, but this was an entirely different situation, a situation he had only a limited ability to control. In the back of his mind he was sincerely hoping Sarge was joking about the Germans, but he certainly appeared to be sincere. Harry decided he had to plan for a worst-case scenario.
Sarge explained the hangar wouldn’t be a good place to bivouac either. He told them should the Krauts spot the Messerschmitt in there they’d likely lob a few shells at it. He explained when they received notice to expect a planeload of fuel, they had attempted to close those “damned” doors, but they were too damaged, so there was no way to hide what the Luftwaffe had left behind. He advised Harry he didn’t think he had a lot of choices about where to bed down for the night.
“What d’ya mean? What are we going to do?” Al asked.
Making no attempt to hide a broad smile, the sergeant said:
“I’ll round-up some shovels for you boys.” He then explained Harry and his crew could dig themselves a couple of “nice, cozy foxholes”. Sarge indicated they should follow him, and he’d show them a good spot where they could dig in. He warned them: “And by the way, no Boy Scout campfires, it’ll draw their attention.”
He directed Harry and Al to an area of tall grass and bushes a hundred yards from the plane, but not particularly far removed from the road, the same route the Germans were expected to use in the morning.
“This would be a good spot.” He paused and looked around. “You’ve got yourselves a pretty good field of vision from here. You can see your plane, the hangar, the road and, come dawn, the Germans.” Harry noticed Sarge
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was again making no effort to suppress a wide grin as we he was enjoying the prospect of watching “flyboys” hunkering down in the mud and rain.
“I suggest you gather up your crew while I fetch those shovels for ya.” He paused a moment then said: “Hey, lieutenant, I almost forgot. There’s a case of French champagne waiting for you on your flight deck, so it’s not all bad. Puzzled, Harry asked him where it came from. The sergeant told him it was courtesy of “General George S. Patton himself.”
Without waiting for a response, Sarge jogged away in the direction of the hangar while Harry and Al hurried back to the plane where they found Chief and Sparky huddled inside, the unloading accomplished. As they clambered into the cabin, Chief said:
“Please don’t tell me we’re going to take-off in this muck.”
Harry recognized the stress in his voice as he ducked far enough into the cabin to dodge the rain pouring through the open hatch. The fog had cleared, at least for the time being, but had been replaced by high winds driving the rain with ever-increasing force. He couldn’t help but notice the cabin reeked of gasoline so they wouldn’t have been cooking in there that night, even without the German army camped nearby.
“Hell no, we’re not going to attempt a take-off tonight, but let me tell you the alternative is no piece of cake either.”
“What do you mean?” Chief asked, his voice revealing more anxiety than usual for him. Sparky, standing alongside Chief, was busy bandaging a small cut on his wrist.Harry proceeded to fill them in on the situation, and as he pointed towards the forest, Chief and Sparky poked their heads out the hatch and took a long stare at the not-so-distant tree line. Recalling the Orly incident, Harry decided to radio the base and advise them of the situation. The four men then slogged out to where Sarge suggested they dig a foxhole and found him patiently waiting for them, four shovels lying in a heap at his feet.
“Hey, what’s the pea shooter for?” Sarge pointed to the rifle slung over Al’s shoulder.
“If the Krauts get close enough, I intend to plug a few of ’em.” Al replied. “I might never get another chance!”
Sarge disapprovingly shook his head from side to side. “If you take a pot-shot at the Krauts when all they’re trying to do is get the hell away from here, they’ll likely take that as an invitation to stand and fight. You’ve got to understand those guys have at least seven tanks, maybe 800 men and some armored half-tracks. Just what do ya think might happen if they figured they had to fight their way out?” He stared at Al for a moment and didn’t wait for
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an answer. “Let me tell you what’d happen. They’d blast your foxholes, your plane, that hangar, and everything else in sight. Then they’d still run east, but some of you wouldn’t be leaving here, not ever.”
“Don’t worry Sarge, nobody’s going to even think about taking any potshots.” Harry placed his hand on his holstered pistol and said, “And this baby is staying where she is, you can count on it.”
“Great,” he said , “just be smart and stay low. Now I think it’s time to leave you to your first-class accommodations.”
“Wait!” Exclaimed Al. “How deep should we dig the holes?”
Sarge smiled, “It’s never too deep, or deep enough.” He glanced at the dark grey and purple sky, rain plummeting across his face as he did so, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’ll see you boys in the morning!” He trotted away and quickly disappeared. The wind had suddenly decreased considerably, replaced by thick fog.
Despite the fact Harry harbored some doubts about Sarge’s story, he ordered his crew to start digging as it wasn’t going to stay light forever.
After about an hour of continuous excavation, Chief was complaining that the more they dug, the more the water poured in. Though he was not even waist deep in the foxhole he and Sparky had been digging, Chief exclaimed they had dug about as deep as they could. He said the water was piling up faster than they could dig, so it made no sense to continue. He threw his shovel off to the side as if it were an exclamation point.
Harry and Al had made only slightly better headway with their foxhole. One of the problems they faced, regardless of the depth of their accommodation, was the fact none of them could sit down, let alone lie down because of all the (as Al put it) “God awful water!”
By the time darkness set in, the men were cold, wet, and thoroughly miserable. A dinner consisting of cold C-Rations didn’t help their morale. Al suggested they make a little fire in the plane’s cabin so he could brew some coffee, but Sparky reminded him that some of the Jerry cans had been leaking, so it would definitely not be a good idea.
For Harry, just the thought of having a hot cup of anything was enough to warm him up a little as the men took turns voicing their particular gripes. Eventually, Harry felt it necessary to squash all further talk of making a fire in either the plane or the hangar by telling them any movement they make could bring the Germans down on them.
When Sparky complained he couldn’t get comfortable, Harry’s response was: “We’re just going to have to learn to sleep while we squat. If we lie down in this water and muck, we’ll all wake up with pneumonia. Instead
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of complaining, just think about how good the champagne’s going to taste when we get back.” Harry squatted to demonstrate the technique. “Just make the best of it because it can’t rain forever.”
The four men proceeded to crouch in their respective, waterlogged foxholes, a steady stream of rain assuring them of a thoroughly uncomfortable overnight bivouac. The rain stopped around 0200 hours, and occasional breaks in the clouds and fog allowed Harry to stargaze.
Stooping, knee-deep in water, soaked from the hours-long downpour, and feeling utterly miserable, his thoughts drifted to whether there was any such almighty entity as God. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he remembered Golden Lang told him he was convinced he’d seen God sitting in the instructor’s cockpit during his first solo flight.
Then he considered a recent incident when he narrowly escaped taking a direct hit from German Flak because he “had a sudden feeling” he should change altitude. He thought God may have been whispering into his ear, telling him to drop the nose, for moments after he did so, there was a shell burst just above them, precisely where they would have been. As he stared at the stars, he decided to write himself a “Letter to God” when he returned to base. Finishing the thought, he whispered aloud, “God willing.” Suddenly, the stars disappeared, swallowed up by a new blanket of fog. He closed his eyes and did his best to get some shut-eye.
The first traces of sunrise were finally making themselves evident when a consistent breeze kicked in and began to dissipate the fog. It was good news overhead too, the pre-dawn sunlight was revealing partially broken cloud cover. The runway was still heavily puddled but was looking more encouraging by the minute.
All of them were shivering, soaking wet and hungry when the distinctive roar of tank engines warming up demanded their immediate attention. They carefully peeked over the top of the mounds of dirt in front of their foxholes. But there were no tanks, or Germans, to be seen.
Harry hoped Patton’s refueled tanks, bivouacked somewhere to their west, would show up, and that they were responsible for making the racket, not the Germans. The clamor of engines warming up was coming from the enemy-infested woods, but it quickly became apparent that the refueled tanks weren’t interested in an early morning fight with a group of desperate Germans.
For the moment, nothing was moving anywhere within their view as they remained crouched in the foxholes, facing the forest, waiting for the Germans. Making a run to the plane and attempting a take-off seemed like a
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potentially good idea, but Sarge’s warning from the previous day kept them in place. Harry anticipated a quick and quiet enemy withdrawal and hoped the Germans would proceed in the manner Sarge had predicted. He also knew they couldn’t just switch on the plane’s engines and fly away. They’d need to warm them up first, which would make a lot of noise and could draw unwanted attention.
Al asked Harry whether he thought the Krauts would come towards them, his voice cracking from the cold, damp conditions, amplified by the fact he was scared.
“Here they come!” Chief shouted as he pointed towards the middle of the forest where the barrel of a German Mark IV tank was breaking through the tree line. Soon it was followed by six more tanks, one of which had a fixed turret, something Harry had not seen before. There were also several armored half-tracks, one towing a Nebelwerfer, a much-feared German rocket launcher. There was even a twin-barreled anti-aircraft battery mounted on, what looked to Harry to be, a modified tank.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed an absence of the dreaded Tiger tanks. He heard they were equipped with an uncannily accurate and
The above scene is not all that different from what unfolded only yards away from where Harry and his flight crew were dug in. A German tracked vehicle is towing a Nebelwerfer rocket launcher. Harry recalls seeing something very similar to the above that early morning in France.
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long-range 88-millimeter cannon. He learned a great deal about them from D-Day glider pilots and had no desire to ever see one that wasn’t knocked out of commission.
As the Germans progressed toward the road, Harry observed each tank was carrying at least nine or ten infantrymen who were hanging onto the tops of the turrets as they bounced over the uneven terrain. When the tanks completely cleared the forest they fanned-out, forming a horizontal line, and slowly worked their way across the meadow lying between the forest and the road; the road that would take them east to their companions.
For Harry, watching the Germans advance directly towards him was as scary as anything he’d ever experienced. There was no guarantee they’d turn onto the road and go east. They could just as easily proceed to rollover Harry’s position and blast Colonel Donalson’s C-47, the hangar, and anything else they decided to blow apart.
The first tank reached the side of the road, pulled up onto it, made a partial left-turn, and came to a complete stop. Harry was wondering what the tank commander was planning when its turret began circling towards them. He gulped and found himself momentarily spellbound as the tank’s turret continued turning until it faced directly down the road, to the west. For a brief moment, Harry had found himself staring directly into the barrel, a moment when he unconsciously held his breath. With the gun barrel safely facing westward, the tank let loose a shot that shook the ground and reverberated through Harry’s chest. It remained stationary for not more than ten seconds before the turret slowly swung back to the forward position, and the tank began to slowly rumble away to the east.
Additional infantry was jogging close behind each tank. None of whom so much as glanced in Harry’s direction; they were looking straight ahead, at the back-end of their respective tanks. Al picked up his rifle and took aim at one of the soldiers riding atop the last of the tanks. Just in time, Harry noticed and knocked the rifle away from him as hard as he could.
“Are you nuts? You want to get us all killed?” Harry’s voice was nowhere near as commanding as he intended, the result of many hours of enforced silence in the cold, however, his anger was evident enough as Al meekly lowered his head and said nothing. He looked down at his rifle, mostly obscured by the muddy water accumulated in the bottom of the foxhole, and mumbled something about needing to clean it. He made no further effort to fire at the retreating Germans.
They spent the next thirty minutes observing the German’s withdrawal until the last infantryman was safely out of sight. Harry stood, stretched
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A German Heavy Tank Destroyer emerges from a forest. Harry recalls seeing a similar tank among the retreating Germans.
his legs for a few moments, and began walking to the plane. Without saying a word, Al, Chief, and Sparky fell in behind him. Harry made a quick inspection of the ground conditions so he could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t sink the colonel’s plane into a muddy quagmire. Satisfied the conditions, though marginal, were acceptable, he conducted his pre-flight check and made ready to “get the Sam Hill out of there.”
Twenty minutes later, they were lifting-off and steering a course back to England, the sun burning brightly. They didn’t see Sarge or anyone else before leaving and wondered if they had withdrawn during the night, just in case they were wrong about the German’s intentions. All four of them were still sopping wet but were so happy to be in the air again that nobody voiced even the smallest complaint. About thirty minutes into the return flight Harry said, “Well, I guess this turned out to be just another dull supply run.” He smiled as he looked at Al, adjusted his course, and kept “pouring on the coal”.
“Yeah, these milk-runs are getting a bit boring,” Al replied. He flashed a big smile before returning his attention to the matters at hand, his muddy rifle stowed alongside his seat, a reminder of their hair-raising experience.
