AS GOOD AS IT GETS
By A Man of Many Hats Sam Pizzo
Published by Sam Pizzo at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Sam Pizzo
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter 1 -In The Beginning 1942-1945
Chapter 3 -Honeymoon And Combat Crew Training
Chapter 4 -Mediterranean Theater Of Operations
Chapter 5 - The In-Between Years
Chapter 6 - The Strategic Air Command
Chapter 7 - The 55th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing
Chapter 8 - Area 51- The Ranch
Chapter 9 -Strategic Air Command Recon Center
Chapter 10 - USAFE Recon And Intel
From time to time during my military days, I had the pleasure and honor of serving with many dedicated and talented individuals.
During my retirement years, I've taken the opportunity to record some of these moments that transpired during these crossing of paths. Some of the stories are humorous and others are not so humorous.
I was most fortunate, and lucky, not to have suffered any injuries, and am honored to have served in WWII. I can truly say it was something that I, along with millions of others, were glad we did. In essence, I had rather a "clean" war in spite of the fact that flying 30 sorties over Germany was not conducive to a healthy environment.
The exploits which took place during my tour in the Louisiana Air Guard and then later on into the B-29 crew assignment certainly provided some not too soon forgotten memories of hours of sheer boredom accompanied by moments of stark fear.
The times I spent as a crew member on the RB-47 E and H aircraft, as well as the time I spent in staff duty at Forbes AFB, were also quite memorable. The time served on the team that worked on the Central Intelligence Agency's A-12 aircraft at Area 51 was followed by being the Directorate of Operations Project Officer for the SR-71 in the Recon Center at Offutt AFB. My career culminated with being the Director of Intelligence Collections at USAFE in Germany. All of these duties, plus others not described in the book, or cleaned up for various security reasons, certainly provided me with an ample reservoir of subject matters from which to draw for the writing of the stories depicted in this collection.
Recently I was contacted by Tommy Towery who suggested I might wish to combine those stories, with other facets of my career, and put them in book fashion. This book is the result of that suggestion. Tommy has previously published three books of collections of B-52 crew members’ stories, as well as assisting others working on their own memoirs, and three books of his own memoirs.
A great deal of credit goes to Tommy for the editing and compiling of these stories, and to my good friend Pat Gros for her computer assistance and guidance in putting the stories together.
It would also be most remiss of me not to dedicate this book of captured moments of the past, to those many individuals who were present and made possible the incidents portrayed throughout the book.
Indeed, it was an honor to serve with and know each and every one of them, and I shall always cherish the memories they provided.
I would be sadly remiss if I failed to give credit to one other person who contributed greatly to whatever successes I may have enjoyed - that being my bride of 63 years. Mary, like many other military wives, took over and ran the home front while we were out playing soldier. My military career may have been much different without her love, support, and understanding. For that I shall be eternally grateful.
I hope you enjoy reading these glimpses of a military career that, for the author, was as good as it gets.
- Sam Pizzo
CHAPTER 1 In the Beginning 1942-1945
As a young lad, then while becoming a young adult, aviation was always in my blood. I constantly read aviation magazines about my heroes and the exploits of those flyers in their in their flimsy WWI aircraft. I was constantly building solid scale models of their planes. Then as I hit my teens, I used balsa wood, silk, paper, and glue to build rubber band powered flying models of their craft. I think I spent most of my allowances on those planes.
When finances were available, which was not often I might add, I took very, very long bus and streetcar trips to the airport to see up close those early model Cessna and other vintage era planes of the period. My day was made when one of the pilots would chat with me - a dream come true!
With the advent of WWII, there was no doubt in my mind that I would join the Army Air Forces and apply for the Aviation Cadet Program. I wanted to fly and as bad as war is, I then had the chance to do just that. That was just what I did by signing up for the Cadet Program in mid 1942. When the time came, I was called in to take the written exam and miracles of miracles; the passing grade was 75 and that's exactly what I made on the test. I think I floated all the way home on cloud nine. This had to be a miracle; it seemed like my destiny was being fulfilled.
It so happened that all young men going into the service in our area had to report for very general physical exams and that was what I did along with hundreds of guys on the scheduled day. Now remember, I had already been accepted in the Aviation Cadet Program, yet I had to take this preliminary exam. When I took the eye test, I flat out flunked it.
The Corporal who gave me the test, looked at my papers and saw that I was scheduled to go into the Cadet Program said, “Heck I'm not going to fail you. Let somebody else along the way do so.” So he passed me!
I never failed another eye test until way after WWII when I had an eye check and started wearing glasses. I was a Captain by then and on Active Duty. I have never forgotten that Corporal's face, or the ramifications his actions had on my military career. Somebody up there was surely looking out for me.
What a bunch of young eager beavers we were as we boarded a train to Sheppard Field, Texas to begin our military service. We sang songs, became real buddies, and formed a camaraderie that made me feel proud to be with this group of young, soon-to-be flyers. About two weeks before being called up, I had an appendix attack and went for an operation to have it removed. I was not in the very best of health when I boarded that train heading to Texas. After we arrived, we were issued our uniforms and gear, and then two days later we were on a 10 mile march. About halfway or so I collapsed and they hauled me into a hospital where I stayed for a few days. When I returned to my barracks after the hospital stay, I found that my new comrades-in-arms had stolen every last piece of equipment and clothing that had been issued to me - even my toilet articles! I had one pair of fatigues, the ones I had worn on the march, a pair of socks, my GI boots, and a plastic helmet and canteen. I had to buy every piece of the replacement articles. We only made $50.00 per month, and I think I made about $30.00 per month for quite a while. So much for camaraderie!
After being called to active duty and spending time at Boot Camp, a College Training Detachment at Oklahoma A & M, I finally arrived at the Army Air Force Classification Center in San Antonio. I made it though the tests okay and was told that I qualified in all three categories, Pilot, Navigator, and Bombardier.
When the postings came out I was in total shock as I was selected for Bombardier training. I wanted to be a pilot and I thought my world had just ended. At any rate, being young and a bit brash, I was determined to see if this decision could be reversed, so off I went through and up the chain of command. First the Company clerk, then the First Sergeant, then the Company Commander (a Second Looey), next a Captain, then the Major and finally a Lt. Colonel - the head man.
The Lt. Colonel had my records in front of him and after looking them over asked me why I thought his organization had made a mistake in my selection process. I pleaded my case to no avail, and then he told me that I had made extremely high grades on the Bombardier portions of the tests and that his personnel knew what the heck they were doing. He promptly and courteously kicked me out of his office.
Looking back, it was the best thing, career-wise, that could have happened to me. Perhaps I would never have had the assignments that came my way if I had gone into pilot training. Another miracle had taken place and I didn't have a clue that it had.
For a valid reason I'm sure, but what it was escapes me to this day, some well meaning strategist decided that certain Cadets to be had to have some college education before going any further in the program. That made good sense, but what followed sure as heck didn't come close to filling that need.
A whole slew of us were sent to College Training Detachments (CTD) and there were many such units scattered across the country at various universities. I ended up at Oklahoma A&M at Stillwater, Oklahoma. We were to spend about six months there and get regular college courses relating to science, biology, math, English - you name it, we got it. The courses came in hourly sessions, five days a week, four to five hours per day. They had no homework, no tests, and nobody flunked out unless they had a medical problem.
What this did accomplish though was getting us in the best possible physical condition you could imagine. During the mornings, before and after classes, there was physical training (PT) run by the Oklahoma A&M coaches and they sure got us in top notch shape.
But as far as getting us smarter, I would say it was a bust. There simply was no big pressure to study since no one was ever tested. On the other hand the university was also partaking in the Navy's WAVE program, the seagoing version of the ARMY WAC program, and there were at least a couple of thousand young ladies going though their training while we were there. We suffered through it though!
After six months, we packed our bags and headed off to Ellington AFB to begin our Aviation Cadet Training -maybe not much smarter, but in better shape than when we first arrived.
What a change it was from regular Air Force living going into the strict decorum of the Cadet program with its spit-and-polish approach to every aspect of the training. This included the weekend parades on the base to the downtown Houston parades, to line abreast formations on Friday nights, on hands and knees, to clean the street in front of our barracks with tooth brushes! Guards were posted and God help anyone who threw a cigarette butt on our street. Then of course there was the white glove inspection by the Company Commander, checking for dust and military correctness in the storing of personal belongings and the tautness of blankets on your bunk. If your barracks failed the inspection, there were no weekend passes into town on Saturday night. The dastardly culprit whose area was the cause of the failure was in deep trouble with his buddies.
Cadet Mess (food servings to you non-military types) included table cloths and waiters, and no hated Kitchen Patrol (KP) details involving cleaning up the kitchen and lastly great food. It was literally hog heaven.
That assignment lasted approximately four months (not really sure about this time frame) and off we went to Gunnery school at Laredo AAF Field at Laredo, Texas.
From being in heaven, and really getting with the program at Ellington, we were back in the real world. There were miserable dirty barracks, KP, lousy food, and Gunnery Instructors who didn't take a shine to Aviation Cadets. For one thing we made $25 a month more than the average Private.
We had to learn to fieldstrip (take apart) and re-assemble the 45 caliber pistol blind folded as well as the 30 and 50 caliber machine guns, all within a certain time frame. Another really enjoyable bit of training was to stand up in the back of a pickup truck, riding around a figure eight track, firing a shotgun trying to hit targets being fired from towers in a fashion similar to trap shooting. I doubt if anybody ever hit anything. We did however get the prettiest solid black and blue shoulders one would ever see. We also got to ride in the back of an AT6 Aircraft to practice hitting a target being towed by another AT-6. I think the only thing I ever hit with that 30 caliber machine gun was the ground when the bullets finally fell to earth. We did however get to crossover to Mexico and visit the quaint (tongue in cheek here) little town of Laredo, Mexico. Our instructions were, never go anywhere by yourself and keep your hands on your wallets, which I did. Two of our group got really sick after eating dinner, so we headed back and that was our one and only trip across the border. Thankfully that training came to an end and we were presented with a set of Gunners Wings, and off we went to the Bombardier Training base at Midland Texas.
After finishing up at the Gunnery School in Laredo, we were packed into a real modern (tongue in cheek here) train and headed north to an unknown destination which turned out to be the Midland, Texas AAF Bombardier Training School.
Because it was rather warm, all the windows on the train were opened in an effort to keep cool. Not only did that not work out too well, but we were also coated with a black layer of cinders and soot from the engine. After a day or so we didn't look too sharp and smelled to high heaven. The meals were outstanding, with breakfast consisted of a bologna sandwich and that was on the menu as well as for lunch and dinner.
We finally arrived sometime in the morning and lo and behold if they didn't march us right into the mess hall and feed us a great meal. As with Ellington, it was first class service. Things were looking up, and we were ready to start our training.
First let me inform you a little about the Midland AAF Base starting with its location, which was about halfway between Midland and Odessa Texas. I don't remember seeing a tree as we visualize what a tree should look like. The ones I saw looked like sticks with twigs tied to the end of them. Talk about barren land! What that place did have was dust and plenty of it. The idea of white glove inspections was a farce.
But, in spite of all these things, we were training to become Bombardiers, and that's why we were there. Ground school consisted of many hours learning about Dead Reckoning Navigation, enemy aircraft identification, Morse code (had to be able to send and receive 25 word per minute), learning the workings of the Norden Bomb Sight and how to operate it, plus the general things a soldier does, i.e. drill, have parades, and the like.
Many hours were devoted to training on a four wheeled platform about 29 feet or so in height with a Bomb Sight installed on it which in turn traveled across the floor of a large hanger simulating an aircraft on a bombing run. If you failed to master that - you were out. Shortly thereafter, we started flying navigational and bombing missions in AT11 aircraft, a twin-engine trainer.
Night navigational missions were a real bummer. West Texas was loaded with oil fields and at night they were lit up and looked just like small cities. These night missions were strictly based on visual sightings on the ground and it was really easy to mistake these for your check points. I'll bet that every cadet got lost at least once, probably more, and had to abort the mission and yell for help.
The daylight missions were not as difficult; however, flying low level over west Texas resulted in a great amount of turbulence in the aircraft and burp cups were a mandatory piece of equipment to take along ‘cause, if you messed up in the plane, you cleaned it up when you landed.
Finally the day came when we started flying our bombing missions. The Norden Bombsight was still a very, very secret bit of hardware, and each time we flew, we strapped on a 45-caliber pistol, that had been checked out from a vault, and swore to defend it with our lives. Flying bombing missions was a real thrill, but once again if you didn't hit the target with some accuracy you were out. In the heat of summer, the rubber mounting on the eyepiece of the bombsight from which you viewed your target got extremely hot and melted, and when you landed, you had a nice black ring around your eye. It was tough to remove, I might add.
If you messed up on a bombing run, consisting of some by-hand calculations in addition to hitting the target, you got the honor of wearing a wooden shaped bomb around your neck with the word “DUD” on it.
Finally came Graduation Day! We marched into the auditorium, up onto the stage, and got our Second Looey bars and a set of Bombardier Wings. What a great moment! As we walked off the stage we were handed a set of orders telling us where we would go for further training and the type of aircraft we would fly into combat. As I walked off the stage they handed me my orders which said B-26 Marauders at Tampa Florida. “Oh Lord”, I thought, “I'm doomed!” The word on that bird was "One a day in Tampa Bay." However, they also said that the orders for me and six other officers had been canceled and that we would shortly receive new orders.
We hustled over to the Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQ) and were promptly told that since we had graduated we could no longer stay on the base; there was no room. Now Midland, Texas in early 1944 was no thriving metropolis and I think there was only one hotel on Main Street, which of course had no rooms available. We hung around the hotel lobby and when a guest checked out we bribed the desk clerk to rent us the room! Seven of us shared one room for three days! We finally got our orders, mine reading B-17's at Dyersburg AAF, Tennessee.
I hustled home to get married, three days late for my own wedding. Mary and I are still together after 63 years.
CHAPTER 3 Honeymoon and Combat Crew Training
Now don't start thinking that those two items are one and the same. At least in my book they're not, even though circumstance made it seem so.
After hurrying home to get married, which Mary and I did, I had but around a day and a half left before I had to hop a train and head for Dyersburg AAF Field for my combat crew training.
If I thought Midland, Texas was a tiny little town in Texas (which I did) then by comparison, the metropolis of Dyersburg, Tennessee was very similar except that it had some beautiful trees.
It was a typical small Southern city with the railroad tracks running through the center of town. It had a railroad station, the typical town square with the surrounding shops, statues of Southern Civil War generals on horseback prominently displayed, and many beautiful homes. It was a lovely Southern city.
Alas however, it was not built to commercially house those flyers who came temporarily to their city, some of which, including yours truly, who desired to bring their spouses and have them near while preparing to go into combat.
The good people of Dyersburg opened their homes and rented rooms to those who opted to have their spouses with them. I located a house where this lovely widow lady had four bedrooms with two baths. She occupied the master bedroom with a bath and the other three bedrooms were rented out and shared the other bath. How we managed that without starting a fracas, I’ll never know, but we did. One meal per day was included – a breakfast of cold cereal and that was it. No radios allowed, and the girls could not play cards as that was gambling and that was a no-no. So there we were, three couples sharing a bath, with basically no kitchen privileges, having to eat our meals out, no bus transportation, and having to walk to the only restaurant close by.
This was the honeymoon that I gave to Mary - a girl who had, in reality, never traveled from home before! The way in which she handled this environment told me I had truly picked a winner. Each morning I'd walk into town and catch a bus to the base, and reverse the process in the evening.
My first glimpse of Dyersburg AAF certainly told me we were headed for England since all the streets had English sounding names, the bar was called the pub, the bank the exchequer, etc. Then I met the balance of my crew. I was just about the oldest, being 21 years old. We melded together just like we were supposed to do, and became a Cracker Jack crew.
When I saw my first B-17 up close, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. What a beauty! I saw that I had two 50-caliber machine guns at my position, located under the aircraft directly below me. I fired them with a special gun sight that I could move out of the way when I was on the bombsight. Too bad I never got to fire them because with a little training, maybe I would have hit something later on when we were over Germany. Our training was to last approximately a month, with a large portion of it being devoted to formation flying. When I made my first flight over Germany I then knew why. I do not recall any live aerial gunnery missions, although I did get to drop a couple of bombs. We did fly some navigational missions in order for our navigator to hone his skills. When having time off we had picnics with all of the crew members and I might add we did fulfill our flyer duties of serving the required time at the Pub drinking 3.2 beer.
Our training came to an end, for which I secretly think Mary was glad to see, as I'm sure she'd had enough of this honeymoon! A day or so later, I put her on a train bound for New Orleans, and a couple of days after that our crew boarded a train for Lincoln, Nebraska where we were to pick up a brand new B-17 and head for the British Isles and the 8th Air Force - or so I thought!
CHAPTER 4 Mediterranean Theater of Operations (MTO)
After a short stay at Lincoln, Nebraska and we were off in our new B-17 headed for Grenier Field located in Manchester, New Hampshire, which was our hopping off spot for merry old England - we thought.
What a shock when we got our orders and found out that we were actually headed for Marrakech, Morocco! So after a very brief stay at Grenier Field, off we flew to Africa.
En route, near the Azores, we spotted some debris in the ocean and one item looked as if it could be a life raft. At our altitude, we couldn't be sure, so down we went just to check it out. It turned out that it was not a raft but just some flotsam from a vessel that had evidently been sunk early on.
We didn't stay very long in Morocco, just long enough for crew rest and refueling and away we went again. This time to Goia, Italy (known as a Reppledepple), a re-supply base for crews and aircraft destined for bases further up in Italy.
To our chagrin, there was no immediate need for replacement crews at this time, and the 10 of us and all of our gear were quartered in a large tent. Once again I got to eat a lot of dust, this time accompanied by very large Italian flies. The food was lousy, no Base Exchange where we could get goodies, no laundry service, no place to relax like a club or whatever, and going into town in Goia was like going into another world - one you'd like to forget. We stayed in that tent for 30 days.
Then we were shipped out to the 15th Air Force, 97th Bomb Group, 342nd Bomb Squadron, located in the Amendola Valley a bit south of Foggia, Italy. That area was very flat and the Germans before us and now the Americans and Brits saturated the area with aircraft bases.
There were B-17's, B-24's and every other type of warplane you can name assigned to units in that area. On our base we had another USAAF unit as well as a South African Bomb unit. That made for real peachy take-offs when the weather was not VFR (no clouds.) I think we lost as many planes forming up (four or five hundred aircraft on any max effort day) as we did in combat. You'd see a bright orange glow in the clouds and know that there had been a mid-air collision. Back in those days when we had no radar, all join-ups were done by timing and maintaining proper altitudes and headings. More on this a bit later.
Our Squadron was headquartered in a small Italian farmhouse, which included a very small room designated as our dining area. It had some benches and tables jammed together and the food was cooked elsewhere and carried in. We had no complaints though as it was a heck of a lot better than those poor Infantry guys wallowing around in and eating and sleeping in the mud. There is nothing like eating Spam cooked a variety of ways three times a day, eaten while being jammed up like packed sardines, in a small smelly little room with others. On some occasions we would forego eating in order not to go through that experience.
The Pilot, Co-Pilot, Navigator and Bombardiers were housed in one tent and the other six of the crew, (Engineer, Radio and four gunners) were quartered in another larger tent.
Now for a few words about our home away from home - tent number 53. Our pilot and I became scroungers of the first realm. The first order of business was to put a floor in our tent. Now in Southern Italy trees were not overly abundant which meant that needed lumber had to be "borrowed" from some unit on the base. Miraculously one day, we had a floor, and surprisingly we were never questioned as to the source of this precious commodity.
We had a young Italian lad who cleaned our tent, took care of our laundry and became a life saver when we found out that cigarettes were gold and could be used to buy eggs, potatoes, vino, cheese, and bread. He became our grocer. We did a lot of cooking over the pot belly stove that was used to heat our tent.
As one would expect, running water and, above all, running heated water were not considered a likely possibility when one lives in a tent during wartime. However that's exactly what tent 53 had! We scrounged up two fighter fuel drop tanks, one for water the other for fuel, built a scaffolding to mount them on, and ran aluminum lines from them into the tent.
Ed Cullen [KIA]
We then devised a gadget that allowed us to control the fuel flow into the tent and to ignite it which in turn heated the stove. We then ran water lines around the stove and “Voila!” we had hot running water with which to shave. We took an oxygen bottle, cut it in half and made a basin out of it which drained out under the floor boards. We had all the comforts of home - well almost.
The Author
Our Pilot started his combat training by flying as the co-pilot on another crew before the rest of the crew flew,. After he had a couple of sorties under his belt, we then flew our first mission as a crew.
We were awakened around 2:30 in the morning, dressed, had a great breakfast of fried Spam and powdered eggs, and then we piled on trucks and on to the briefing.
Our Group briefing area was in a large community barn with a stage placed in the back of it with benches in front for the crew members. It was colder than heck in there, as like I said, it was a barn.
When they pulled back the covering of the route displayed on a large board, it caused a loud groan from the assembled crew members who had evidently been there before and didn't relish the idea of returning. Later on I found out why.
On that day our Squadron was not the lead Squadron, but rather the last one in the Group (i.e. Tail End Charlie), and as a new crew we were the Tail End Charlie of the Squadron. It was not a good place to be.
With the general briefing over, the Pilots, Navs and Bombardiers went into their specialized briefings whereas the gunners went out to the aircraft to get their armament checked out.
As the Bombardier, I was briefed on the route into the target and what specific check points to look for in locating the target which I recall as being a large oil refinery, heavily defended by flak guns (German 88MM cannons) and fighters.
We were given a sandwich to take along - you guessed it, Spam on stale bread.
After briefing we piled back onto trucks and headed for our individual aircraft. After flying over in a brand new B-17, I was a little nervous when I looked at the beat up looking bird with patches all over it.
It was pretty well daylight, and we did our preflight inspection, in my case checking out the bomb sight and arming the pins on the ten 500 lb bombs in the bomb bay. After take-off and at a designated altitude, I would then pull the pins thereby arming the bombs.
One thing I learned very quickly was to go to the bathroom (outdoor toilet commonly known as a six-holer) BEFORE going out to the aircraft. Believe me, it was not much fun out in the cold in the middle of the airfield when nature calls!
After a couple of hours, the green flare went up, engines were started and pretty soon we taxied out. One by one the B-17’s headed down the runway, took off, and with precision, formed up into Squadrons, then into Groups and Air Divisions and finally into the main bomber stream.
Remember, similar activity like this was taking place at a large number of airfields all over the Amendola Valley. My guess would be that at least four to five hundred planes would be heading up the Adriatic Sea en route to various targets in Europe.
The climb out and flight into Germany was without incident, except that I had not figured on the extreme cold which I encountered. A bare hand touching metal caused frost bite.
As we entered Germany and approached the target I knew why the crews had groaned at briefing. The groups ahead of us were almost invisible, being encased with the smoke from the exploding flak. I saw the target and released our bombs without any problem, but it looked like night outside and the peppering of flak on the aircraft let you know that this was serious business. None of them hit our crew although we did lose one plane. No fighters were seen however.
The return to base was without incident, and I welcomed my mission shot of bourbon and the donuts and coffee from the Red Cross Ladies.
I flew a few more times with the crew, and then I checked out as a Lead Bombardier and started flying with various lead crews when our Squadron led the Group or Air Division.
Crew members were constantly flying with other crews. Due to illness substitutes were always needed. On one such occasion our copilot flew with another crew and it cost him his life. During join up in the clouds, a B-17 turned into his craft causing it to crash. Four made it out but he did not. He was the only one of our crew that did not make it back after the war.
On one such mission when I flew as a substitute Bombardier, it turned out to be anything but a routine mission. It was an uneventful takeoff and climb out to the target and we encountered a few Flak bursts as we entered Germany. It was not the same however over Munich. There were a few fighters, but loads of Flak.
The B-17s' fuel tanks were located in the wings and as you used up a prescribed amount of fuel, you switched to the remaining tanks for the trip back to Foggia. Climbing out from Foggia en route to the target area is the leg of the flight whereby you used the most fuel, i.e. heavy bomb load and climbing to your bombing altitude which gobbles up the fuel.
As we approached Munich, we took a pretty good burst of Flak directly under the aircraft, however, without major damage, EXCEPT for one small shell fragment that hit the fuel transfer valve.
That was not noticed until we turned for home and prepared to switch fuel tanks. It was only at that moment when we knew we were not going to make it back to Foggia. Without the capability to have access to switch to those full fuel tanks, we were in deep trouble.
We had a few options opened to us: bail out over Germany, head for Switzerland, ditch in the Adriatic Sea, bail out over Yugoslavia, or head for and hopefully make a small island, named VIS located off the Yugoslavia coast. On the island was a small airfield used occasionally as an emergency landing strip. We also knew that VIS might be in the hands of Tito's Partisans.
Germany was out as far as we were concerned. We were briefed on what Germans were doing to captured Allied flyers as the war was coming to an end, and that didn't sound promising if we had other choices.
Landing in Switzerland was ruled out due to lots of snow and no good maps to show where to head; and, bailing out in the Alps in the middle of winter was not a very smart idea.
Ditching in the cold water in an area patrolled by German E Boats didn't seem like a good idea either.
Bailing out over Yugoslavia was not real spiffy as we did not know where Tito's Partisans were located. The partisans were on our side fighting the Germans. On the other hand, if we fell into the Chetnik's hands, (these were the Yugoslavians fighting with the Germans), the chances were that we would not make it out, period.
That left VIS only as an option. It was a good option only if Tito's troops had control of the Island. They had a clandestine radio there and we started trying to contact them as we departed Germany, and by the Grace of God we made contact. They said come ahead since it was safely in Partisan's hands. VIS was an island off the northern coast of Yugoslavia which was constantly changing hands. Tito's fighters held it for a while, then the Germans took it back, then Tito would regain control. Possession was a day-to-day thing and you never actually knew who had it until you made radio contact on your way in.
We started descending and heading towards the island, hoping for the best. It was raining as we approached the island, and when we spotted the runway we noticed it was made-up of steel matting joined together. We knew stopping was going to take all the skill the pilot could muster in an effort to keep us from going off the end of this short, wet, slippery runway. The pilot did a great job. We did go off the end of the runway, did a slow cartwheel and came to stop, with no one getting a scratch.
The minute we stopped, a large group of Yugoslav men, women and children surrounded the plane - all wearing ammo bandoliers around their chests, weapons of all makes and kinds hanging on their belts, and with very, very big machetes hanging at their sides.
They proceeded to strip the aircraft of the machine guns and remaining ammo we had left (even our left over K Rations) and wanted our 45-caliber pistols, which we refused to hand over. It got pretty spirited until an American Corporal showed up and settled the matter. We kept our pistols, although if anyone was required to hit anything with them, it would have been a miracle.
We stayed on the island a few days, living in a very large barn with other shot-down American and British flyers. We had baked chicken for breakfast, lunch and dinner, which was served with lots of red wine.
Each meal, this large well armed lady, showed up with a piece of wood on her head holding a bunch of baked chickens. She'd put the board down on the ground, take that machete out, cut each chicken in half, and that was your meal. Of course we had copious helpings of that vintage vino to wash down that most welcome meal. And it was truly welcomed and enjoyed.
We stayed there for a few days when a couple of Goonie Birds (C-47 aircraft) came in and took off the bunch of us, returning us to Foggia, and back to the war.
Since the island had radio contact with the 15th Air Force, we were reported as being okay, and never listed as MIA's, and our families never knew this had ever happened.
The 97th Bomb Group was an old and distinguished unit. It was the first B-17 Group to bomb Europe from England, and that was before the Eighth Air Force was formed.
When the Allies landed in North Africa, the Group followed as soon as a base could be secured. It flew sorties supporting the ground forces attacking the Axis troops, and soon started bombing targets in Sicily and Italy. When a base was secured in Italy, the Group moved up to the Amendola Valley, and stayed there until rotating back to the States after the cessation of hostilities. It ended up flying more bombing sorties than any other Heavy Bomb Group during WW II. On occasion it had some very distinguished individuals attend their mission briefings, such as Winston Churchill, Anthony Eden, General Spaatz, General George Marshall, General James Doolittle, Air Marshall Tedder, Field Marshall Alan Brooke and others.
It participated in some very notable missions such as the Polesti Oil Field raids among others, including bombing Berlin, and when they reached the sortie totals flown plateau which no other Bomb Group had reached, it was decided to celebrate by having a party.
The Group had "liberated" a beach house not far from the base which was used as a rest area. It was located in Manfredonia, a small Italian town located on the coast of Adriatic Sea. You could enjoy a couple of days there just relaxing and sleeping somewhere other than a tent. This was where the party would be held.
Now I learned early on NEVER to volunteer in the Army, so I'm really not sure how it came about that I was put in charge of refreshments for the party. Beer was rather plentiful; however how to get the amount needed for the party was something else again. The hard stuff I thought was really out of the question.
It dawned on me that we were given beer ration cards and each time we had a beer in the O’Club, the card was punched; however, in reality that did not happen. Ergo the cards were never punched, and therefore technically we were entitled to a full ration card of beer.
When considering the total number of officers in the squadron, we had access to a lot of beer if I could only locate a source. I then recalled going to this very large Base Exchange in Naples and seeing officers coming out with cases of beer. A call to the Officer in Charge (OIC) at that exchange verified the fact that if we had a card we could get the beer.
The next step was to get an okay from the brass to collect the cards, then get about 40 Officer "volunteers” and some trucks and head for Naples. This was obtained and the plan was put in motion.
I gathered up my 40 or so "volunteers”, loaded them into to a Weapons carrier (a vehicle size-wise between a Jeep and a big GI truck) and two GI trucks and off we went for Naples. We parked the trucks around the corner from the exchange and I took a couple of the guys and went in on a practice run. It turned out okay. Then I started sending in the others. We worked in 10 man shifts until we had all the beer for which we had cards. Some guys went in twice and I was kind of nervous about that but it worked perfectly.
Now on the way back we really had to squeeze the guys in the trucks because of the many cases of beer we had. Like all good young , red-blooded Americans, they had to sample the wares en route back to the base. This unfortunately included the driver of the Weapons Carrier who ran it into a ditch. Luckily no one was hurt and the beer survived, but we had a heck of a time getting the vehicle back onto the road. Finally we did and made it back okay. My "volunteers" wanted to know when we could do it again!
I might add that after the party was over, we had so much beer left over, that we passed it out nightly, swapped it for anything and everything, and when the war ended and we pulled up stakes to come home we still had beer left!
Now that we had the beer, the search started up as to where I could get some of the stronger spirits. As stated earlier, we had this South African Bomb Group on our field that was quartered a bit down the road and on occasion I had met some of them in our squatty little O’Club. On occasion they would bring a bottle or two of Scotch and we'd swap them some beer for their Scotch.
A quick get-together and another round of swapping beer for Scotch solved the last of the spirits problem. I thought my requirements for the shindig had come to a satisfactory conclusion. Not so! A bit later I was called into this Full Bird Colonel's office, offered a chair and a cup of coffee, at which time I knew I was either in deep doo doo, or about to be given a job no one else wanted. I was right on in the latter case.
He wanted to know where I was going to get the other needed requirement for the party, i.e. the ladies for evening! Of course I had no clue and so advised the Colonel, to which he replied, “Son, then you'd better get cracking!”, and I was dismissed.
At first I thought of the ladies of the evening from downtown Foggia but that thought was quickly discarded for obvious reasons. My next thought was of nurses from an American hospital, but I did not know of any close by. Then someone told me of a British Hospital located right outside Foggia and off I went on another not to be forgotten episode in my military career.
I pulled up in front of the hospital, went in and requested to speak with the head nurse. I was ushered into this office and sitting behind the desk was a British Nurse, a Major who invited me to sit, have some tea and explain the reason for my visit. Now for a 23 year old Lieutenant, the Major seemed to be about 60 years old, probably wasn't but it seemed that way to me.
As I explained the reason for my visit, the tea was changed out for glasses of Scotch, and an agreement was reached whereby she would provide 30 or 40 nurses, war conditions permitting. I was to guarantee the chastity of her nurses during the course of the evening. I lied of course. There was no way could I guarantee that. She did however give out with a big belly laugh when she made the proposal.
I reported back to the Colonel and once again I thought that I was finished with my chores. Once again I was wrong. This time his request was for ice to go with cooling the beer and for the Scotch! He wanted ice in war torn Italy! I lucked out once more, when I checked with the young Italian who cleaned our tent and hustled food for us. He knew of a still-working ice house that was located a couple of hours away and he could take me there. We made a recon trip and set up getting ice for the party. All that was left was to arrange escort and transport for the ladies and pick up the ice.
We had no problem in picking up the ice, and when it came time to go to the hospital, we loaded in trucks, ambulances, jeeps and what ever else had wheels, and headed out. I got to ride in the staff car with the Colonel as he thought he should go as a matter of protocol, and I was tasked to introduce him to the Major so that he could thank her on behalf of the Group.
We pulled up, and with the Colonel and me leading this pack of young, red-blooded flyers, we entered the hospital to see a group of British nurses waiting for us, all spic and span in uniform, with the Major standing in the front.
Now everyone came to a halt when we entered, and then before anyone could say a word these two groups of flyers and nurses melded and headed for the transports leaving me, the Colonel and the British head nurse standing in the hall. That head nurse walked up to the Colonel, said “I guess you're my escort for the evening. Let’s get this show on the road!” I think he wanted to kill me, and he said so quite a few times later on in the evening. Once during the party, when I failed to dodge him as I had been doing all evening, he thanked me, not in a nice tone plus a few utterances, for getting him a date with his mother!
I was told later by the Colonel's aide that the Major drank the Colonel under the table and that it might be best if I never saw the Colonel again – period! To top it off, someone stole the Colonel's jeep. It was found the next morning out on the runway, out of gas. I have absolutely no idea how and if the nurses all made it back to the hospital, or if any problems of chastity arose.