I had just turned the 434th around the backside of our box of bombers and was heading parallel to their course on the right side of the stream, when I spotted a gaggle of shadowy contrails sneaking along the top of that cirrus bank and headed in the direction of our bombers. I was about to turn to intercept them when the 435th flight sailed past just to my right. I wondered what in hell they were doing so close to the bombers. By all rights those enemy fighters (and that’s all they could have been) were their responsibility. I held my turn and watched the 435th go scurrying along out of sight. My God, a whole squadron, and it was obvious not one of them had spotted the enemy.
As soon as the 435th cleared, I dropped my externals, turned, and headed my bunch to intercept the rapidly closing bandits. Soon, the German leader saw us coming and, knowing the jig was up, broke off his attack. His formation turned into a gaggle of individual aircraft as we piled into them. All this time my outfit had uttered not a single word. We prided ourselves on radio discipline, and we fought that whole fight in silence. It was a weird one.
We ended up with the battle swirling along and then into the huge squall line. It was like flying into the proverbial milk bottle. I had managed to knock one Me-109 down quickly and went after another just as he entered the cloud. I concentrated on my adversary and hoped he was a good instrument pilot. Without a horizon, there was no up, no down, no left or right. There was also no “seat of the pants” to believe in. I closed on the l09, trying to get my gun sight on him, when everything went to hell at once. I could feel my bird staggering and shuddering, but wanted to get off at least one burst before I lost everything. To my amazement, the 109 snapped, and then spun straight up! Hell no, that wasn’t up, it had to be down … and both of us must have been nearly inverted when we stalled. To hell with the German, Robin! Get your head in the cockpit. Get those gyrating instruments sorted out, and recover from this spin. I knew I had plenty of altitude, so I didn’t rush things. Horror stories of pilots pulling the wings off in their haste to recover from similar situations flashed through my mind. I stayed cool as I sorted the situation, then recovered from the spin and pulled back to level flight.
So then why did I start shaking almost uncontrollably when I got the beast flying straight and level, headed more or less to the west? The whole incident had happened so quickly, was so intense and disorienting, that I’d had no time to be afraid. Adrenaline was pumping, and my reaction after the sudden return to the normalcy of the steady, soothing hum of the Mustang engine in the relative security of my snug cockpit made everything let go at once. I remember being glad to be alone in my plane, without a witness to my aftershock.
As was normal after an aerial battle, we straggled back to England in pairs or as singles. A few of us managed to join up over the North Sea to give the ground troops a victory roll or two when we entered the traffic pattern at Wattisham. I was enjoying the exuberance in the ready room when I was accosted by the major who had led the area support squadron. I won’t say he was boiling, but he certainly wasn’t in a very pleasant mood. More precisely, he was sputtering.
“What the hell were you doing down south of the bombers? Your mission was close support! How come you deserted your position next to the big friends? Why didn’t you call out those bandits to me? We were the ones who should have intercepted…!” Blah blah blah, he went on and on while I tried to keep a straight face. It wasn’t easy, especially when I caught my guys smirking behind his back as they pretended not to listen to the major ranting and raving.
“Gee, Major, I’m sorry,” I finally managed to blurt. “When you went sailing right across the front of that gaggle I thought you must have had a more threatening target in sight, so I had to head ’em off before they could get to the bombers. Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes, you damn well did, and you’re going to pay for it.”
I wasn’t too worried because, despite what appeared to be my insubordination, by this time in the war we all knew that the term “pursuit pilot” had long gone out of use. We were FIGHTER pilots. We didn’t pursue; we fought the enemy when we found him. It didn’t take long before the guys actually doing the fighting stopped listening to the staff officers trying to run their lives from various headquarters. The poor bomber boys did as they were ordered. They really had no choice. Sure, there were several magnificent exceptions when an individual bomber crew or the leader of a formation of big friends managed to find some latitude to deviate in good cause from the prescribed routine, but such actions were rare. That latitude just didn’t usually exist for them. On the other hand, as fighter pilots in small, fast aircraft, we had the maneuverability and the opportunity to pretty well do as we saw fit, particularly when we did so for the good of the bombers. Flying close escort was great for bomber morale but lousy for their protection. Imagine trying to stop a determined attack from six o’clock high by some hundred or so enemy fighters when you start from line abreast with their target. It wasn’t your best place to be.
On February 14 I sent the Jerries a Valentine by blasting three enemy aircraft out of the sky southwest of Berlin. Two Me-109s and one Fw-190 bit the dust, and I gave each one the finger as he fell away. I got another one on the ground on the twentieth. The score was adding up! I was earning my keep as a fighter pilot!
That was why I was so stunned when, only a few days later, Jeff called me over and announced, “Robin, the military police have a warrant for your arrest.”
“What?! What in hell are you talking about? Warrant for what?”
Jeff looked me right in the eye but couldn’t quite hide a gleam of amusement at my distress. I caught that and relaxed somewhat, but not totally.
“You’re wanted for desertion in the face of the enemy.”
“Desertion in the face of the enemy? You have to be fucking kidding me! What the hell do they mean? Christ’s sake, I just knocked down a couple of Jerries, been flying missions like mad, hitting stuff on the ground.…”
By now Jeff was openly laughing. “You left the Queen Elizabeth without proper orders and didn’t show up at the replacement depot where you were supposed to be processed. No one knew where you were, so they figured you had deserted. I guess you know the penalty, usually a firing squad in time of war. Surely they taught you all about that at West Point.”
“Jeff, shit, I just thought I’d go down to London for a day.…”
“Oh hell, Robin, relax! We told them you were here and scarcely in desertion considering the amount of flying you’ve done, let alone the fact that you’ve knocked down three Jerries in the past two weeks. Got your attention, though, didn’t I?”
I had been had, again! Maybe I needed to lighten up.
March rolled around with sunshine for two consecutive days and everyone began shouting, “Spring is here at last!” But overcoats and woolies came out again almost immediately. Spring was, most definitely, not here yet. I led a bunch of bomber escort and patrol missions between the second and seventeenth but net kills were zero. The most fun during that dry stretch was my first encounter with the new German jets, the Me-262s.
We were over Magdeburg at 29,000 when I saw six little specks turning toward us from the northeast. They had to be German. No one else flew like that. None of our group, or anyone else escorting the bomber force, had reason to be out where those bogeys were. With full confidence in my identification, I called them out as bandits and turned into them. The whole squadron turned with me. The specks took form and came at us with amazing speed, nearly head-on. I focused on the bandit at my two o’clock and turned as hard as I could to get him in my sights before he came into range. Our closure was too fast and I realized I couldn’t get my nose around in time to get a head-on shot. The aircraft looked like a greenish shark with a fuselage flat on the bottom and tapered to a rounded top. The nose jutted forward in a clean and beautiful sweep, and an engine pod hung under each wing. I saw all this in a flash as the jet swept past not 50 yards to my left, and I’ll never know why he didn’t fire. He h
ad me dead to rights on that pass.
I turned to give chase, but by the time I got around, the jets were out of range in the distance. I could see Bison Squadron giving chase off to my left. They were somewhat ahead of my position, not having turned into the bandits as I had. Bison’s contrails stood out sharply against the clean blue sky. Feeling certain the German leader had them in sight, I dropped down a few hundred feet to get below the contrail level and turned to the right of the Jerries’ position. My only chance to close would come if the jet leader turned to his right, down and away from Bison Squadron. He did just that. I turned farther right to intercept them as they cut north across my flight path. Again, I couldn’t match their speed, and the only shot I took was made in sheer frustration, totally out of range. The departing jets quickly disappeared.
Luckily, the jets didn’t strike the bombers that day. There was some consolation in that, but I thought hard about how to deal with those beauties in the future. Anticipation would be our greatest asset—that, and following them to their home bases, hoping to catch them low on fuel and in the landing pattern. It meant we had some research to do in the intelligence files to find out what we could about these airplanes: where they were based, their flight duration, and what tactics these men had developed for their new machines.
Looking back, I can’t help wondering why we weren’t just given that information by the operations and intelligence people up at ETO Fighter Command. I needn’t have wondered. Those of us flying against the defenses of North Vietnam twenty years later weren’t informed either. It seems the vital information was so secret that only the North Vietnamese and the American intelligence people had a need to know. Those of us getting shot at weren’t cleared for such highly secret stuff.
Encounters with the Me-262s became routine. We learned to insert ourselves between them and the bombers. This seemed to discourage them for the most part. I never did get a decent shot at one of them, but a few of the Newcross pilots did manage to get into their traffic pattern with some success. Major Jeffrey would get the first Me-262 kill for the group. By then we all knew the jets were faster but couldn’t turn worth shit. We scornfully called them the “blow jobs.”
Real action came again on the nineteenth, when I was leading sixteen guys on a bomber escort and fighter sweep. We sighted bogeys at 8,000 over the Münster area, a mixed bag of about eighteen Me-109s and Fw-190s flying a P-51 U.S.-style formation in elements of two. That really pissed me off, but I had to admit, these guys were exceptionally competent, aggressive, and fearless. We got into a hell of a tangle, with everyone split-S’ing all over the place. As good as they were, we were far better. The proof was in the final score: 434th Squadron got six, Germans zero. Two of them were mine, one Me-109 and one Fw-190. It was a very good day, and we earned an exceptionally memorable O club party that night.
I took official command of the squadron toward the end of March. We finished the month with a tally of twenty-five missions flown over Germany and many more kills for the group. Taking over the squadron meant taking over the CO’s log, and I took great liberty in adding important and memorable events. A teletype was slipped anonymously under my door late one evening. No one knows who composed the epistle, but it was noteworthy:
CLAYBAUGH-COUCH
MOUSE OFFENSIVE … … …
LATEST TELETYPE: H2020 25 MAR 45 … USING MT (QMMODELS)* SGTS CLAYBAUGH AND COUCH IN TWO SWEEPS OVER THE LOCKER ROOM SCORED TWO DAMAGED AND TWO PROBABLES IN THE OPENING PHASES OF THE 434TH’S MOUSE OFFENSIVE THIS MORNING. ON A RECON MISSION HELD LATER IN THE DAY ONE OF THE PROBLEMS GOT AWAY. *MOUSE TRAPS, QUARTERMASTER MODELS.
26 MAR 45 CONTINUING WITH MOUSE OFFENSIVE SGT CLAYBAUGH GOT TWO CONFIRMED THIS MORNING, SGT COUCH ACTED AS TOP-COVER. LT PALMER ABORTED.
27 MAR 45 CHECK-UP OF ALL POINTS IN THE LOCKER ROOM REVEAL THAT MICE HAVE BEEN REDUCED TO CARRYING OUT SNEAK-RAIDS AT NIGHT. NO MISSION WAS CONDUCTED AS TWO MT’S WERE OUT FOR 100-HOUR INSPECTION. IN THE AFTERNOON’S MISSION SGT. COUCH GOT ONE MOUSE CONFIRMED AND ONE PROBABLE. SGT. CLAYBAUGH SIGHTED TWO BUT WAS TOO BUSY BITCHING ABOUT THE MICE BEING DEMOCRATS TO MAKE A KILL. LT. PALMER, AS USUAL, ABORTED.
LOCKER ROOM PERSONNEL, PILOTS AND VISITORS ARE CAUTIONED AGAINST NIBBLING ANY STRAY BITS OF CHEESE OR CANDY AS THESE MATERIALS ARE PART OF SECRET WEAPON. ANYONE HAVING A STRAY BRITISH BISCUIT PLEASE CONFER WITH SGT. CLAYBAUGH AS LATEST S-2 REPORTS CLAIM THAT ENGLISH MICE PREFER THEM FOR BAIT. 234567890- #@%^& OUT.
Finally spring weather arrived the first two weeks of April. Softball games erupted, and lots of pale skin emerged after the long dreary winter. We flew with enthusiasm as it became obvious that the war was winding down. We shot the shit out of airdromes all over Germany, strafing anything we could find. Our attacks were met by only light flak and small-arms fire. I downed one Me-109 in the air and also damaged an Me-262 and an Me-410. I destroyed six planes on the ground. Five of those were on the sixteenth, when we had great fun on a “freelance” mission to the Reichersberg, Kirchen, and Eferding airdromes. The squadron destroyed twenty-one aircraft and damaged seven at those ’dromes that day. Göring’s Luftwaffe was largely crippled by this time. The mighty Huns had fallen to their knees under the daily Allied onslaught. By the end of the month, we knew it was all over.
10
Going Home
On May 8, Nazi Germany collapsed and gave herself up to the Allies. Words failed me for the squadron log that day and for many days after. Six long, bloody years were finally over for Europe. In celebration, everyone at Wattisham either went to bed or played in the sun. Churchill announced the end of hostilities over the wireless, and Colonel Riddle addressed the group, congratulating the officers and men on a year of good work by the 479th. Church bells in the villages were ringing wildly. Imagine the bells in London! That evening, we had parties at the Rocker Club, the Little Wheels Club, and the Red Cross. The celebration went on through the night; most of the men drank themselves silly, except for an unlucky few who had guard and KP the next day.
After V-E Day, things were strange. Now that the shooting had stopped, you’d think everyone would be anxious to get home. Not so. There were many of us who felt let down. It was a weird “now what do we do?” emptiness. Luckily, there was plenty to keep us occupied. My job was to tell the squadron what was next: our possible transfer to the South Pacific, and the training program ahead. We flew large formations all over Germany and the Low Countries. These were to emphasize the reality of the war’s end before the ground occupation was established and some form of postwar government was in place. I had something else to think about. Immediately after the formal signing of the surrender terms, a telegram arrived at Wattisham. It was from USSTAF (U.S. Strategic Air Forces, which later became USAFE), and it ordered me to proceed immediately to headquarters just outside Paris. On arrival I was to report to General Carl A. “Tooey” Spaatz’s office for further instructions.
Wow! Me, a lowly major way down on the totem pole, reporting to the four-star who commanded all of the Allied air power in Europe? Spaatz and my dad had been close friends and we had lived next door to each other at Langley Field when I was just a teenager. It still felt uncomfortable to be singled out. Regardless, I dug out my best uniform, grabbed my shaving kit, and took off in my Mustang for the Villacoublay Airdrome.
A staff car met me and delivered me to the front door of an imposing building, where I found my way to the commanding general’s office. There, a master sergeant informed me I was expected at the general’s château “tout de suite.” After another short car ride, I was delivered to the château. I pulled the bell chain beside a massive ornate wooden door. After a long interval (enough to make me wonder if the driver had possibly made a mistake), the door opened and there stood Lieutenant Colonel Sally Bagby, known throughout the theater as the general’s personal aide. The colonel informed me that I was early, the general was having a nap, the guests weren’t due to arrive for another forty-five minutes, and I could find the bar in the corner of the main salon.
Obviously, some kind of gathering was planned, and for an unknown reason, I was part of it.
I found the bar easily. Without asking, I poured myself a stiff scotch. Good stuff, too! The room was beautiful, with a high painted ceiling, dark oak paneling, oil paintings, antique fixtures, Oriental rugs, and comfortable-looking furniture, all dominated by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a formal garden framed by trees. There was an almost unreal view of the Eiffel Tower in the far distance. The effect was like a sixteenth-century painting. I sipped my drink and leaned comfortably against the bar, not wanting to be seated when the rest of the crowd arrived.
The room gradually filled. I realized I was looking at men whose names and positions were known to the world: Eaker, Vandenberg, Stratemeyer, Quesada, Norstadt, Doolittle, Patridge, Strothers, and more. I had never personally seen a three-star, let alone a four, and I felt as out of place as a pig at a party. I made plenty of room at the bar as some of the generals gave me a glare that said, “I don’t give a damn, but who the hell are you?” Others simply ignored me completely, which was fine. I backed into the corner near the window and waited to see what would happen.
Voices rose as the room buzzed with excitement. There was loud laughter and a great deal of backslapping and hand shaking. It made me think of a locker room after a hard-fought football victory, but that was a really pallid comparison. These men had played large individual roles in achieving total victory over the German enemy. They were among their peers and seemed to let down some of the barriers of restraint and detachment usually exercised by men of their position.
Suddenly, there was a pause and everyone turned to the far end of the room. General Spaatz stood at the top of a broad flight of stairs. The crowd broke into cheers and there were cries of “Welcome back, boss!” as the ranking men expressed their unbridled respect for the leader they had followed to this victory.
Fighter Pilot Page 17