by Stout, Jay
The depot at Greensboro was one of the mobilization miracles that were so representative of the resources the nation put into winning the war. Built in less than a year, it featured nearly a thousand prefabricated buildings, including more than a dozen mess halls, five chapels, three libraries, a host of gyms and movie theaters, and a hospital. There, the men—up to forty thousand at any one time—underwent final medical processing, were issued destination-specific clothing, received lectures about a wide-ranging series of topics, and were matched to transportation overseas.
Righetti expected to pass through Greensboro quickly. “Finally got here and situated and like the place fine since I’ll only stay ten days or so,” he wrote on August 7. A week later he declared, “This place has become very monotonous by now.” He was still stuck in Greensboro when he wrote the family on August 21, more than two weeks after arriving: “Goddam this place anyhow. The way the war is going I’ll miss the whole European show if some knucklehead doesn’t move me soon.” In fact, during this period Allied aircraft gutted a group of German armies in the Falaise Pocket in eastern Normandy that numbered nearly half-a-million men. The stench of so many rotting corpses permeated the cockpits of aircraft over the battlefield.
During this time Righetti became aware—even self-conscious—of how young he was relative to his rank as a lieutenant colonel. “This is quite a barracks I live in,” he wrote. “It’s called ‘Brass Row’ with a capital ‘A.’ Restricted to colonels, it houses some 10 lieutenant colonels and 4 eagle jobs [colonels]. All pretty regular guys, but most with very impressive records. I sometimes feel I have no business here since I’m the youngest guy by at least 6 years.”
He was obviously heartsick three weeks later when he wrote Cathryn on her birthday, September 11. By that time she and Kyle were living at the ranch in San Luis Obispo. Nowhere in the letter did Righetti mention his frustration at being held for more than a month at Greensboro. Rather, he seemed simply deflated. “Today, your birthday, and I’ve thought of you constantly. It’s hell, no less, to be away from you.” After some newsy bits, he chided her gently as he had received very few letters from her since he had left Randolph. He closed by reminding her how much he missed and wanted her: “I love you more than I ever have before, and would give everything I own to be with you now. Please write soon.”
He finally arrived in England at the start of October; he described the weather as “wintery but not uncomfortable,” and was assigned to the Eighth Air Force, commanded by famed air racer James “Jimmy” Doolittle, who became additionally renowned after leading a daring bombing mission against Tokyo during 1942. Righetti went to Fowlmere where he flew a couple of transition sorties in the P-51, and also to Duxford where he flew one of the 78th Fighter Group’s P-47s. Although he had been on the island only a very short time, the English had already made a favorable impression. “British people marvelous, friendly, sincere and interested in our welfare—truly a wonderful ally. All of them have been through so much, too.”
Righetti connected with a great many of the friends and associates he had made since entering the service five years earlier. His friend, mentor and former boss at Randolph, Fred Gray, was the commander of the 78th Fighter Group, part of the 66th Fighter Wing. Gray, who Righetti had described to his folks in 1943 as a “wonderful guy,” shopped him around the 66th’s headquarters where he himself had spent time before assuming command of the 78th the previous May. During these rounds Righetti made a good impression and was ecstatic when he was assigned to one of the 66th’s fighter groups, the 55th, on October 24, 1944.
Righetti arrived at Station F-159, Wormingford, the following day. Wormingford, located, about sixty miles northeast of London, was the home of the 55th Fighter Group. He made his way to the pilot lounge of the 338th Fighter Squadron, one of the 55th’s three squadrons. There, men chatted, or played cards, or read or otherwise occupied themselves. He found no peers there. Nor would there have been any peers in the 55th Fighter Group’s other two squadrons, the 38th and the 343rd. When he started training in 1939 he was one of fewer than twenty-five thousand men in the United States Army Air Corps. Now, in October 1944, the service numbered well more than two million men. Consequently, of the nearly two thousand men at Wormingford, only Righetti and a few others had been on the job more than five years.
Among the pilots in the room, none of them had nearly as much flying experience. In fact, he had logged more than two thousand flight hours since 1939. But that time had been flown as an instructor at various bases in Texas. In those crowded skies he had trained the instructors of the pilots who now lounged around him. In fact, he had trained the instructors of their instructors. And even a few of their instructors.
The men in the 338th’s hut—mostly lieutenants and captains—shot sidelong glances at Righetti. One of them remembered him as “tall, dark and muscular—not a bad looking guy.”1 They had no idea who he was, although they probably guessed that he was a staff officer from higher headquarters, or someone’s friend or relative stopping by to visit.
Most of them would not have guessed that he was newly assigned to their unit. Fighter groups in the Eighth Air Force were typically commanded by a colonel, and sometimes a lieutenant colonel. The three squadrons that comprised a fighter group were usually led by a major or lieutenant colonel. These were leadership positions, and leadership at that time and place demanded combat experience. The awards, or rather the lack of them, on Righetti’s uniform belied the fact that he did not have that experience; he had no idea what it was like to shoot at someone who was shooting back.
However, his skills as a leader and administrator were already proven. He had worked wonders during the time he worked in the training command—his advanced rank was proof of that. And he was gregarious. He genuinely liked people, liked to socialize and liked to learn. He only needed seasoning in combat before assuming a leadership billet in a combat unit.
None of these men knew any of that. And it is likely that they didn’t particularly care. Most of them felt that after a year of combat operations the 55th was muddling along well enough. The 55th had originally started flying combat missions out of Nuthampstead, about 30 miles west of Wormingford, in October 1943. The aircraft they flew at that time was the twin-engine P-38. The USAAF’s leadership had high hopes for the P-38. It had the range to escort the Eighth Air Force’s heavy bombers deep into enemy territory, as well as the performance—at least on paper—to match the best German fighters.
In the event, expectations for the P-38 were never fully realized during its early service from England. Firstly, it was not an easy aircraft to fly and engine failures on takeoff or landing could be fatal. And upon encountering the enemy, the transition from cruise flight to combat involved so many steps that some men were shot down before they could even get their aircraft properly configured. Further, due to compressibility issues leading to loss of control—especially in the early models—German aircraft had only to dive away from high altitude to escape the P-38.
Nor was it an easy aircraft to maintain for the simple reason that it had two engines rather than one. Worst of all was the poor reliability of those engines. For a number of reasons, although they performed well in the Pacific and North Africa, they could not be made to work as well in the cold and wet of Northern Europe. Lives were lost because of it.
Many men hated it. Russell Haworth trained in P-38s and arrived at the 55th just as it was transitioning to the P-51. “Whoever made the decision to buy the P-38 as a fighter plane,” he said, “should have been shot for treason!”2 Haworth’s contempt for the P-38, if not shared by all the type’s pilots, was perhaps warranted by the 55th’s experience, to include its first loss on October 15, 1943, when Hugh Gillette’s aircraft simply caught fire. He bailed out over the English Channel and was never found.3
Another example was the experience of Victor LaBella who went down over Germany on March 22, 1944. “About twenty minutes into Germany my right engine began to lose power. I
turned towards home and my good engine began to lose power too and I started a descent. I descended to the tops of the cloud cover at about 1,500 feet and decided to leave the airplane.” LaBella rolled his ship upside down and bailed out. He was immediately captured and made a POW.4 These are two among many examples that illustrate how the P-38 failed its pilots over Europe. In fact, Jimmy Doolittle wrote Henry Arnold that the P-38 was “second-rate” compared to the P-47 and P-51.5
Frank Birtciel was one of the 55th’s old hands—part of the initial cadre of pilots that arrived in England in September 1943. He flew 72 missions in the P-38 and signed on for a second tour as the group was transitioning to the P-51 during July 1944. “At the time we wore British flying helmets [C-type] with earphones that stuck out quite a bit. When they brought a P-51B to the base for us to try, I had a hard time moving my head around inside that narrow birdcage canopy; I really didn’t like it. But when I got a chance to fly the P-51D with the bubble canopy I found that I could look around with no problem. I was sold.”6
“As it developed, I much preferred the P-51 to the P-38,” said Birtciel. “It was far simpler to fly which made a real difference during combat. And I could stay warm in the P-51 which was something I could never do in the P-38. In fact, if we hadn’t transitioned to the P-51, I wouldn’t have volunteered for another combat tour because the P-38 was so miserably cold.”
When compared to the P-51, the P-38’s two engines were a double-edged sword. Although they provided a degree of insurance if one engine failed, they also doubled the odds that a pilot would experience engine trouble—two engines provided twice as much opportunity for something to go wrong. And a P-38 with a bad engine was a magnet for enemy fighter pilots. Indeed, the cockpit of a P-38 on one engine was a place no pilot wanted to be, although it was inarguably a better place than the cockpit of a P-51 with a dead engine, or one that was afire.
At any rate, certainly due in part to the shortcomings of the P-38, the 55th Fighter group had a combat record that was only passable. Relative to some of the other fighter groups in the Eighth Air Force’s fighter component—VIII Fighter Command—it was not a high scorer, nor did it produce many aces. Following the move from Nuthampstead to Wormingford during April 1944, the 55th continued to fly its P-38s until July when it transitioned to the P-51. That transition was completed on July 18 and was regretted by virtually no one. The P-51 had better range than the P-38, was much easier to fly and maintain, and was faster. Most important to many men was the fact that the cockpit was comparatively warm and comfortable.
However, regardless of what aircraft a unit might fly, its effectiveness hinged at least as much on its leadership. When Righetti arrived, the group was commanded by George Crowell. He had been with the 55th since the early P-38 days and was generally considered to be a competent officer and administrator. However, his leadership in the air was described by some as indifferent. He was not aggressive and preferred to stay close to the bombers rather than to chase after enemy fighters.
Tellingly, Crowell had never been credited with any aerial victories. This was unusual as group commanders had more opportunities for air combat than anyone else. “He was very good at turning around,” recalled one of his pilots. Another recalled that, “It was a big joke around the group that if the mission was expected to be a rough one, he would have ‘engine trouble’ and turn back.”
Others had different recollections of Crowell. Herman Schonenberg, one of the 338th’s young lieutenants, was one of those. “He knew what our priorities were and conducted himself accordingly. This may be why some would call him cautious. I personally had great respect for him and felt very comfortable having him as a leader.”7
Captain Darrell “Pops” Cramer, the 338th’s operations officer, approached Righetti and introduced himself. Of all the men in the room, aside from Righetti, he had been in the service the longest. He was an ace and had combat experience dating back to the early fighting in the Pacific on Guadalcanal where he was credited with downing two Japanese aircraft. At only 21 years old, his hair was already starting to gray. Cramer recalled when he first heard of Righetti: “Shortly before the end of October 1944, my squadron commander told me there was a new guy coming into our squadron to get some combat experience. He told me I was to be the new guy’s instructor pilot and [would] take him through the first few sorties. The new guy was Lieutenant Colonel Righetti.”8
“After introductions were made,” said Cramer, “it was obvious that he was anxious to get started, so talk immediately turned to combat flying.” Cramer’s recollections of Righetti were favorable. “True, he was older than most of us, but he did not look or act older. He had a boyish grin and a pleasing personality, and he was a pleasure to have around. He had a very good sense of humor, and he could laugh and joke with the best of them.”
The plan to integrate Righetti into the 55th was largely his own, and was methodical and practical. Initially, he wanted to fly combat as a wingman. “If I’m going to make a good fighter [group] commanding officer,” he wrote, “I do want to know how my boys operate.”
Assuming his progress was satisfactory, he planned to fly as an element leader of a two-ship formation, and then as the flight leader of a four-ship formation. Squadron and group leader assignments—again, assuming he proved himself capable—would follow at the appropriate time. Considering his experience, none of this should have been particularly difficult for Righetti except for the mental stress of knowing that people would live or die based on his decisions.
Although Cramer was in line to take command of the 338th, he didn’t see Righetti as a threat despite the fact that Righetti was senior to him. “He understood what was going on in our group and he was honest and straightforward in his comments and actions. For example, he told me up front that he was scheduled to go to another group as soon as he had gained enough combat experience to command the respect of the pilots in the [new] group to which he was to be assigned.” In other words, Righetti’s time in the 55th was expected to be only long enough for him to get the combat time he needed to take command of another fighter group.
Edward Giller was the commander of the 55th’s 343rd Fighter Squadron. Like Cramer, he shared his experience with Righetti. “He approached me to learn as much as he could. I liked him—he was aggressive and eager to fly combat. He also talked with a lot of the junior pilots. This willingness to absorb information from everyone was not particularly unusual among the most successful pilots.”9
Giller mentioned that Righetti was “eager.” This was a trait with which he had been closely identified since his early days as an aviation cadet. And it was the basis of a nickname that followed him through the rest of his life; to many of his friends he was known as “Eager El.”
As Giller noted, Righetti was happy to mix with the youngsters—the lieutenants. He liked socializing, joking and horseplay, and he knew that notwithstanding their junior rank, every one of the lieutenants had more combat time than he did. Consequently, he understood that there were things they could teach him. Russell Haworth recalled that he and his peers discussed fighter tactics with Righetti “extensively,” and that he “didn’t miss a thing.” John Cunnick, another lieutenant, was likewise impressed. “I liked him. He was friendly and he listened to what you had to say.”10
However, Righetti’s somewhat egalitarian approach toward assimilating himself into the 55th was not without a bump or two. Anxious to ensure that he understood how the group’s rank-and-file pilots lived, he decided to move into one of the open-bay barracks with a dozen or so lieutenants. He was keen to fit in and asked the lieutenants about housekeeping duties. Ray Sharp, a chubby young pilot who had been flying combat since that summer, told him to go outside and get coal for the stove. It was an impolitic order. No matter the arrangement, junior officers definitely did not tell lieutenant colonels to haul coal.
Righetti subsequently shared some well-considered words with Sharp. That he did not more demonstratively upbraid him was prob
ably due to a desire to understand the unit’s dynamics before making waves. The incident evidently had no lasting effect as he noted in a letter to Lorraine, “I live in a barracks now with my flight and never knew quite as swell a bunch of fellows.”
All-in-all, his enthusiasm at having finally arrived at a combat unit never wavered. “I am so very happy with my assignment that I gotta tell someone about it,” he wrote home. “If I had picked over all the jobs in [the] E.T.O. [European Theater of Operations], I’m sure that this would have been my first choice. Am flying the pilot’s dream airplane [the P-51 Mustang] which really means a lot. If I don’t get to the top of the heap in a few months it won’t be because of a bad starting break.”
As excited as Righetti was about the P-51—and he was very excited—every fighter group in the Eighth Air Force except the 56th flew it by this point in the war. The P-51 had a unique history. Rather than license manufacturing the Curtiss P-40 for the RAF as requested by the British Purchasing Commission, North American Aviation offered to build a completely different fighter. The British agreed and North American produced the first prototype, the NA-73, in less than four months. It was an astoundingly short period that reflected the urgencies of the time; the Battle of Britain was in full swing and Righetti was training his first class of students. Since then, the Mustang had evolved into the finest escort fighter of the war.
The type was given the P-51 designation by the USAAF. The British name, Mustang, was adopted by the Americans. Early models were powered by the inline Allison V-1710 engine which proved to be very smooth and reliable. However, it had only a single-speed, single-stage supercharger and consequently suffered from poor performance at high altitude. That real shortcoming aside, the early Mustang was still well-loved by its pilots as it was fast, especially long-legged, easy to fly and good looking.