by Stout, Jay
Moreover, the Me-109’s narrow-tracked landing gear made it difficult to handle on takeoff and landing. It was the cause of many accidents, especially with the ill-trained pilots that were so typical of the Luftwaffe late in the war. On the other hand, the Me-109’s handling characteristics once it was airborne were honest. At low airspeeds, despite leading edge slats on the outboard wings that sometimes extended themselves asymmetrically, it was very responsive and true. Its climb performance was very good, it dove quickly and it rolled and turned as well as most of its opponents. Indeed, at airspeeds below 250 miles per hour its performance was exceptional. This was an important attribute as, after a few hard turns—typical of dogfighting—the airspeed of all aircraft bled down to the lower ranges where the Me-109 excelled.
However, Allied pilots flying captured examples noted that the Me-109’s controls were very heavy at high speeds. Accounts of Me-109s flying into the ground were numerous and no doubt due to the fact that the pilots simply could not wrestle their aircraft out of high-speed dives. At airspeeds greater than three hundred miles per hour the rudder and aileron controls were so heavy as to feel locked in concrete. The same American pilot who complained about the poor visibility noted that, “It is very hard to maneuver at high speeds,” and, “The forces increase at high speed becoming very heavy around 500 kph [310 miles per hour] indicated. The elevator force is extremely high at the higher speeds and is one of the most objectionable features of the airplane.”6 Indeed, at four hundred miles per hour it required four glacial seconds to roll the Me-109 through only 45 degrees.7 In comparison, the P-51 could complete nearly a full, 360-degree roll during that same time.8
The type’s maneuverability and general performance declined still further when encumbered with heavy guns designed to better bring down the big American bombers. These guns were accommodated in draggy underwing pods. “I refused to fly it with the additional 20-millimeter cannon slung in pods under the wing,” recalled one Luftwaffe ace. “Worst of all, when we met escorting fighters of any kind, and P-51 Mustangs in particular, we were at a mortal disadvantage.”9
Still, the Me-109 remained the favorite mount of many of the Luftwaffe’s great aces, perhaps as much due to their familiarity with the type—and a sense of loyalty—as much as anything else. This familiarity certainly must have been very powerful as, on paper, the Me-109’s stable mate, the FW-190, was a superior fighter.
Ultimately, despite its age, Messerschmitt’s engineers squeezed the design for every bit of performance possible, and the Me-109 remained competitive through the end of the war. Although the Me-109G, the most produced variant, was less capable than the P-51 in most respects, its deficiencies were not readily apparent in the swirling hit-and-run frenzy of air combat.
The late-war Me-109K—successor to the many subvariants of the Me-109G—was given a more powerful engine as well as many improvements and refinements to include a better canopy, the Galland hood. It was described as a “very dubious modification” by Walter Wolfrum, the famous Luftwaffe ace. “The visibility was much better with the new design, but the emergency release of the one-piece canopy had a high rate of failure.”10 Wolfrum estimated that the new canopy failed to release at least half the time it was called upon, and that he was forced to crash land rather than bail out on two different occasions because the balky canopy had trapped him in the cockpit.
The Me-109K had a higher service ceiling than the Mustang and was faster in some regimes while being similarly maneuverable at lower airspeeds. It also carried heavier armament. Ultimately, notwithstanding the fact that its roots reached back to the early part of the previous decade, and despite its many shortcomings, the Me-109K—when flown by an experienced pilot—was still a capable fighter during the war’s last months.
Unlike the Me-109, the FW-190 was a near-contemporary of the P-51. It entered service in August 1941, only a few months before the RAF’s Mustangs, which went operational during January 1942. Also, unlike the Me-109, the FW-190 was powered by a radial engine and, with widely spaced landing gear, was much easier to handle on the ground. Unusually, it featured automatic controls for the propeller pitch, engine mixture and boost, and the pilot only had to operate the throttle lever. Flight controls were light, visibility through a vacuum-formed canopy was good and it had an excellent roll rate. Except for a tendency to snap into a stall when snatched too abruptly into a hard turn, it was a predictable and easy aircraft to fly.
Larger than the Me-109, the FW-190 was more readily modified, especially with heavier armament and greater bomb loads. Although its performance dropped off at high altitudes, it was still reasonably effective against the American heavy bombers. In fact, Adolf Galland, the commander of the Luftwaffe’s fighter forces and a renowned Me-109 ace, recommended that production of the Me-109 be stopped in favor of the FW-190 in order to streamline production, logistics, and training. Late in 1944 the FW-190D, with an inline engine, began to appear in numbers. Known as the “long nose” because the forward fuselage had to be extended to accommodate the new engine, this aircraft was essentially equal to the best American fighters.
Ultimately, however, the performance of the best fighters operated by all the belligerents was similar enough that the difference between victory and defeat rested primarily with the pilots. An experienced and aggressive Me-109 pilot was likely to prevail over a neophyte P-51 pilot in one-on-one combat. Likewise, Righetti was exceedingly experienced, and at the controls of the P-51 would have been very difficult to defeat by anyone in an Me-109 or FW-190. Accordingly, as the number of experienced Luftwaffe pilots was small and declining, it was the better-trained American pilots who generally triumphed in air combat during the last year or so of the war.
There was one other equalizer that rendered moot the advantages that different fighters had over their competitors. That equalizer was the big air battle. When large formations clashed, attackers often had only a few seconds before they came under attack themselves. In these twisting, spiraling, death-at-every-turn melees, it didn’t matter if one aircraft was twenty or thirty miles per hour faster, or could roll a few degrees more per second, or had a moderate climb advantage over other aircraft. In these confused fracases, most of the pilots who were shot down never saw their attackers until it was too late—if at all—and the victors were usually those with the experience and level-headedness necessary to maintain their awareness during situations in which it was very difficult to do so.
Herman Schonenberg, a young lieutenant in Righetti’s 338th Fighter Squadron, recalled one such enormous melee. “One day we saw an enormous gaggle—it must have been a couple of hundred enemy fighters. Some estimates put it as high as four hundred. It looked like an enormous swarm of bees and we went barreling right into them. There were airplanes everywhere, a lot of people bailing out, parachutes all over the place. I think it was just a bunch of German kids that were bailing out as soon as someone fired at them. This was early on for me too, and I didn’t shoot anybody down. I think I was just glad to get out on the other side of that mess.”11
An illustration of how magnificently the air war had changed in just one year starts with the air combat of January 31, 1944, when the 55th was still flying P-38s. On that mission the group lost seven aircraft to enemy fighters. This single-mission loss was almost double the number of aircraft—four—that the 55th lost to enemy fighters from the time Righetti joined the unit in late October 1944 until the end of the war.12 Indeed, during that time the 55th lost ten times as many aircraft—forty—to ground fire. Another sixteen were lost to other causes such as mid-air collisions, mechanical failures and fuel starvation.
Aside from their superior numbers and training, the USAAF’s fighter pilots also enjoyed other smaller advantages that further padded the margin over their German counterparts. One was the gyroscope gunsight—the Luftwaffe did not have a widely used equivalent; another was the Berger Anti-G suit, more commonly known as the G-suit.
During aggressive, high-speed turns a
nd climbs, or diving pullouts, the force of gravity (g-force) increased dramatically and caused the pilot’s blood to be pulled from his head and down into his lower extremities. With his brain starved of oxygen, the pilot’s vision faded, as did his sensibilities. If the g-forces were too great, the pilot lost consciousness. Although this loss of consciousness seldom lasted more than ten or fifteen seconds once the g-forces returned to normal, many men smashed into the ground or were shot down during this brief period.
Consequently, the advent of the G-suit during the spring of 1944 was most welcome. It was a set of chaps or trousers that wrapped around the lower abdomen and both legs all the way down to the ankles. Sewn into the ensemble were air bladders connected via the G-suit’s hose to a pneumatic system in the aircraft. As the aircraft sensed increased g-forces it pumped air into the suit which expanded and wrapped itself tightly around the pilot’s body. This kept more of the pilot’s blood in his head and forestalled the onset of unconsciousness by up to two gs.
Although some pilots resisted the addition of another piece of flying gear, most were soon convinced of the G-suit’s value. The 339th Fighter Group was the first group in the Eighth Air Force to adopt it during the late spring of 1944, and its pilots acknowledged that they scored more aerial victories than they otherwise would have.13 The Eighth’s other fighter groups quickly followed the 339th’s example.
The 55th was among them and Righetti readily adapted to the new suit as soon as he joined the unit. In answer to a question from home, he wrote: “I have never flown a mission without my G-suit. And if I couldn’t get another, I honestly wouldn’t sell it for $7,000.”
“JERRY WENT OUT OF CONTROL”
Righetti went to a rest home on January 14. “Doc is sending me to a flak home, starting Sunday,” he wrote. “It’s routine. We have to take it so I reckon I’d better be nice and go while the weather is still bad—miss less war that way.”
The rest home concept was something the USAAF borrowed from its British counterpart, the RAF. Recognizing that its combat crews needed more respite from combat than a weekend furlough might provide—and because allowing men to go back to the States would have been too costly in time and resources—the USAAF eventually set up sixteen rest facilities in England. Variously referred to by the men as flak shacks, flak houses, or funny farms, they were demilitarized to the maximum extent possible, with an almost obsessive emphasis on rest and relaxation. Indeed, the men were issued civilian clothes upon arriving, and references to rank were discouraged.
Staffed by officers and enlisted personnel from the Air Service Command, as well as Red Cross hostesses, the homes were typically hotels, or large estates especially requisitioned for the purpose and usually located in pastoral settings far from the hubbub of the war. For physical recreation there were outdoor sports such as canoeing, cycling, tennis, and horseback riding—among other activities. Inside, the men could sleep, read, play snooker, billiards, cards or board games, write letters or simply do nothing. There were separate homes for the enlisted men of the bomber crews, however special pains were taken to ensure there was no difference in the quality of their experiences.
Men were typically sent to a home halfway through their combat tours, or earlier if they showed especially pronounced signs of weariness, fatigue, or mental stress. Righetti was sent because it was his turn, rather than because of any problems with his performance. The Eighth Air Force’s brass was serious about the program and orders to the homes could not be refused. Ultimately, the homes proved to be quite successful and virtually everyone enjoyed the respite.
Although no records confirm it, Righetti probably went to Moulsford Manor where many of the 55th’s men were sent. Located in Oxfordshire on the banks of the Thames, the estate claimed a history dating back to the 12th century. Righetti did not name or describe it, and evidently did not use his time there to write letters. “Long time since writing,” he finally wrote on January 20 upon returning to Wormingford, “but nothing doing here to talk about. Been laying off for a week now at the flak shack. Enjoyed it plenty, but became quite bored—missed my guys and Katy [his aircraft] and Jerry’s dirty tricks too much to sit around an old castle and be waited on.”
Indeed, he wanted to get back to the work at which he shined. Aside from shooting up enemy aircraft, the neutralization of the German transport system was high on the list of the Allied planners. And the 55th, especially Righetti’s 338th Fighter Squadron, excelled at it. “General Doolittle personally commended my outfit for loco busting three days ago. Since I’ve led the 338th, we’ve become the high scorers of the war.”
A couple of days later, Righetti had news. “Our [combat] tour was extended 30 hours [from 270] to 300. And I was made assistant group commander. Both will throw off my ‘Home in April’ schedule. As second-in-command it won’t be possible for me to fly so much since I’ll only be up when leading the group. The 30 additional hours means six or seven additional missions, or some two-to-three additional weeks. New date of arrival in the States is June 1, or thereabouts. It is a promotion for me, though,” he continued, “and sitting in a group executive spot puts me within yelling distance of a group of my own, and a pair of eagles [promotion to colonel] which I do want for my homecoming uniform.”
The men who fought World War II were aware of the history they were making. Like most history makers, they were keen to capture their personal places and roles, and they did so through letters and photographs. Righetti included photographs in a letter to the family on January 29. He explained that his “unshaven and beat out” appearance was due to the fact that they were taken after a mission that spanned nearly six hours. In fact, he had a very thick beard and was self-conscious—and sometimes apologetic—of the fact that he often looked as if he hadn’t shaved, particularly as it was noticeable to his men. “Righetti had a heavy beard,” recalled Carroll Henry, a young lieutenant who often flew as his wingman. “He shaved, but you could see it.”
Righetti noted that the group had enjoyed decent luck on that day’s mission: “Fared better today—outfit got four [Me-]109s in the air. I led, called the shots, but did no shooting. That’s the trouble with this new position of mine. Can’t fly unless I lead the group, and in that capacity don’t get in on the kill quite so often. Ah well, I only want 35 more anyhow.”
In fact, as the leader that day, Righetti could have chased after any enemy fighter within reach of the group. There were no hard and fast rules as to how and where the group leaders were required to fly and the fact that Righetti didn’t chase after the enemy fighters was proof against those who might have considered him too aggressive, or a glory hound. Certainly he wanted to rack up a big score, but so did every other fighter pilot in the Eighth Air Force.
Instead, he let the group perform as it was designed to do; the elements best positioned to engage the enemy were allowed to do so. This was tactically sound and spread both the risks and opportunities of air combat equally. And finally there was the fact that as the formation leader that day, the successes of the men also reflected well on him.
And to his credit, he took his job as a leader seriously. The group’s photographer and public relations officer, Frank Stich, remembered that Righetti approached him and noted that they shared the same birthday. “In his usual searching manner and thoroughness, he had been assiduously checking the group’s personnel files to learn more about the men in his command.” Stich was keen on the way that Righetti conducted himself and recalled that the men, “admired his sparkling bounce—officers as well as enlisted men. He had an unflagging give-and-take sense of humor, contagious and epidemic to all.”1
When she wasn’t staying with them Cathryn stayed in touch with the Righettis and forwarded the information about her husband that he shared with her. Her pride in his accomplishments was evident in her letter of January 26, 1945. “I got a letter from Elwyn dated the 13th of January. He expects the D.F.C. [Distinguished Flying Cross] for his victories on the 6th. The day he wrote it he
had just gotten two more. There’s just no stopping the boy.”
She also wanted him home—and for good. “He still expects to be home in a few months. Oh, what a happy day that will be. I only hope that it’s for reassignment to the training center instead of leave.” In fact, the USAAF was at that very moment struggling with the notion of what it would look like in the near term. Already, in anticipation of the war’s end, it had dramatically curtailed pilot training. It was only a fraction of what it had been just a year earlier and there was little guarantee that there would be a need for her husband in the training center even if that is what he had wanted. On the other hand, the USAAF still had to make war in a world within which Germany was still fighting with vigor, and Japan was not expected to surrender any time soon.
Cathryn and the Righettis obviously claimed Elwyn as their own. But the rest of the nation also wanted to identify not only with him but all of its fighting men. Never in its history had the United States been so singularly committed to a common cause. Because virtually every family had someone in uniform overseas, there was a ready market for news of the war and the media was ready—indeed, encouraged—to meet the demand. Hometowns were eager to publicize the accomplishments of local heroes and were not bashful about adopting outsiders as their own.
As Cathryn, a native Texan, noted in a letter to his parents, Righetti was claimed by Texas citizens as their very own. “I’m enclosing an article that was clipped from the Fort Worth paper. Of course, it’s old news and you will probably resent them saying he’s a Texan, but how else would we get our Texas heroes if we didn’t adopt them?” Another news release accompanied a photo of Righetti with his friend Fred Gray and a snow-covered P-51. The release described how, “two San Antonio colonels,” had the opportunity to meet up again in faraway England.