Tumult in the Clouds

by James Goodson

  Gentile and Millikan found themselves free of the battle and could have got away, but they didn’t hesitate and turned back to help the others. Almost immediately Gentile was being attacked by ten 190’s, but Millie was there. He turned into the 190’s and most of them broke off, but some of them continued to chase Gentile. He broke into them so violently that two of them flashed by him almost colliding with him.

  I heard him yell: ‘Are you with me, Millie?’ and Millie’s breathless reply: ‘I’ve got ten 190’s chasing me.’

  Finally the weather got too much even for the bombers. The stable four-engined planes with two pilots could cope much better with blind flying than the single-engined fighters, but by now, the thick clouds and general confusion precluded any effective hit on the target. The order was given to turn back, and we were free to go to the help of our friends – if we could find them.

  Blakeslee for once didn’t bother with call signs: ‘OK, Millie, Don here. Calling all Mustangs, let’s give Millie some help.’

  But Millie wasn’t the only one in trouble; all eight of them were mixing it with an armada of everything the Germans could put up, even including twin-engined Ju88’s, Me110’s and Dornier 217’s. Normally these would have been easy meat for the Mustangs, but every time they lined up on one, they were attacked by 109’s and 190’s and had to break into the attack.

  Gentile saw two 190’s closing on ‘Gunner’ Halsey. He started to attack them and yelled for Gunner to break. The break was so violent, the plane went into three snap rolls, which probably saved Gunner’s life; but before Gentile could fire on the 190’s, he had to break off to meet eight 190’s which were bouncing him.

  Millie told me afterwards that he had given up any hope of getting out of the mess, and was just trying to sell his life as dearly as possible. If the others had had time to reflect on it, I think they would have felt the same. Millie, Johnny Godfrey, Swede Carlson and Vernon Garrison attacked a gaggle of Me110’s, which immediately went into their only possible defensive manoeuvre when attacked by single-engine fighters. They formed a circle so that each one covered the other’s tail, and their rear gunners prevented an enemy plane from breaking into the circle. The Swede, followed by Garrison and Millie attacked them head-on, going around in the opposite direction. He shot one down, and he and Garrison were lining up on a second one when another Mustang cut in front of them and blew the 110 apart. It was Millie.

  Suddenly the three found themselves alone. Both Millie’s and Carlson’s engines were running rough and cutting out, and they were out of ammunition. Garrison’s super-charger had been out since the beginning, which was a good reason for aborting, but he had kept going at the risk of not making it back because of the additional fuel needed. I had never known this quiet, modest ex-school teacher from Kentucky lose his cool. He was as steady as the rock of Gibraltar, and one of the best shots in the Group. As soon as they had started to tangle with the German fighters he had shot one down, but most of his guns had jammed. Nevertheless, with what he had left he knocked down a 109 with a 90 degree deflection shot as it flashed past in front of him. That brought his total score to ten. From then on, like the others, he had been turning and twisting, sweating and cursing, as he fought for his life.

  I heard Millie say: ‘OK, we’ll head back’ and a little later: ‘Millie here. I don’t think I can make it back.’

  I said, ‘It’s probably ice. Drop down below the soup.’

  This apparently cleared the engines, but left the three of them racing across Germany at tree-top height. They pulled up over a hill and suddenly found themselves zooming across a city. Judging from the amount of both heavy and light flak that came up, they were over the Ruhr.

  Garrison said: ‘We’d better get out of here.’ Then almost immediately, but strangely quietly, ‘That’s me, boys.’

  He had just enough speed to pull up and bale out.

  Millikan, Gentile, Godfrey, Halsey and Carlson got back to England completely exhausted.

  Pappy Dunn wasn’t quite so lucky. In the bad weather, he got separated from Gentile and Halsey. His radio could transmit but not receive, so he probably flew a wrong course home. When he was finally able to pinpoint himself he had missed England altogether and found himself low on fuel over Brittany in western France. He could have turned north to try to make it across the Channel to the West of England, but with no radio, and almost no gas, he decided not to chance it over the water. Instead he headed for Spain, and might even have made it, if he hadn’t spotted a Heinkel 111. It was too good a chance to miss.

  Pappy had done everything in civilian life from flunking out of medical school to running a funeral parlour in Alaska. In the squadron he was loved by everyone, but more as a comedian than as a fighter ace. On that day he had a 48-hour pass, but when he saw we were going to Berlin, he saw his chance for glory, and begged me to put him on the board.

  As Pappy floated down into the arms of the waiting German soldiers, I’m sure he felt it was a reasonable price to pay for his victory. Usually when we asked him if he’d scored a victory, he would reply: ‘Hell, yes! I got back in one piece, didn’t I?’

  This time he was not getting back, but he was going out in style.

  If he had one regret, it turned up shortly after the rest of us landed back at Debden. An irate British lady naval officer had been asking for Lieutenant Philip Dunn, and was now demanding to see his CO.

  ‘Lieutenant Dunn was to meet me at the station. Where is he?’ she asked primly.

  ‘He hasn’t got back from a mission to Berlin,’ I said.

  ‘Berlin! What was he doing over Berlin when he was supposed to be meeting me?’

  ‘What time was he supposed to pick you up?’ I asked.

  ‘Five o’clock!’

  ‘Oh, he’d have had time to do that. We landed about four,’ I said.

  ‘You mean he was going to Berlin and back, pick me up, take me out for the evening, and – and – everything – ?’

  ‘Well, that’s par for the course around here,’ I said.

  Her indignation was giving place to amazement. ‘Well, where is he now?’

  ‘Like I said, he didn’t come back.’ Slowly it was beginning to dawn on her. ‘You don’t mean – he’s not coming back?’

  ‘That’s sometimes par for the course around here too,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry! Can I offer you a drink?’

  She stared at me in a state of shock. Her face was white and her eyes were glazed.

  ‘My God!’ she said, and turned and left to return to the calmer and more dignified environment of the Royal Navy.

  The mission had been a failure, but it proved something. On most of our Mustang missions we had met equal or inferior numbers of enemy planes. In this case, over sixty Germans had attacked and fought nine Mustangs over Berlin. They had shot down one for the loss of six of their own. The success of the Fourth was proof of the remarkable performance of the Mustang, but it also showed that experienced pilots constantly attacking aggressively, and helping one another were more than a match for the Luftwaffe.

  Pappy’s navigational problems made me wonder why the leaders didn’t have the same sort of problems, considering the distances we had to travel, often in bad weather, and after mixing it up from 30,000 feet down to the deck.

  Less experienced pilots who got separated from their squadron often got lost, but they had been given a compass heading which would at least get them back to within radio range of England where they could be pinpointed and given a new heading; but we leaders seemed to develop a sort of sixth sense, perhaps like migrating birds. On this mission, after collecting the squadron together, setting an estimated course for home, letting down through the solid cloud undercast, I broke out right over our base at Debden. Map-reading didn’t play much of a part, although we did, of course know all the landmarks near our base, from Orfordness over Ipswich, Braintree etc to Debden. Even on the way to Berlin we could recognise the Hook of Holland, The Zuider Zee, the Ruhr, the round Du
mmer Lake north of Osnabrück, Hannover, Magdeburg and Braunschweig. But they were only of help in good weather, and that was the exception rather than the rule.

  The map with the lines drawn on it indicating our course to and from the target, and the compass headings was most important, and we could do some calculating on our knee-pad; but, above all, some of us developed a sense of direction, which once acquired, stays with one, even on the ground.

  Millie was involved in more of the action than some of the more celebrated aces, but his emphasis was as much on protecting the bombers, and other members of his flight, as building up a score.

  Most pilots new to combat were terribly vulnerable, many were shot down before we even got to know them. No matter how tired Millie was after a mission, he always had time to take the new boys up for training; and he kept a protecting eye on them during the missions.

  I remember Pete Lehman casually remarking: ‘Once over Emden, Millie saved my life by shooting a Hun off my tail that I never even saw.’

  Pete survived to become a valuable and reliable member of the squadron. He was one of the few who had left a wife and two children and a career in the famous family investment banking business. His brother followed him by serving in the tank corps; and his father renounced another term as Governor of New York to become director of the United Nations Rehabilitation Relief Administration, at an age when most men have long since retired.

  Pete’s goal was to win the coveted Distinguished Flying Cross for his father’s seventieth birthday on 28th March 1944. He just made it. His citation was dated 28th March; he was killed on 31st March.

  After the fiasco of 3rd March, the next day Berlin was on again; but this time we made it. This was the day when Göring said he knew the war was lost: the Mustangs of the Fourth were protecting their big bomber friends over the capital of the Reich. Millie wasn’t with us. I told him he better give his plane a thorough testing to make sure his engine troubles were only icing. He could have taken another plane, but we were all superstitious about that. No one liked lending their planes and no one liked borrowing one. But, of course, it wasn’t the plane I was thinking of. Like most of us, Millie had been flying all of the missions without a break, but the difference with Millie was the terrible intensity he put into it, and the training he put in after the gruelling missions. And Ruby had let slip that he was dog-fighting and dodging flak in his sleep during most of the night. I’d noticed the night before that the big, raw-boned Iowa farm boy was finally beginning to feel the strain, so Millie was to have a day of rest. As it happened, in his quiet way, he made himself at least as useful as the rest of us. There wasn’t as much German fighter reaction as we had expected. They were probably waiting for the escorting fighters to turn for home before attacking the bombers, but this time, they didn’t leave.

  The most frustrated was Blakeslee. Just after we’d taken over from the escorting P-47’s who were at the limit of their range, we saw the green flares coming from the bombers to ask for help. Fifteen 109’s were lining up for a head-on attack on the leading wing. Blakeslee gave the order to attack, flipped over and splitessed into a vertical dive to cut them off. The speed of the dive enabled him to get behind a 109 which saw him, but couldn’t shake him. Soon Blakeslee was right in his slip-stream. He pressed the firing button – and nothing happened. Red Dog Norley who was flying on his wing couldn’t contain himself and yelled, ‘Let him have it, Colonel!’ but not one of Don’s guns would fire. His speed took him right up alongside the 109. The Luftwaffe pilot stared at the Mustang, unable to understand. Blakeslee gave him a friendly, if frustrated wave, he waggled his wings in grateful reply, flipped over on his back and dived for the deck. Red Dog wasn’t close enough to follow so they climbed back up to resume the escort, with the only consolation that the attack on the bombers had been broken up.

  Meanwhile, a number of planes had had to turn back with engine trouble. It may have been the continuation of the icing problems of the day before, or maybe the long distance missions day after day were taking their toll.

  One of those forced to turn back was Charlie Anderson. Not only was he nursing a rough-running engine, but his air speed indicator wasn’t working.

  As he limped into the circuit at Debden, he faced the daunting problem of trying to land without an airspeed indicator; but, as he radioed the control tower, and the ambulances and fire trucks raced out to the runway, he heard another voice: ‘OK, Andy, Millie here, I’ll get you down.’

  Millie had been testing his plane over the base, and was soon on Andy’s wing, nursing him down. On the first approach, Millie, the perfectionist wasn’t satisfied, and took Andy around again. With infinite patience, he led him in on his wing, at the same time calling out the airspeed, and talking him down.

  The day came when Millie, the slow starter who didn’t score till his fifty-second mission, had fifteen victories in the air, four of them on one mission, and two destroyed on the ground. He had over 400 combat hours, about eighty missions, without a rest, and was showing the fatigue. A few of us had more, but the difference was that Millie put so much of himself into it. Also having to say goodbye to his wife Ruby and little Patsy every day had to mean more strain, although he would never admit it. I noticed, too, that most of Millie’s victories were scored after violent, drawn-out dog-fights, and almost all were the result of his going to the rescue of someone in trouble.

  On his last mission, he led his section into an attack on about thirty 109’s to rescue Deacon Hively. He chased them right back over their own air base. Suddenly the flak came up, and Sam Young, flying on Millie’s wing, was hit. His windscreen was shattered and his plane knocked sideways, right into Millikan’s plane. When he recovered from the shock, Millie found he had no controls; stick and rudders flopped around uselessly. Sam’s prop had sliced Millie’s plane in two just behind the cockpit. The front half, with the engine still roaring away, was spinning wildly. Somehow, Millie managed to jettison the hood, unto the safety harness and bail out.

  Millie survived POW camp and the war, and went on to become an outstanding aviation personality and Brigadier-General of the Washington Air National Guard.

  But I only learned all this much later. I also learned that, on that May day in 1944, when Millie found himself sitting in a field near Braunschweig surrounded by German soldiers, all the tension and fatigue of the last few months rolled away, and he found tears rolling down his cheeks.

  And strangely enough, back at Debden that evening, as I was eating dinner, I became aware of something dripping on my plate. I looked up, and discovered that tears were streaming down my face. Funny what can happen when you get a little tired.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Battle of Germany

  In many ways, Don Gentile was the opposite of Millie. Millikan’s rawboned, angular frame was typically Nordic: both Gentile’s name, Dominic Salvatore Gentile, and his dark good looks were typical of the first generation Italian American. His surname was pronounced Gentilly, but some of the pilots called him ‘Gentle’, almost as a nickname.

  In character, there was even more difference. It was brought out on one of our P-47 missions to Paris – a mission which also showed Gentile’s natural flying ability, and his amazing ability to get out of impossible situations alive.

  It was in late ’43, when a raid on Paris still got a strong German fighter reaction. 336 Squadron first spotted the FW190’s heading for the bombers, swooped down on them, and were soon in a swirling dog-fight. Gentile got on the tail of two 190’s flying abreast, the basic formation which the Luftwaffe called a Rotte. They dived for the deck in their usual defensive manoeuvre. Gentile, knowing the seven-ton P-47 could catch them in the dive, once its speed built up, took after them. He got the first one and continued after the second. When the massive Thunder-bolt got to within 300 yards of the 190, Gentile gave a long burst and the German pilot never pulled out of his dive. The 190 exploded as it hit the ground and Gentile just had time to pull the P-47 out of its sc
reaming dive to climb back up to the squadron. His wingman hadn’t been able to stay with him in the dive, but he saw him pull up, and we soon heard his urgent cry: ‘Break, Gentle, break!’

  The Rotte Gentile had attacked was part of a gaggle of four flying in the loose, spread-out formations the Luftwaffe used so effectively. Now the second Rotte was on Gentile’s tail.

  Don racked the heavy plane into a tight turn, but at 500 feet the FW190 was in its element, whereas the P-47 only came into its own above 20,000 feet. The leading German plane started to gain on the heavy Thunderbolt in the turn. Gentile pulled his plane into a tighter circle, until it started to shudder and buck on the point of a stall. He had to ease off to avoid spinning into the trees only feet below. Right away the 190 gained in the turn, and started firing, but he didn’t have enough deflection. We heard Gentile calling the rest of his section, led by Millikan: ‘Help! Help! I’m being clobbered!’

  Millie’s calm, controlled reply was in sharp contrast to Gentile’s screams. ‘If you can give us your approximate position, we’ll try to help.’

  ‘I’m down by a railroad track with this 190!’

  There was no way Millie, or anyone else, could find Gentile down on the deck, or get to him in time to help. Don was on his own and he knew it! When the rest of the Group heard Gentile’s breathless transmission: ‘If I don’t get back, tell them I got two’, they thought it was his last.