by Dan Hampton
The 33rd Fighter Group flew their P-40 Warhawks off the escort carrier USS Chenango, landing at Port Lyautey on the newly christened Craw Field to begin combat operations.* Following the army advance, the 33rd would move up into Algeria on Christmas Eve 1942, first to Telergma Airfield then to Thelepte Air Base. By February 1943 Rommel was counterattacking U.S. forces at the Kasserine Pass and Thelepte was overrun. Shortly after this setback, the USS Ranger again arrived off Casablanca with three squadrons of P-40Ns from the 58th Fighter Group.*
“I was in the middle somewhere,” Ken chuckles at the memory, “about number thirty-five or -six. And we didn’t know until then that our brakes were no good.” In February, they had flown the Warhawks from the Curtiss factory in Buffalo, New York, to the U.S. Naval Base at Norfolk. Once on the ground, the only way to get the fighters to the carrier was to taxi them over a mile to the docks. This wore out the brakes, but none of the pilots knew it was an issue until the chocks were pulled aboard the carrier weeks later. “We all drifted off the left side of the deck and sort of fell toward the water,” Chilstrom recollected. “We all made it, though, and safely landed at Casablanca.”
But it was there at Berrechid Airfield, which the fighter pilots promptly named “Bearshit Airfield,” that they got the bad news.* Their P-40 fighters would go to the 33rd Group pilots because they had some combat experience. “They took our planes,” Ken said ruefully. “So we sat around until a batch of A-36 Apaches arrived. They were shipped in by boat and covered with cosmoline grease. A depot group got them ready to fly and we took them up-country to Fez. It turned out to be a much better plane than the Warhawk.”
And so it was.
The Apache was born from a private 1940 contract between the British government and North American Aviation (NAA) for 320 of the sleek, new fighters. The P-51/A-36 was the first mathematically designed aircraft in that every contour and every shape could be expressed algebraically. This resulted in extremely accurate, yet easily duplicated templates that were rapidly adapted for large-scale production, and this was essential for a big war effort, James “Dutch” Kindelberger correctly believed. A precisely constructed, mass-produced aircraft that was versatile in the air and easy to maintain in the field was a war winner. The Apache, which was the name NAA chose for the P-51, consisted of three main sections that could be disassembled in the field with an engine mount that required only four bolts and no special equipment.* The first prototype rolled out at Mines Field in Los Angeles on September 9, 1940, barely one hundred days after the contract was signed, and with it the pinnacle of piston-engined fighter development was in sight.
Though there were many significant aerodynamic points that matured as NAA’s design evolved, it was the incorporation of a laminar flow wing that had lasting consequences as aircraft advanced into the jet age and men sought to conquer supersonic flight. “Laminar” essentially means “layered” and, as discussed, air flows over a wing in distinct layers. The one closest to the wing bonds to it molecularly to form a boundary layer, like a thin coat of oil on a metal skin. If this boundary can be kept smooth and uninterrupted, then the layers above it will streamline and flow in smooth, regular paths. This substantially reduces drag, by as much as half in some cases, and correspondingly increases lift. Another highly significant result is greater speed, and once propulsion caught up to aerodynamics, anything, even flying faster than the speed of sound, was possible.
National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) engineer Eastman Jacobs, head of the Variable Density Tunnel at Langley, designed such an airfoil that, based on only four digits, mathematically varied the thickness of a curve (camber) along the wing’s chord line. Entire wings and airfoils of all types could now be studied and compiled into an aerodynamic database; “a classic—a designer’s bible,” J. D. Anderson writes about Jacobs’s simple, yet pivotal method.* Laminar flow airfoils were symmetrical, but their maximum thickness was farther aft than that found on conventional wings, which meant at least 60 percent of the surface now produced a smooth, layered (laminar) flow, and increased lift. The science of it all made little difference to Ken Chilstrom and the others who flew the A-36 or P-51 in combat, but the practical results mattered enormously.
Laminar flow made the wing, and therefore the aircraft, very fast. Even in its infancy, the Mustang could sustain at least 375 miles per hour in level flight at 15,000 feet, making it about 30 miles per hour faster than the Spitfire. More critical still was the increase in range and flight endurance; the early A-36/P-51 could stay airborne four to five hours, and manage 1,000 miles in range compared to the Spitfire’s 400-mile range and two-hour endurance. This capability, and rapid improvements that followed with more powerful Rolls-Royce Merlin engines and better pilot training, now gave the Allies a true long-range fighter—a fighter that could roam at will over huge swaths of enemy territory and escort bombers on deep penetrations missions into the heart of the Third Reich.
These planes became part of the Allied Mediterranean Air Command, to which Ken Chilstrom belonged, which was formed under Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Tedder of the Royal Air Force. Its components included the Northwest African Tactical Air Forces (NATAF), the “teeth” of air operations in the Mediterranean, and this was commanded by USAAF Lieutenant General Carl “Tooey” Spaatz. Tactical operations involved purely air superiority fighter operations, which fell under the NATAF Desert Air Force with their P-40s and Spitfires. The deadly business of ground attack fell under the XII Air Support Command, composed of the 27th and 86th Fighter-Bomber Groups (so renamed in August 1943) with their A-36 Apaches, two groups of P-40 Warhawks, and the 31st Fighter Group—Americans like Bob Hoover flying the Spitfire Mk V. There was also the Strategic Air Force (NASAF), commanded by Major General Jimmy Doolittle, now a national hero after his April 1942 raid on Japan, and the Coastal Air Forces (NACAF), which were to shoot up any remaining Italian or German shipping they could find.*
As for Ken Chilstrom, his immediate concerns were tactical, rather than strategic. After a month or so of A-36 Apache conversion training at Fez, Morocco, he was assigned to the 17th Light Bombardment Squadron of the newly reconstituted 27th Bombardment Group. Ken’s unit forward deployed to Korba Airfield on Cape Bon, Tunisia, in May 1943, just as the remaining Axis forces in North Africa surrendered. There had been considerable debate within the Allied High Command and civilian leadership on the next course of action in the Mediterranean theater, and their subsequent strategy would put Ken into the fight.
The great island fortress of Sicily just off the Italian coast dominated the sea lanes and could threaten Allied North Africa so, if conquered, that threat could be removed and the Allies would gain a powerful base for operations into continental Europe. Hitler would have to answer the incursion, diverting men and resources from other theaters of war, and this would disrupt German progress with advanced technology like the jet. It was also felt that such an invasion might be the final straw to figuratively break Mussolini’s back. There was serious Italian opposition to the war that had worsened all through the North African campaign, so with Tunisia lost and the Allies turning north, the Fascist dictator was in a truly precarious position. Mussolini was not trusted by his German allies, his own people were disillusioned, and his military, which was his power base, was faltering badly.
Winston Churchill, the British prime minister, wanted to bypass Sicily, cut it off, and invade mainland Italy. George C. Marshall, chief of staff for the U.S. Army and a superb strategist, wished to attack Sicily immediately. A fractured Italy could only hurt Hitler and aid the Allies, but he decided to begin by capturing the island of Pantelleria off the Tunisian coast with Operation Corkscrew. Roughly halfway to Sicily, the forty-two-square-mile island was heavily fortified with over 100 emplaced guns of all calibers, including twenty-five heavy coastal pieces that would shred landing craft. Marshall had also learned that no aircraft carriers would be forthcoming to support his Sicily operation so Pantelleria’s 5,000-foot-long Marghana Air
field, which could support eighty fighter aircraft, became an essential prize.
Doolittle’s NASAF was wholly committed, including six groups of B-17 Flying Fortresses and B-25 Mitchell bombers. Corkscrew commenced on May 18, 1943, with over 100 bombing sorties each day pounding Pantelleria’s guns, communications, roads, and harbor facilities. This continued for over two weeks and Ken Chilstrom flew into combat the first time on June 6, 1943, against the island’s defenses, particularly those around Marghana. Slender and shark-like, his A-36 lifted off from Korba with the rest of the 17th Light Bombardment Squadron, and banked up sharply to the northeast. A vast, windswept gulf opened up off the nose, its foam flecked turquoise waters contrasting vividly against the mottled tans and browns of Cape Bon as land slid away beneath the wings. Left hand on the throttle and his right on the stick, Ken felt the Apache strain forward under the Allison engine’s full power.
All around him the gray-blue sky was dotted with attack aircraft, but he focused solely on his flight lead. As the squadron rejoined, his eyes flickered between the other fighters and his cockpit. From the left side he saw his landing gear was up and above that the magnetic compass was swinging through north. From the corners of his eyes other Apaches appeared, all joining up in the briefed formation. Nudging the stick, he overbanked a bit to stay to the right of his leader then dropped his eyes straight down to the floor-mounted fuel selectors. They were both pointing right, positioned to feed gas from the fuselage. As the distance closed, the lead Apache was twice the size it had been a minute earlier, and the horizon seemed to rotate as the whole flight rolled out heading northeast and still climbing. He pulled the throttle back to hold position, and reactively scanned the two big gauges on the far right side of the panel. Tachometer was steady so the engine was fine . . . and the oil temperature was steady. Overheating could be problem during June in the Med with an Allison engine.
Not that there was time for that today. It was just over 50 miles from Korba to the squadron’s target today . . . about thirteen minutes flying time at 225 miles per hour. The reflector gunsight was on full bright and with his left hand Ken flipped up the old-fashioned ring and bead sight next to it. Holding position 200 hundred feet off the leader’s right wing, he then reached up under the glare shield and pulled the RIGHT HAND GUN charging handle, then the LEFT HAND GUN handle. Craning forward as the aircraft leveled off at 12,000 feet, he could see Pantelleria Island now . . . a dark green smudge against the water maybe twenty miles ahead. Ken had a map on his knee but didn’t bother to glance at it.
He didn’t need to.
The claw-shaped harbor on the northwest corner was plain to see . . . so was the mountain range that cut the little island in half. His target was Marghana airfield, smack in the middle of the flat plain between the mountain and the harbor. Even from here he could see the single east-west runway. Flashes . . . he caught flashes from around the airfield and harbor area, and just as he realized they were anti-aircraft guns, dark splotches suddenly appeared over the island.
So this is combat, he thought. Then the radios exploded with noise. Ignoring the chatter, Ken alternated between his leader and another scan of the instrument panel. Satisfied, he reached for a row of five toggle switches just left of the center pedestal. Flicking the first one up armed his guns and turned on the camera. Dropping his left hand back to the throttle, he pushed it up to stay in formation, then quickly flicked the third and fifth toggles up, which armed the nose fuses in his two 500-pound bombs.
Motion caught his eye and he saw the his leader surge ahead then waggle his wings. Dropping into trail formation, Ken rolled up slightly to keep the airfield in sight. Airfield . . . leader . . . airfield. There were the guns . . . those were the squadron’s targets. The wind was blowing from the west so they would hit the revetments on the east side first so the dust and smoke wouldn’t obscure the other targets. Ken was to hit anything on the far east edge of the field and south of the runway. His leader would hit anything north and the rest of the squadron would work back to the west.
Crossing the shoreline, he could plainly see white specks all over the dark green landscape . . . homes and buildings. There! A service road bulged south of the runway and right in the middle was a cluster of revetments. Black spots sprouted everywhere around him, but Ken ignored them and tensed as the big latticed dive brakes on his leader’s wings opened up and the Apache rolled onto its back. It seemed to hang there for a long moment, then vapor streamed from the wingtips as the pilot pulled straight down.
Thousand one . . . thousand two . . . he forced himself to count slowly then rolled inverted. Hanging upside down, he stared at the twin peaks two miles below him then popped his dive brakes, and felt the Apache shudder. Instantly jamming the throttle forward, he blinked, spotted the runway and revetments, then, as airbursts exploded all around, pulled straight down into the frantically firing guns.
“They [the Italians] weren’t very good,” he recalls. “They were more lovers than fighters.” Ken and the rest of the squadron clobbered the target then headed southwest back to Korba, low and fast over the Gulf of Hammamet. By the time the British 1st Infantry Division came ashore on the morning of June 11, 5,285 sorties had been flown and 6,200 tons of bombs dropped. Over half of the island’s AAA guns had been knocked out along with most of the coastal artillery, the power plant, and all eighty Italian aircraft. The demoralized and shocked Italian garrison surrendered without a fight, and the only Allied casualty was a British soldier who had been bitten by an agitated donkey. By July 10, Marghana was operational and temporarily home to the 33rd Fighter Group as the Allies commenced Operation Husky, and the invasion of Sicily. Unlike Operation Torch, there were no concerns in Sicily about the defender, and extensive preinvasion “softening up” took place during the preceding two months.
Over 42,000 combat sorties were flown, and the 27th Group was in the thick of it, flying surface attack missions against the Italian and German defensive positions. There were ports, roads, marshalling yards, and nineteen major air bases to be hit; most critical among them was the Gerbini complex of fields on the southeastern side of the island. Trapani, Palermo, and, most vital, the port of Messina, were all consistently and heavily attacked. The A-36 proved a killer in the lethal world of close air support; its long loiter time, six .50-caliber Brownings, and two 500-pound bombs put the Apache in high demand as Sicily was relentlessly hammered prior to the invasion. Ken Chilstrom and his personal plane, which he named Little Stinker, flew in four-ship formations of two pairs apiece. Dive-bombing from 14,000 feet, they would easily exceed 400 mph during the attacks, and pulling off target with their dive brakes closed, they reached 450 mph thanks to the laminar flow wings.
Operation Husky consisted of two main assaults and, as with Torch before, it was excellent practice for the coming invasion of France. Elements of the 82nd Airborne were dropped behind Gela between the Hermann Göring Division and the coast. The idea was for them to slow any counterattack and hold on until a linkup occurred with the seaborne infantry. Paratrooper Joe Swing, before heading to the South Pacific, had planned the daring move. Task Force 545, composed of the British Eighth Army and 1st Canadian Infantry Division, landed on the southeastern edge of the island between Syracuse and Pachino. They were to move north on the Catania coastal road past Mount Etna toward Messina and deal with the Italian Napoli Division along the way. About fifty miles to the west the American Seventh Army under George Patton came ashore along the Gulf of Gela. The idea was to cut the island in two pieces, with the Americans blocking any Axis reinforcements from Palermo in the west while protecting the British left flank. Encountering the Italian Livorno Division and the Hermann Göring Division in the mountains beyond Gela, the Americans managed to break out by July 12.
On July 18, the 27th Bombardment Group moved to Gela Airfield and Ken continued flying close air support missions, sometimes several per day, interdicting Axis reinforcements and generally shooting anything that moved. That same day Hitler w
as in Italy to encourage, lecture, and scold a despondent Mussolini and stiffen Italy’s resistance. Due to heavy losses on the Eastern Front, a generally poor showing in their North African backyard, and the loss of “our sea,” as the Fascists called the Mediterranean, Italy had been put dangerously close to a regime change.
The Germans never trusted their Italian allies, but they did regard them as a buffer against any assault into the southern Reich and, true to form, had several plans waiting for implementation should Italy turn. For their part, Italians felt slighted by the contemptuous treatment they often received at the hands of their Axis ally, and they resented the perceived lack of German support in defending Sicily. This point was intentionally driven home on July 19, as some 500 Allied bombers dropped 1,100 tons of bombs on Rome. Over the next seventy-eight days 110,000 sorties would be flown against the “Eternal City,” though the Vatican was carefully spared.
Back on Sicily, Ken Chilstrom was heavily involved in the U.S. breakout to the west. Patton, being Patton, did not accept a secondary support role to the British Eighth Army, so he reorganized his army into separate forces and attacked in three directions. While Task Force 545 was bogged down south of Mount Etna, the U.S. 2nd Armored completed a stunning end run around the far western tip of the island. Chilstrom and three other A-36 pilots, all lieutenants, were in a jeep one day near Gela when a staff car suddenly blocked the road in front of them. Two officers got out, including a general wearing riding pants and cavalry boots. It was Patton himself, and he was not happy. “Where are your fucking helmets?” he growled. “Don’t you assholes know any better?” Seventy-four years later Ken still smiles over the incident, though it wasn’t funny at the time. “We used helmets for washing and shaving,” he said, shaking his head. “What good are they in a fighter plane?”