Escape from Paris

by Stephen Harding

  On his second head-on pass through the 94th Group’s formation, Mayer had focused his attention on the lead squadron. He’d snapped off a few rounds at Castle’s aircraft, but then shifted to the leader of the second element. Seeing that the Fw was coming directly at him, Harrison had pushed the B-17’s nose down and the 20mm rounds that Mayer had intended for the cockpit instead slammed into the upper fuselage just in front of and to one side of the top turret. Though the gunner was miraculously unhurt, the fusillade sparked an intense fire directly behind Harrison’s seat. The copilot, Second Lieutenant David Turner, immediately extinguished the flames, but dense smoke filled the entire front end of the B-17. Unable to see the instrument panel, Harrison moved the bomber away from the formation to avoid a collision.34

  Seeing the Fortress’s predicament, Mayer brought his fighter around on the bomber’s tail and began pumping rounds into the vertical stabilizer, shredding the rudder. The German pilot then shifted his fire, knocking out two of the aircraft’s four engines and blowing huge, ragged holes in the trailing edge of the right wing. The Fortress began losing altitude, and Mayer and several of his colleagues followed it down, taking turns raking it with cannon and machine-gun fire.35 In the bomber’s cockpit Harrison was doing what he could to throw off the Germans’ aim, rolling the aircraft from side to side and using what was left of the rudder to jink right and left. As the B-17 neared 5,000 feet Harrison decided it was time to get his crew out. He rang the alarm bell, and the navigator and bombardier—lieutenants Robert Conroy and Roscoe Greene—quickly left the Fortress, opening their chutes immediately. The pilot himself was preparing to leave his seat when Turner, the copilot, told him that the top turret gunner couldn’t bail out because his parachute had been destroyed in the fire following the initial attack. Not wanting to leave the man to die in a pilotless airplane, Harrison decided to crash-land the bomber and over the intercom told the remaining crewmen to brace for impact.

  THE GERMAN ASSAULT ON KEE HARRISON’S AIRCRAFT WAS CLEARLY VISIBLE from the cockpit of Good Time Cholly II, and Ralph Saltsman was trying to keep an eye on the rapidly descending Fortress when Cholly itself became the focus of the Luftwaffe’s attention.

  A ketten of Fw 190s came barreling straight at the 331st’s lead ship, their 20mm cannon rounds arcing toward Cholly’s cockpit, Saltsman later recalled, like “a series of hot rivets.”36 The explosive shells pounded into the bomber’s dorsal fin and horizontal stabilizer, blowing holes in the B-17’s metal skin and the fabric covering the control surfaces and, more importantly, severing the control lines that stretched from the cockpit to the tail. Saltsman and Willis Frank immediately lost lateral control, and Cholly began drifting out of formation and losing altitude. Frank, in his capacity as aircraft commander, decided that the Fortress could not be saved. Keying his intercom, he told the crew to “hit the silk boys, she’s a dead duck!”37

  The navigator and bombardier, lieutenants John Wholley and Thurman Burnett, had donned their chute packs as the first German rounds had chewed into the B-17’s aft fuselage, and as soon as they heard Frank’s bailout command they both turned toward the nose escape hatch, just a few feet behind them in the short tunnel leading to the flight deck. Wholley went first, and as he crawled his boot accidentally pulled the ripcord on Burnett’s chute, which immediately popped out, filling the aft part of the nose compartment. Lying belly down in the tunnel, Wholley was unable to completely jettison the escape hatch door, so he simply pushed his way past it and fell headfirst away from the aircraft.

  Burnett was attempting to bundle his chute in his arms when Dick Davitt dropped into the tunnel from the flight deck end. The top turret gunner helped the bombardier gather the few remaining loose folds of the nylon canopy, then, with a wry smile, politely motioned for the officer to go out first through the escape hatch. Burnett grinned in return, then dropped out into space. Davitt sat hunched over in the narrow tunnel for a moment, waiting for Saltsman and Frank, until a sudden lurch of the aircraft smacked his head against a metal bulkhead, knocking him out. He regained consciousness several minutes later, swinging gently beneath his canopy in breathable air and having absolutely no idea how he’d managed to open his chute.38

  Davitt’s departure—and that of most of Cholly’s crew—turned out to be a bit premature, however. Moments after Frank’s intercom announcement, Saltsman had countermanded the bail-out order—without realizing that most everyone aboard the aircraft had already disconnected their headsets in preparation for leaving the bomber.

  Though Cholly’s increasingly serious control issues had left it some 2,000 feet below and several hundred yards to one side of the formation, all four engines were still running normally and “Salty” believed the aircraft might actually make it to the target. He and Frank were in the process of trying to counter the lateral control problem by readjusting the power settings on the bomber’s four Wright Cyclones when a German fighter zoomed up from below and raked the B-17’s belly from nose to tail with cannon and machine-gun fire. Incendiary rounds slammed into the oxygen bottles anchored to the fuselage walls on either side of the now-unmanned top turret, and bright orange flames immediately flashed through the cockpit. Now convinced the B-17 couldn’t be saved, Saltsman took to the intercom to order the crew to abandon the aircraft. In the waist, Harry Eastman—who had chosen to stay at his gun until the last possible moment—clicked his chute pack into place and went out the already open aft crew hatch. He was the third member of the Gunner Trio to hit the silk within less than ten minutes.

  In Cholly’s cockpit, Willis Frank had been attempting to attach his chute to his harness when he, too, accidentally pulled the ripcord and his chute deployed in the cramped area near the nose hatch. With no alternative, the young aviator gathered the open chute in his arms and held it tightly as he went out the hatch. Once clear of the bomber he simply opened his arms and let gravity and air pressure do the rest. Saltsman had followed Frank down from the cockpit and was poised near the hatch when Cholly suddenly lurched downward. “Salty” was thrown backward, and had just started to pull himself back into position when another violent movement tossed him headfirst out the hatch and away from the now fiercely burning Fortress. He delayed opening his chute until he thought he was below 10,000 feet, then yanked the ripcord. He had just enough time to see his canopy inflate properly—and to count seven other open parachutes in the sky around him—before anoxia began to overcome him. As Saltsman passed out, it occurred to him that he’d misjudged his altitude.39

  AFTER GOOD TIME CHOLLY II STARTED LOSING ALTITUDE, THE THREE Fortresses remaining out of the original five low-squadron machines carried on with the mission, with First Lieutenant Floyd Watts as the new element leader. All of the men aboard the trio of bombers now inhabiting “Purple Heart Corner” must have been understandably shaken by the rapid loss of Salty’s Naturals and Cholly and the apparent demise of Kee Harrison’s Fortress, and were certainly hoping that the worst of the German fighter attacks were over. Such was not the case, however.

  Some ten minutes after Watts took over as element leader a gaggle of Fw 190s came roaring in from dead ahead, with the lead fighter firing as it came. The No. 3 engine on Watts’s Fortress was knocked out, forcing the B-17 to slowly drop out of position. A second attack killed the bomber’s two waist gunners, destroyed the intercom system, and punctured the oil tanks for the two left engines, which quickly seized up and stopped. The bomber could not possibly stay in the air with only one operable Wright Cyclone, so Watts salvoed the aircraft’s bombs, then hit the bailout bell and held the B-17 as steady as he could while his crew abandoned the ship.40 The pilot himself waited to leave until the aircraft had descended below 10,000 feet and opened his parachute at what he later estimated to be 8,000 feet. Once he had control of the canopy he quickly spotted his Fortress, which to his horror was by then a flaming torch arcing straight toward the center of a seemingly peaceful French town.41

  THOUGH THE 94TH BOMB GROUP ULTIMATELY MANAGED TO SUCCE
SSFULLY bomb Le Bourget, Egon Mayer and the pilots of JG 2 had ensured that July 14 was indeed a very bad Bastille Day for the Americans. In less than twenty minutes four B-17s had been brought down, and forty-one men would not be returning to Rougham. Of those, ten aviators were dead and fourteen were destined to spend the remainder of the war in German prisoner-of-war camps.42

  For the remaining seventeen crew members, the following days, weeks, and months would be spent on the run, desperately trying to evade capture by the Germans and ultimately return to England. While all of the evaders would have the help of the French Resistance, only a handful would encounter the Morins of Invalides. And of those fortunate few, only one would find a love that would transcend time.

  Chapter 4

  MEN ON THE RUN

  THOUGH GLAD TO HAVE ESCAPED SALTY’S NATURALS AND HEARTENED by the sudden appearance of Larry Templeton’s parachute from the tail of the doomed bomber, Joe Cornwall knew that his own continued survival was by no means assured. The sun-dappled fields, woodlands, and small villages spread out in all directions beneath him looked both idyllic and benign, but Joe knew that German troops were already organizing sweeps across the countryside in search of American aviators who may have survived the downing of their aircraft. He understood full well that capture by the enemy would at best result in spending years in a prisoner-of-war camp, and at worst could mean a bullet to the back of the head and burial in an unmarked grave.

  Nor were the Germans the only danger. The men of the Eighth Air Force had been briefed on the many fissures that ran through French society, and were well aware that many in France not only tolerated the German occupation, they actively supported it. The American aviators had been warned of the existence of several French fascist paramilitary organizations—most notably the Milice française—that were often even more brutal in their treatment of resistance fighters and captured Allied personnel than were the Germans. U.S. aircrew members were instructed that, if possible, they should covertly observe French civilians and their homes for some time before approaching them, the better to determine whether the people posed a threat. Even if the aviators were welcomed and given food, they were told, they shouldn’t entirely let their guard down—French civilians could be executed for helping Allied personnel, so even individuals who hated the Germans and their collaborationist lackeys might opt to betray downed aviators simply to protect themselves and their families.

  While the escape and evasion briefings Joe and his colleagues received emphasized extreme caution when dealing with civilians in German-occupied Europe, the aviators were also assured that there were well-organized escape lines operating across the Continent. The organizations might consist of several dozen people, they were told, but were built around loosely affiliated cells of six or eight individuals who knew and trusted each other. The cell members would know very little about the larger organization, to prevent them from betraying the group under torture, and the American airmen were warned explicitly that asking too many questions about an escape line’s members, organization, or operations could lead to the aviator being seen as a German spy. Such a determination, Joe and the others were told, could lead to summary execution.

  Making contact with an escape line’s members—called “helpers” by the Allies—was more likely if the downed aviator headed east, away from the fortified and heavily patrolled coast, intelligence officials said. If shot down over northern or central France, aircrews were told, they should try to make their way toward one of the major cities—especially Paris—both because they would blend in far better than they might in a small town, and because the escape lines were more active in the larger metropolitan areas.

  Members of Eighth Air Force combat crews were also provided with a variety of items meant to improve the odds of making a successful “home run” should their aircraft go down in enemy territory. In addition to a standard personal first aid kit, these included several passport-sized photos of the aviator in civilian clothes—intended for use in forged identity papers provided by the escape line—an easily concealable map of northern France printed on silk, a small compass, matches, Benzedrine tablets to combat exhaustion, and one or two bars of chocolate. Also included was a small zippered purse containing French currency—in Joe’s case, 2,000 francs—to be used for bribes or to purchase necessary items.

  All of the advice about how to become a successful “evader” was swirling in Joe’s head as he floated ever closer to the soil of German-occupied France, but he knew that his most immediate concern was getting on the ground without breaking a leg. After a quick scan of the surrounding sky—neither Santangelo’s chute nor Templeton’s was still visible—he focused his attention on the fast-approaching earth, pulled his heels and knees together, and slightly bent his knees. Seconds later he slammed down in the middle of a grain field, about a half mile southeast from where the scattered wreckage of Salty’s Naturals burned furiously.1 White-hot needles of pain shot up Joe’s spine and across his shoulders, but he stood up immediately, and after gathering his chute in his arms he ran toward a nearby wood line. Once under cover of the trees he knelt and buried his harness, life jacket, and parachute in a shallow hole he scraped out with his hands, and he was just standing up when the bombs in the hulk of the blazing Fortress began “cooking off.” The explosions could be heard for miles in every direction, and Joe knew he had to get moving before the detonations attracted German troops.

  Thinking the enemy would likely scour the woods and villages in the vicinity of the crash site, Joe decided to put the small river he’d seen from the air between him and the final resting place of Salty’s Naturals—and of the men he was fairly certain had gone down with it. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him it was just a few minutes after eight, and he was momentarily surprised. His Bastille Day had begun six hours earlier and 250 miles to the northwest in the relative safety of rural Sussex, and had already been filled with myriad sights, sensations, and emotions with which he hadn’t even begun to grapple. There would be time later to deal with all that, he told himself, because the most important thing now was to move, as fast and as far as possible.

  After taking a quick look at his escape map, Joe decided on a northeast bearing toward the Iton River.2 He had just started walking when a middle-aged French woman appeared ahead, obviously as surprised to see him as he was to see her. The woman peered at Joe for a moment, taking in the fleece-lined pants and jacket he was still wearing, then cautiously motioned him forward. She spoke for a moment in quick French, the only word of which Joe understood was “Americain.” He nodded his head enthusiastically, repeating the word while at the same time pulling from his jacket pocket the small box of escape aids and the zippered purse. The woman seemed to take these as proof of his nationality, and as she turned to walk back the way she’d come she gestured for Joe to follow her.

  A few minutes’ walk brought the pair to what was apparently the woman’s home, set back in a clearing, and after standing quietly for a moment to ensure that no one was nearby, she gestured for Joe to follow her inside. She pantomimed eating, and when Joe smiled and nodded the woman set a large slice of rough dark bread and a mug of milk on the long table that dominated the room. After finishing the impromptu meal, the airman gestured his thanks and, when it became clear the woman could offer no further help, he walked to the door. Pointing to a small barn on the other side of the yard, Joe rested his head on his hands as if sleeping. The woman nodded her assent, and within a few moments Joe was stretched out on the barn’s hay-covered floor. He hadn’t really intended to sleep, only while away the time until dark, but the morning’s exertions ensured that drowsiness soon overtook him. As he drifted off, he could hear the sound of German fighters circling the funeral pyre of Salty’s Naturals.3

  JOE CORNWALL WAS NOT, OF COURSE, THE ONLY MEMBER OF THE 94TH Bomb Group on the run that morning. As he slept, more than a dozen other of the unit’s aviators were doing everything possible to avoid capture by the Germans—though no
t all would succeed. The closest, in terms of physical proximity to the place Joe landed, was his crewmate Larry Templeton.

  The diminutive tail gunner had pulled his ripcord as soon as he’d cleared the aft escape hatch on Salty’s Naturals, and his chute had barely opened fully when he heard the B-17 slam into the ground. Templeton touched down just seconds later, about 150 feet from the aircraft’s blazing wreckage. Unhurt except for the gash above his eye, he scooped up his chute and ran toward a stand of trees some two hundred yards away on a steep hillside. No German aircraft had yet arrived over the crash site, but as he ran the gunner noticed another parachute at what he later estimated to be 3,000 feet, and a B-17 flying level at low altitude with several German fighters taking turns attacking it from behind.4

  After entering the woods Templeton kept moving until he crested the hill, and soon after starting down the other side he heard a series of explosions that he assumed were the bombs still aboard Salty’s Naturals. At the bottom of the hill the tail gunner stopped long enough to remove his harness and throw it and the parachute into a ditch. He quickly moved on, and about five minutes later tossed his leather helmet and Mae West behind a log.

  Templeton determined that he had moved far enough from the crash site that he could chance going back up the hill, believing he was less likely to be discovered than on the flat ground. The climb back up the hillside was more tiring than he had expected, however, and about halfway to the top he decided to stop and rest. He wiggled his way into a clump of foliage and settled in and, after eating some of the chocolate from his escape kit, he dozed off.