Fly combat missions with the three Crawford Brothers as they serve as pilots fighting their nation’s aerial battles in WW II. Each brother wrote his own memoir.
George wove the three books into one gripping volume.
Raymond Shelton Crawford, Jr., Operations Officer, pilot, 375th HBS, 14th AF.
Raymond’s mission on February 5, 1944as a B-24 pilot stationed in China was to bomb Bangkok, Siam. His description, lost at night over China, follows.
The gas gauges read empty when the first light of the day crept over the horizon. We were over a solid under cast as far as eye could see. Then I went back to the catwalk and dove through those yawning bomb bay doors. I got out cleanly and while I was waiting to pull the rip cord, I saw a picture that will stay with me until the day I die. My security blanket, the now empty, slab sided, drably painted bomber, with all four fans still turning, sailed serenely off into the pink dawn while I fell tumbling into the black abyss of the unknown. I feared what lay below. Mother and Father as well as Raymond’s wife, Emagene, received Missing in Action telegrams.
George Wolf Crawford, Pilot, 513th Squadron, 376th HBG, Italy.
George’s June 9, 1944, target was the Oberpfaffenhofen Me-410 aircraft plant near Munich.
Just as the sudden jolt of our B-24 signaled "bombs away," the windshield literally exploded in front of my face. My right foot was hit and slammed against the throttle pedestal. I was covered with both shattered glass and freezing air. In quick succession, two more flak bursts showered our B-24 with shrapnel and #3 engine burst into flames. Co-pilot George Cloer feathered the propeller as I cut the throttle and together we went through the fire emergency procedure. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the flames flickered, and then died. With another flak explosion, #2 engine burst into flame. For the second time we raced through the “engine on fire” emergency procedure. The flames flared up, and slowly died. Only George Lee, our waist gunner, reported a serious wound On two engines we could not keep up with our formation. Ten B-24s looked back and down at us as we dropped our airspeed and began to trade altitude for flying speed. We were a long way from our base in Italy, over land held by Germans. Crash landing in German-held territory was not an acceptable way to end this mission.
Fred Roberts Crawford, Pilot, 4th Squadron, 52nd Fighter Group, Italy.
Fred, on June 16, 1944, was shot down by an American pilot flying a P-38. In his P-51, Fred was flying cover over George in his B-24 on a mission to bomb the Apollo Oil Refinery at Bratislava, Czechoslovakia.
Wham, my right ankle hit the horizontal stabilizer. I was out of the burning plane, 10,000 feet in the air over Hungary. My P-51, trailing heavy black smoke, headed for earth much faster than I. Safely on the ground, as I gathered my parachute, I was staggered by a blow to my head. Many words I could not understand with "Jewd" repeated over again and again became the cry of this mob. Two men grabbed my arms from behind. The 40 or 50 people pressed around weren’t soldiers; these were just plain, simple rural civilians.
The blows came quicker and fell everywhere. The people closest to me were hitting my head, shoulders, arms, back, chest, groin, buttocks, thighs, calves, feet. Sticks, farm tools, everything in their hands and even their hands became weapons. Then the kicks started, which hurt immediately. One of the kicks caught my left jaw. I tasted blood and some teeth seemed out of place. Men grabbed me by the shoulders and started dragging me to some tall trees. At the trees I was hauled up to my feet and held upright while several worked to put a rope noose around my neck. Mother and Father received their second Missing in Action telegram.
PROLOGUE
The music stopped and the words, “The Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor,” totally changed our lives. It was December 7, 1941. This book is the memoirs of the lives of Raymond and Gladys Crawford, their three sons, Raymond Jr., George and Fred and Raymond Jr.’s wife, Emagene Kimbrell Crawford over the period from December 7, 1941 through December, 1945. The story of my courtship of Jeannette Kizer is an important part of my memoirs of the war years.
Raymond was a pilot in the Army Air Corps on Pearl Harbor Day. George and Fred followed in his footsteps and also became pilots. All three brothers were flying in combat at the same time in 1944. Mother and Father received two MIA telegrams.
In the 1970’s, Raymond Jr. felt strongly that our children needed to know the answer to the question, “Father, what did you do during WW II?”, so he insisted that each brother write his own memoir. It was painful to recall the war experiences, but Raymond prevailed and each brother wrote his personal memoir of his WW II experiences for his children, nephews and nieces.
In 2005, I, George, the only surviving brother, decided to combine the three unpublished books. This book, Three Crawford Brothers. The WW II Memoirs of Three Pilots, Raymond, George and Fred, combines the three individual books into one continuous chronological account. In order for the reader to identify each author, Raymond’s book is in Ariel type, Fred’s book is in Courier New type, and my (George’s) book is in Times New Roman.
The book contains a wealth of pictures, letters, orders, souvenir material and newspaper clippings which I scanned into the text. The letters and orders typed in are in the type deemed suitable for that material.
In 2005, I persuaded the bombardier on our B-24 crew, William (Bill) M. Neil, to add his memories of our many shared adventures. Bill Neil’s writings are in Century Gothic type. Bill played a very important role in my life during the time we flew together.
This is the story of the Three Crawford Brothers and the friends who shared their pilot training and combat experiences during WW II.
George Wolf Crawford
CONTENTS
Chapter Title Page
Prologue and Acknowledgements i
Contents iii
1 From Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, to Aviation Cadet, November, 1942. 1
2 Fred and George at Santa Ana, Raymond Visits His Brothers 25
3 George and Fred at Santa Ana for Pre-Flight, Raymond at Minter. 43
4 The Three Brothers’ Reunion, Christmas, 1942 53
5 Fred and George in Pre-Flight, Raymond at Minter, January, 1943. 61
6 George at Santa Ana, Fred at Oxnard, Raymond at Chanute. Feb. 1943. 68
7 George Joins Fred at Oxnard, Raymond Helps, Fred Graduates Primary. 77
8 Raymond Flies B-17s, Fred at Advanced, George Completes Basic 86
9 George From Taft to the Woods of Sequoia National Park. July, 1943. 96
10 Fred Wins His Wings, George Wins His Wings, Raymond Flies B-17s. 104
11 George joins B-24 Crew, Raymond Flies to China, Fred Flies Fighters. 115
12 Fred at Thomasville. George and Bill are Members of the Morel Crew. 131
13 Raymond in China, Fred’s Voyage Overseas, George in New York. 147
14 Fred in Africa, Raymond Missing in Action, George Flies to Italy. 164
15 The Morel Crew in Italy, Fred in Algeria, Raymond in China. 194
16 George Bombs Europe, Raymond Bombs Ships, Fred and the Spitfire. 225
17 Raymond Bombs Japanese Forces, George Bombs Steyr, Fred in Spitfires. 256
18 Raymond Bombs Chengtu, George Bombs Brasov, Fred Tames Mustang. 287
19 Fred’s 15th AF Missions, George Bombs Brasov again, Raymond tours Inia. 317
20 George Earns DFC, Fred Over Ploesti, Raymond Flies Hump. May 16–22. 340
21 George on Capri, Fred’s Crash, Raymond Bombs Lashio. May 23–31. 353
22 George on Two Engines, Fred Visits George, Raymond Bombs Canton 376
23 Fred Goes Down in Flames, George Shoots Down a Me-110. June 16. 411
24 Fred in Budapest Prison, George Learns Fred MIA. June 17-23, 1944. 424
25 George Bombs Ploesti, Fred in Prison, Raymond in China. June 24–30. 438
26 Fred a German POW, George and Vescues, Raymond in China. July 1–5. 454
27 Fred in Stalag Luft III, George Bombs Ploesti, Raymond in China. July 6-15. 471
28 George in Cairo, Fred in Luft III, Raymond Destroys Changsa. July 16-21. 488
29 Fred Joins the Choir, George Alone and Out of Formation. July 22–31. 507
30 George’s 50th Mission, Raymond Bombs Yochow, Fred a POW. August 1–10. 521
31 George’s Trip Home, Fred a POW, Raymond in China. Aug. 11–Sept. 8, 944. 537
32 George Courts Jeannette, Fred in Luft III, Raymond Evacuates Luichow. 549
33 Fred Receives Mail, Raymond’s Trip Home, George Assigned Smyrna. 571
34 Fred on POW Death March, Raymond Sells War Bonds, George at Smyrna. 584
35 Fred’s POW Days End, Raymond in Houston, George at Smyrna. April 1945. 597
36 Fred Visits Dachau, Raymond at Ellington, George at Smyrna May and June. 609
37 The Warriors Come Home, July through December, 1945. 629
38 Epilogue 643
Chapter 23.
George Shoots Down an ME-110, Fred Goes Down in Flames.
June 16, 1944.
George: June 16: For the first time, I welcomed an early morning call. I was awakened at 0245 and went immediately to the operations office. My name was still listed as Miller's bombardier. Then I went to breakfast. It was the 56th time I had gone to breakfast at such an early hour in preparation for a combat mission, and it was the first time the food tasted good. Always before I had been there to prepare to do something I did not want to do. Today I was doing something I really wanted to do. I enjoyed the French toast and soupy syrup. Even the coffee tasted good this morning.
The briefing gave the target as a synthetic oil plant, Apollo Oil Refinery, at Bratislava, Czechoslovakia. All the parts fit together, for this target would be heavily defended. I would have ample oppor«tunity to fire at enemy planes. Our cover for the raid would be P-51’s, possibly provided by the 52nd Fighter Group, Fred's outfit.
The 376th Bomb Group led the 47th Wing, with Lt. Col. McIlheran flying as command pilot in the A-1 spot of the first section. Roger Oltz was leading eleven 513th B-24’s plus one from the 512th Squadron in our twelve-plane second section. Roger’s navigator today was Paul Hoyt teamed with bombardier Myrl Farquhar.
Bill had the day off, but Jim Maize (engineer), Randy Vandayburg (nose gunner), and Russell Ward (waist gunner) were flying with Indorf and his crew. Since Ray had decided to fly fewer missions, the Morel crew flew as “fill-ins” with other crews in order to complete their required 50 missions and earn that free trip back to the USA.
The crew list below was copied from the INTERROGATION FORM - 376 BGP
TARGET: Bratislava Apollo Oil Refinery, Czechoslovakia, DATE: 16 June 1944.
SQUADRON: .513th A/C NO. 49 BOMB LOAD: 10 x 500 Nose: _.1_ Tail _.025___
P0SITION IN FORMATION: Take off. #3, 1st El, A Flt., 2nd Sec. Over Target _same_
| PILOT |
2nd Lt. Miller, H.S. |
T.T.G |
S/Sgt. Morgan, H. R. |
| CO-PILOT |
2nd Lt. Cleary, J. J. |
WAIST (R) |
T/Sgt. Schambacker, C.0. |
| NAV. |
2nd Lt. Sage, J. F. |
WAIST (L) |
|
| BOMB. |
2nd Lt. Crawford, G. W. |
B.T.G |
S/Sgt. Droemer, C. H. |
| NOSE G. |
S/Sgt. Shumway, A. C. |
TAIL G. |
S/Sgt. Hawk, W. A. |
| Eng. |
T/Sgt. Wood, J.L. |
|
|
Time Off; 06:10 Time Down: l3:13
Time Over Target: 10:12 Alt. 21,000 ft. Heading _290°_ Interval _25’_
We went to our planes on schedule. And there we sat for an extra hour. Bomber Command had ordered a standby, waiting for the weather over the target to improve. It was a long hour for me. I was afraid that someone would cancel either my role as bombardier or the mission. I hoped we would fly, because I was afraid that I might not be permitted to sign myself on for a future flight. At last, the B-24s began their roll down the runway and I experienced my first takeoff from the waist of a B-24. Things were a little crowded in the waist, as all the gunners huddled for warmth and fellowship. It was cold.
I would be shooting back to back with T/Sgt. Schambacker, a good gunner. He used the extra time to check me out on every detail of the operation of the single 50 caliber machine gun. I had to learn how to swing the gun, how to aim, how to lead the target, and let the plane fly through my stream of bullets, as well as how to reload the gun as I kicked empty shells out the way. We had loaded an extra 2,000 rounds of ammunition for the waist guns. I would be shooting from the left waist window. The usual circling seemed to go on forever. My fleece line flight gear over the heated suit did not seem warm enough.
The picture on the left was taken at Alamogordo. It shows the fleece lined high altitude garments worn over the heated suit on this flight. Before the fighters hit us, I was very cold despite the warm clothing.
At last the hour ended, we headed for the Adriatic and the rendezvous with the 449th Group and the other two groups from the 47th Wing. They were to follow us across Yugoslavia and Hungary to the target. Our section was second in a long line of B-24 formations. The 376th would be the prime targets for German fighters.
Crossing into Yugoslavia, the formations climbed above 20,000 feet and each gunner had to go to his position and prepare for fighter attack. The Germans did not control all of Yugoslavia, but they had fighter airports and mobile flak stations. Attack could be from air or ground.
An 80 mph head wind made the flight across Yugoslavia into Hungary much slower than planned. Our airspeed was 165 mph, but our ground speed was only 85 mph. We were flying above 20,000 feet with the waist windows open. The temperature was well below freezing. I had to keep my fingers and toes moving to keep them from freezing. I stood ready for an expected attack, hands on my machine gun, fingers dancing, toes tap dancing, eyes scanning the sky out the left waist window. In the cockpit, I could see everything ahead. From the waist window I had a limited view and could not see what was happening ahead or to the right of the plane.
Cleary was doing a good job of talking to the crew on the interphone, to make sure each gunner was awake and alert.
Suddenly Nose Gunner (NG) Shumway’s voice crackled the expected, but dreaded news, “German fighters, twelve o’clock high closing fast.” We were a long way from the rendezvous point with our escort. I could not see this first wave but now all forward looking crewmen reported fighters silhouetted against the blue sky, and definitely coming in on an attack angle. It was a sky full of FW-l90s and ME-109s.
With adrenalin flowing, I was no longer cold. The battle was joined in full ferocity.
The German planes hit like Thor’s hammer, from 12 o’clock high, all guns firing. More went through the formation than broke short by diving below us. I tried to hit them as they roared past and failed. I experienced difficulty in swinging my machine gun fast enough to hit planes traveling over 600 mph. I fired a burst at each disappearing fighters without a single hit, firing either too soon or too late.
Fortunately for us in the second section, the Germans were concentrating on the first section. Both sides were inflicting severe damage on the other. The first wave of fighters left us. I reloaded, shoveled empty cartridges overboard and prepared for the next attack. Our plane had not been hit.
Then the slower German planes, ME-110s, 210s and Ju-88s arrived as a second attack wave. German planes were attacking from all angles, driving in to fire and diving under to escape. They were flying at about 400 mph and I still could not swing my fixed mounted gun to match their speed. Again I was firing too soon or too late.
Out of the cloud layer above us and from the left, a single ME-110 fired rockets and machine guns in its attack on our first section. It was caught in the cross fire from the A and C flights and set on fire. The burning plane rammed a B-24 in our first section; both planes exploded. No parachutes were observed. Thirteen men died, eleven American and two German.
The single ME-110 was followed by a wave of ME-110s. Like the blade of the Grim Reaper, they made a swinging, slicing attack, on our two sections. The tip of their scythe of death sliced off the crew from the 512th Squadron, the C-3 plane in our section. Their B-24 exploded with all of the crew still aboard. Each section had now lost one B-24, two planes destroyed, 22 American airmen killed.
Roger pulled us in as close as possible to the first section to keep the German fighters from flying between our two sections. Now our guns could help cover them; theirs could help cover us. Our C-section was directly behind, but beneath their B-section. One ME-l10 started a level attack on the first section, flying out about 600 yards from my waist position. The ME-110 was flying almost parallel and at nearly the same speed as our formation. The more experienced gunners did not fire, but I started blazing away, the only gun firing on this German fighter.
Using my tracers to judge where the 50 caliber machine gun bullets were hitting, I fired burst after burst and saw the tracers strike home again and again. Squeezing off a burst seemed to slow the swing of my gun and I had to swing forward between bursts to keep the stream of bullets raking the Me-110. I could see tracers hitting the cockpit and then walking their way down the fuselage on each burst.
Smoke began to stream from the Me-l10 and it veered away and dove down through an undercast, out of sight. I suddenly realized that in addition to the jerk of the machine gun in my hands, I was receiving a steady barrage of blows on my shoulder. Schambacker was pounding me on the back and shouting, "You're hitting him; you're hitting him."
The German fighters continued the attack and both our sections were under steady machine gun and light cannon fire. As though to make up for all the times they had "neglected" us, the running fight continued for over an hour. No other German fighter gave me such an easy target. I fired at each, but each time I was always firing too slow, too late or too fast, too soon and I was not scoring hits.
In a lull that followed, our second section’s radio survey claimed four fighters damaged and one B-24 down in flames.
Roger obeyed the first section’s request and moved our section out to its usual position, above and to the right of first section.
At last the promised escort of P-51s and P-38s appeared, but the Germans had already left, seeking formations with less sharp fangs. Those P-51s and P-38s really looked beautiful as they floated near and above us. I looked for the markings of Fred's plane out there, but he was not in sight.
After the deadly exchange with the fighters, the bomb run was almost anti-climatic,
I watched the bombs from our section curve down to make a perfect pattern over the oil refinery. Black clouds of smoke and bursts of flame were clearly visible. I wrote in my diary, “Watched our sections bombs all the way down into the target – bulls eye. Our section started several large fires. First section missed, third formation caught corner. Mission highly successful.” The official report described the flak as a terrific barrage of heavy caliber before, during and after the bomb runs. In my diary, I wrote, “Flak at target was scant, inaccurate.” I had flown through worse black clouds many, many times before.
As we left the target, ten JU-88s hit us firing rockets from about 1,000 yards out. The black streaks of the rockets formed the path for the JU-88s. They pressed home the attack with all guns firing. Every gun in our two sections that could be brought to bear on the JU-88s was hammering in reply. Through the tapestry woven by smoke and tracers, I saw one B-24, not from our group, on fire and spiraling down. I also saw three of the JU-88s go down in flames.
At last the battle ended. And none too soon, for I was out of ammunition. I shoveled spent cartridges overboard. I had had enough shooting to last me for a lifetime.
The 376th claimed three JU-88s, five ME-210s, two ME-110s, and one ME-410 destroyed, with many others damaged or probably destroyed.
Our squadron alone claimed four confirmed enemy fighters shot down. To be confirmed, the enemy plane had to crash in the sight of more than one of the gunners. I was credited with a damaged, because no one had been able to see the ME-110 after it dove into the clouds below our formation.
The rest of the trip home was uneventful. All the cripples were kept in the formation and made it home safely. There were no crackups on landing. The ambulances met the planes shooting a red flare on approach, indicating wounded aboard.
It had been a costly mission, but thanks to the team of Oltz, Logan, Hoyt and Farquhar, leading the second section, the seven hours and three minute mission was a most successful one. We were under fighter attack for almost two hours. I was exhausted. Resting on my cot about an hour after debriefing, i.e., the combat reports had been completed, I was awakened by Major Schmid. Sitting on Bill's cot, he asked me, "George, did you shoot down a German fighter today?" I replied, "Yes, I rode as a waist gunner and really clobbered one." Shaking his head, he asked, "What on earth were you doing in the waist?" As I explained my sense of frustration and why I felt the need to shoot back, I could see that he not only understood but also shared my feelings.
Without another word, he left. An hour later there appeared on the bulletin board, printed in big, bold letters, an order that absolutely and positively forbade any rated officer to fly on any combat mission in any position other than his rated position.
No other mention of my escapade was made to me or to any of those who made it possible. All hell had broken loose at group headquarters when my name appeared as having damaged a German fighter while riding in the waist.
I shall always be grateful to Major Schmid for the way he handled the wrath from headquarters and by posting the order that seemed to close the matter.
I was scheduled to check out a new crew for the mission tomorrow. Sleep came easily; I had no regrets. I was ready and willing to fly as a pilot, not as a gunner. Now I fully appreciated their dangerous work and how dependent we were on there accuracy.
Fred: June 16: Next morning 0430 proved “roust 'em out” time again. The mission was to be a very long one up to Bratis1ava in Czechoslovakia where the bombers were going after a ball bearing factory. If we couldn't knock all the German planes out of the air and weren't permitted to destroy them on the ground, then it was wise to hit the fuel supplies which should eventually stop them from flying and to destroy the ba11bearings that every engine, even wheels and other parts of airplanes needed. That would stop the production of the new super fighters the Germans were putting out, yes sir.
Back on Peterson's wing and tuned in to Channel "D," off we went for another crack at the enemy. The battle line was a long one. On our way to our position we flew right over George's group. I kept them in mind. Once we had split up, I would try to find them again if Peterson would permit. We would provide some special protection from the Fourth.
Combat calls started in as we approached the target. Flak was heavy. Around we went, then back down the battle line. Just as we reached the Hungarian border area with a noticeably large lake below us, the wing tanks dropped so I knew we had some wanted action. I switched to "B", dropping my tanks at the same time.
The squadron spread out and dove towards a dozen 109s that were attacking a bomber group. The 109's were really pressing their attack, but seeing us, they decided discretion was the better part of valor.
Peterson was hot today so we tore after two of the 109s with me about fifty feet off his right wing. We pushed throttles to the wire as we dove. During one of my visual sweeps of the cockpit I read the airspeed indicator at over 550 miles per hour.
The 109s were getting closer as we got right down on the deck, but suddenly I saw over on the left a bunch of twin-tailed P-38s strafing some kind of a ground target. The two 109s whipped right past them followed by us. My eyes really stayed with our twin-boomed friends with the black bands painted around them which we knew to be the First Fighter Group.
Sure enough, they broke off their target and took out after us. This might get dangerous, I thought, until we could be sure they recognized us, so I called a break left. Peterson for whatever reason broke to the right.
In avoiding his plane, I did some unusual maneuvers, winding up at 10,000 feet simply from the speed we had achieved because I had throttled way back. Never before had I lost a leader or wingman from my view, so I rocked the wings of "C" in order to look below as well as above my plane, hoping to spot him.
Out of my peripheral vision I caught an image of a P-38 just below and behind me coming up from the right. Wham: Boom: Thud: "C" shook and shuddered as point fifties hit and a 20 mm shell opened up a hole in the right wing as big as Bulldog Field's home plate. The suddenness of the attack, the impact of the shells, the amount of damage stunned me, but I swung hard away and reached down to switch from my right wing tank to the left. Then I tried to radio Peterson to tell him I had been hit by our friends.
Smoke began to pour into the cockpit until I couldn't see the instruments. Fire. I had to get out. My right hand found the canopy release lever. I pulled and off it flew. Get out, my mind shouted, remember Adams. I unfastened my seat and Sutton harnesses, stood up, headed toward the right side of the cockpit and gave a kick to the stick towards the left.
Out I went, only to drag along the side of the plane because my radio and oxygen lines were still attached. Then they pulled the helmet and goggles off. I felt great heat sear my head.
Wham, my right ankle hit the horizontal stabilizer. I was out of the burning plane, 10,000 feet in the air over Hungary. "We live in fame, or go down in flames..."
"C" for Crawford, trailing heavy black smoke headed for earth much faster than I although the things which began to fall upward prompted me to action. My long white scarf was streaming, both ends, high above my head. The map and papers in my leg pockets flapped upwards past my face as did everything else that wasn't zippered or buttoned in.
With a crazy pilot flying a P-38 with black wing and fuselage stripes from the First Fighter Group still hunting around somewhere, and knowing nothing about what might be waiting on the ground, my mind said "delay, delay."
By delaying pulling the rip cord, and I had never pulled one even in practice, I would be much lower to the ground when the chute opened thus reducing the chance of getting shot by friend or foe. On the other hand, if I delayed too long my chute might not open or there might not be enough altitude still to fall through to let the parachute slow my body down. In this free fall I was probably reaching a very high speed if my memory of the teachings of Miss Rose Davis, my Brackenridge High School physic's teacher were right. So I delayed.
By keeping my feet pointed down I hoped the shock of the chute when it opened would be reduced. Anyway I could see the ground clearly. Tiny people seemed to be running in my general direction from almost all points on the compass. To escape, I would have to elude them after I got on the ground if they didn't shoot me in the air.
My mind finally said, "Pull the ripcord;" I did. The entire chromium plated ring and cable pulled lose from the harness with the cable streaming upward in front of my face. "Dear God," my mind said in shock, "I've broken it -- pulled it so hard it came completely apart." The solution of a problem with a ripcord was for the pilot to reach down and unfasten the parachute covers and then to pullout the silk chute by brute strength.
Wham! A giant force grabbed me in the groin and around my chest, stopping me in midair. The chute had opened as it was designed to do. No one had ever explained that by pulling the ring hard, the cable was also separated as the pins were pulled out of their holes. That process opened the pilot chute's flaps so the tiny puller would pop out from its case as the elastic worked. The tiny chute then would fill with air and pull out the main chute. Once the wind filled the main chute, I was stopped like a bulldogged calf.
As I looked up at that beautiful white canopy in relief, my stomach flipped again because there were holes and even a rip or two in the silk. My chute, issued in North Africa, had not been repacked since when? Certainly while it was in my possession, it had not been repacked. But I wrestled around to get some of the pressure off the groin straps, then settled down for a lazy descent to earth, deciding to favor my injured ankle by extending the other one down lower. I glanced over the terrain to see where I might run and hide to start my escape.
WHAM! The earth reached up, slamming into my extended foot, then throwing me forward on my face in a sudden and unexpected end to my sudden and unexpected jump. I was down and alive.
Thanks to the wisdom of the British, I turned the parachute harness's small plate-like release mechanism on my chest, hit it with a fist and the chute and harness slid off in an instant. Great. An American chute with its four separate buckles required two good arms and hands to clear away. If a stiff wind was blowing, one could have a devil of a time getting free of the parachute.
I grabbed my backpack which had my 45 automatic with the beautiful handles and 50 rounds of ball point ammunition, my escape kit, and a few other items carefully squirreled away just in case. Then I tried to stand up and run. My body started up but my ankles wouldn't cooperate. I couldn't stand up, much less walk and certainly not run! How many miles and miles had I hiked during the past years to keep in shape so that I could make an escape on foot if the need ever arose. Now I was in some enemy land in some unknown spot a terribly long way from base, unable to move except to crawl.
Anger at being in this mess was now so strong that I started to crawl toward the nearest stand of bushes and trees about 30 yards away.
Off to the other side of this clearing in which I had landed stood a shepherd with a flock of sheep feeding on the grass. People were running directly at me, jabbering in an unknown tongue. Their clothes were rough. Many carried farming tools of various kinds. I sat there with my 45 in my lap wondering what would happen next. I could see no way to get through them to the bushes. They gathered around, babbling in loud voices, but I understood nothing of what they were saying.
One man came right in front of me and said “Spreichen sie Deutsch?" This I had learned from some neighbor kids on my block, so I said "Nein.” The mood of the crowd changed so abruptly I could feel it.
“Jewd" was the next word shouted at me that I understood. Many voices picked up that word, "Jewd! Jewd! Jewd!and as the chorus grew, I heard and understood "Swine" which meant "pig" and "Hund" which meant "dog."
The "Jewd" identification seemed to light a fuse on these people but it made no sense to me although I knew they were saying "Jew." I certainly was no Jew.
I was a Presbyterian Christian with a God who in my secret covenant would protect me from all harm under the shadow of His wing, except perhaps being shot down by a fellow American by mistaken identity.
As I had remarked many times, I knew in my heart that the German hadn't been born who could shoot me down. What I never imagined ever, was that an American pilot might even try, much less, do so.
My thinking was interrupted by a blow to my head. Many words I could not understand with "Jewd" thrown in became the cry of this bunch now turned into a mob with that first blow. Two men grabbed my arms from behind. A third pulled the 45 out of my grasp. With 40 or 50 people pressed around me I never thought about trying to shoot my way out. These weren't soldiers; these were just plain, simple rural civilians.
The blows came quicker and fell everywhere these people closest to me could strike -- head, shoulders, arms, back, chest, groin, buttocks, thighs, calves, feet. Sticks, farm tools, everything in their hands and even their hands became weapons. I put my arms over my face and head and bent, hunkered forward. Then the kicks started, which hurt immediately.
They pushed me over and one of the kicks caught my left jaw. I tasted blood and some teeth seemed out of place. As I tried to spit out the blood, the mob wailed louder, men grabbed me by the shoulders and started dragging me the 50 yards or so to the edge which had some tall trees. All along those fifty yards the kickers and hitters kept kicking and hitting.
At the trees I was hauled up to my feet and held upright while several of them worked to put a rope noose they had concocted around my neck. To achieve this, one of them tore away my jacket's collar. In that process his fingers caught my dog tag chain breaking it and pulling the chain out with his jerk. Into the morning sunlight flashed the chain with its two silver dog tags and the small gold cross I had hung there one Saturday afternoon while I was in Oxnard, California, on a pass from my primary training school, Mira Loma Flight Academy.
The little gold cross glistened in the sun. An old man standing near me saw all this. He began to shout at the others. What he said meant nothing to me except some of the hitters stopped and listened. Then everyone stopped hitting and started shouting at each other. The old man had gotten the dog tag chain in his hand and was waving the cross in the air, shouting and shouting.
Suddenly a car's engine roar drowned out the voices as a small car came rapidly right into the mob, up to within three feet of me. The doors popped open. Out charged two men in green uniforms with odd caps on their heads. The caps were set off with big cock feathers. The mob had moved to keep from getting run over. The uniformed men grabbed me, took the rope off my neck, dragged me back to the car's door, pushed me into the back seat, climbed in, backed out as quickly as they had arrived, and sped down a road.
I was alive. I felt a little pain and was trying to get rid of the blood in my mouth. The tallest one, who seemed to be the leader, kept looking at me shaking his head from side to side. He spoke to me slowly but I understood nothing and could make no answer.
After a few minutes he said something to the driver and the car turned in another dirt road coming to a stop in front of a large but tattered old house. A thin, grey haired woman came out. They spoke. She looked at me and said something and then I realized I could understand her. She said "You poor man. God help you." and also shaking her head, she went back into her house.
The two officers talked for a few moments and the car started up again. Before long we pulled up in front of a smaller house in good shape. The tall officer got out, pushed the seat up and motioned me to get out, which I managed to do. One ankle obviously was really hurt -- the one I had landed on -- while the other seemed O.K.
The officer had a steel chain about a half inch in diameter which he introduced me to by winding it around my wrists. Then in signs, he indicated that if I would not try to escape he wouldn't put the chains on me. I shook my head back and forth "Yes.” He put the chain back in the car and helped me to the house where a woman, a cross-eyed girl and a younger boy waited in the door.
The woman was making sympathetic sounds and motioned me to a chair. She went to another room, brought back a pan of warm water, a soft rag, and some ointment of some kind. She tried to wash my face and head and hands where the blood and dirt were visible. My face and head were burned evidently as my helmet pulled off as I slipped away from the side of the plane. She offered me water which helped me clean my mouth. The little girl walked over and climbed into my lap.
Thirty minutes before I had been a “Jewd, Hund, Swine" who was being lynched by an angry mob. Now I was being given first aid, water and the children were being permitted to stay by me. All this was very difficult to grasp. Death had been in the bullets and flames. Death had been around my neck. Life remained. Who but God could have saved me?
The officer joined his two little children bringing a pad, a pencil and a paperbound book which turned out to be a Hungarian-English travel guide with many words and sentences in it. He wrote "Felsovari Ferenc" on the pad and pointed to himself. His name, obviously, was Felsovari Ferenc. I took the pencil and wrote "Fred Crawford" so he would know my name. With that travel book, we had a fairly interesting exchange of words. I was able to tell him that I had two brothers, my home was in Texas, to which he replied "Tom Mix, bang-bang" and pretended to shoot two six-guns, and other general thoughts.
After about an hour when I had been cleaned up as much as possible there, he spoke to his wife and children who shook hands with me. Finally, by using the guide book, he asked me for my home address. That request brought to my mind the possibility of a breech in military regulations, but I wrote down my parents' address in San Antonio without their names. My mind was arguing "Don't tell him, it may be a blackmail trick which will involve the folks," which I could see no possibility of, to "The Army will punish you for giving information other than your name, rank and serial number."
But I had told him nothing about the military, nor had he asked.
The little car which looked like a German Volkswagen returned. This time he put the chains around my wrists, locking them with what looked like a common padlock. We drove to a small village which had a large church and another building that turned out to be police headquarters. Holding the chain firmly, he led me inside and presented me to a higher ranking officer. About a dozen officers in these green uniforms were present, obviously all of them most interested in me.
They had retrieved my gun and other gear, particularly my dog tag chain which after taking off the wrist chains, they gave to me pointing to the cross and the many crucifixes which were over every door, on the walls, and on desks. They were obviously Catholics and proud of it.
None could speak English. The next move was to usher me to a small table on which was a plate of food. I sat down, crossed myself in good Catholic fashion, and looked at the food. A slice of ham with white sugar sprinkled on it rested on top of a pile of rice. My teeth and jaws were swollen and stiff and hurt. My stomach was in a sore knot. The ham, I suddenly realized, was a test about this being a Jew. So I forced it down, first asking by signs what the white stuff was and would it hurt me?
The men laughed when the meaning of my pantomime was understood. They thought I thought it was poison and enjoyed sticking fingers into the sugar and putting the fingers into their mouths with gusto.
After finishing the ham, I stopped eating and rubbed my stomach to show "full." Next they had me take off my jacket, then my flight suit, and eyes got big when they saw my Texas leather belt. This they took off, inspected, found the zipper pocket and made a great show of opening it to find the dollars and my escape pictures. My heart sank as they looked at the pictures, which had been made back at Madna and Calvi with me in old civilian clothes, one of them taken while I had a mustache. The officers looked at me. I said "brothers" which Felsovari Ferenc seemed to translate correctly.
They handed me my own escape pictures which I slipped into my shirt pocket. My watch went next, then everything in my pockets including my knife. The 52nd's headings and target information was, as usual, written on my wrists in ink. While being cleaned up at the officer's home, I made sure this got washed off. Otherwise I would have tried to lick it off with my dry tongue, and drier throat, which would have been difficult.
Some new officers came in, spoke, and everyone showed unusual interest. The senior officer and my rescuer took me back to the car, put me in the rear, motioned again about the chain and again I reconfirmed that I wasn't going to try to overpower them and escape. We took a drive into the countryside arriving at the site of "C"’s last landing. On the edge of a small lake near some kind of large lodge, "C" had hit with enough impact to bury it almost up to its tail in mud. Smoke was still seeping out of the hole, but that proud tail with “C” clearly visible stood upright, destroyed but not defeated.
The plane had been a beautiful thing to fly, had taken me many places and carried out my every command. She and I had not failed; fate had simply claimed us, the fate of a stupid fellow American.
Someone brought over to the police car some of the point fifty bullets which hadn't exploded.
I wondered how Sergeant Drum and the ground crew would feel that night. I wondered how brother George would feel when I didn't show up for the planned visit when next the Fifteenth had a stand down. I wondered how my folks would feel when they got this news from the War Department. I wondered how I really felt.
The trip back to the police headquarters was quick and done with efficiency. I was helped into a large cell which had one bunk and locked up. That was all. No interrogation. No torture. Several hours later while I simply was washed out on that bunk, the cell door opened and a youngish man dressed in the garb of a Catholic priest entered smiling. I genuflected as I had seen my Catholic buddies do but decided not to cross myself because we weren't praying or eating or anything. A guard brought him a chair. He sat down, smiled, and seemed to be asking me if I spoke languages like Hungarian, and then German which I did recognize and shook my head "No.” Then a language that sounded like Latin. "No." French? "No." Italian? "No." And finally some language I had no clue to at all, so I shook my head "No." He seemed to be at a loss.
Something in me rose to this challenge. Mustering my courage and wits, I asked him if he spoke English, which of course he didn't or we would not have gotten into the language numbers game. That was my only language, but I did know a hundred or so words in Spanish, so I asked "Se habla Espanol?" Fortunately, he answered with a negative shake because we would have had a short conversation. Now I had my chance. What if I was only an uneducated, unolingual second lieutenant P-5l ex-fighter pilot, I could hold up the honor of the Army, of the U.S.A. and of Texas by inventing languages: "Aba goola Apache?" I asked. "No," he shook his head. "Concha curotah Comanche?" "No." Nunca duberola Navajo"? "No." That was five; he had asked me a total of six. So "Wooga ooga Cherokee?" "No." and my final numbers winning combination, "Sierra Nevada Seminole?" And again, his confused look and negative shake affirmed my superiority in "languages."
He began to speak in a prayerful way so I bowed my head. As he crossed himself, I did, too. Then he smiled and called the guard. The guard let him out and locked the door again.
The priest's visit made me think things might not be so bad after all, but physically everything caught up with me with pain and vomiting leading the list. The first couple of times I had to vomit the guards opened my door so I could go into a latrine, which in Hungary was a pipe about three inches in diameter stuck through the floor. After that they didn't bother but there wasn't much more that could be vomited left.
The pain, which had not entered my awareness much before, hit hard. In high school I had read about Dr. Livingston's experience when attacked and mauled by a lion. He recorded that not until about six hours after the attack did the pain set in. My pattern was about the same.
Almost six hundred heavy bombers attacked oil targets near Vienna and Bratislava. Between 200 and 250 German fighters attacked the formations. Fifteen USA aircraft were shot down. The heavy bombers and fighters claimed seventy German aircraft destroyed. (D15BR). The 376th Heavy Bomber Group was awarded its third Presidential Unit Citation for “Its part in this heroic attack on the Apollo Oil Refinery.”
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