1 BLUE NOSED BASTARDS OF BODNEY

BACKGROUND STORY

You were born on April 6th 1921, in San Diego, California at Mercy Hospital. Your father served in the Navy, so growing up you were often left with your mother, a seamstress, and your 2 older sisters Catherine and Elizabeth. Consequently, you became a little spoiled by all the female attention, but in the meantime learned how to be the „man of the house” very Your family home in La Jolla, San Diego quickly. Your home at La Jolla was only a mile away from the beach, so you grew up with the Sun and saltwater in your hair, developing freckles – which would later become a great asset in your conquests of the fairer sex. Just like your musical talent that you inherited from your mother. The family spent countless evenings gathered around the kitchen table, your mom and you playing the guitar singing old folk songs with your sisters helping out with the harmonies.

One day, at the age of 14, while hanging out with your friends at the beach you looked up and saw a giant seagull. When you took a closer look, you realized it wasn’t a living animal, but a man-made airplane without an engine, soaring silently over the cliffs so gracefully, that you just kept staring at it, blocking the sun with both hands, and the world around you ceased to exist. There was a steady onshore wind, deflected upwards by the cliff, and the skillful glider pilot used this updraft to stay in the air. He kept going back and forth with such ease, that you decided this would become your ultimate goal: to be where that pilot was, and look down at the beach from the seat of one of those gliders. An hour passed by and the wind gradually stopped. The glider turned around and seemed to be coming straight towards you, descending gently. The pilot made a beautiful landing in the sand, stopping a mere 30-40 feet from where you were standing. You ran up to the machine, longing to touch it as if to prove it was for real, and not just a figment of your imagination. It sure was for real. You were amazed how simple the construction looked, and how gracefully those wooden ribs and spars were put together, and covered tightly with canvas. After a few words with the pilot you soon learned that there was a glider airfield not too far called Torrey Pines Gliderport. That evening your mother gave you permission to sign up for flying lessons on one condition: if you get a job and make money to finance your new hobby. You wasted no time taking the deal, and started working at the grocery store of old Mr. Grisbow just around the corner. Your first flight in a glider was exhilarating: you felt suspended up in the sky, with nothing but some thin plywood and canvas between you and the empty blue, hearing nothing but the woosh of the wind. This was IT. This was everything you dreamed of, and everything you ever wanted Gliders soaring over the cliffs of La Jolla to do. You soloed after a month and finally earned your glider wings not long after your 15th birthday in 1936.

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No sooner had you begun your studies at San Diego State University to become an engineer than Hitler and Stalin invaded Poland, marking the beginning of World War II. The events in Europe didn’t affect your life much, but news started getting more and more worrying. On August 20th, 1940 you went to the theater to watch a western called „Carolina Moon” with a beautiful brunette called Betty Gallagher. You’d been seeing each other for a month, and things were getting rather serious. Before the movie begun, they showed some footage of British Spitfires peeling off, diving on German Stuka dive bombers, the leading edge of their beautiful elliptical wings ablaze with machine gun fire. That’s when the idea struck you. You can’t just sit around, drinking milkshake with your friends, when half of the world was involved in an epic conflict, and Britain, the last bastion of freedom in Europe stood alone fighting the Teutonic monster that marched through the rest of the continent in less than a year. The next day you packed up your bag, kissed goodbye to a weeping Betty, and took a bus to New York. Two weeks later a ship carried you across the Atlantic. It was on that ship where you met Jim Goldwyn, a cheerful fellow from Brooklyn. You soon discovered that you were both on that ship for the same reason: to join the Royal Air Force.

Betty Gallagher

When you arrived to London, you had to lie about your age, as the requirement was to be of at least 20 years of age and have at least 300 hours of certified flying time. This latter one you did have, albeit on gliders – a detail you chose not to share. After completing basic training, Jim and you were sent to No.5 Flying Training School at RAF Shotwick in the Northeast corner of Wales, not too far from Liverpool, to learn to fly the Miles Master, and later, the Supermarine Spitfire. Due to your experience on gliders you completed every task thrown at you with ease and style, getting nods of

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3 BLUE NOSED BASTARDS OF BODNEY approval from your instructors. After keeping an aircraft in the air for hours without an engine, flying single engine planes seemed easy – barring of course engine management, which you had no problem learning thanks to your engineering studies. In November 1941, it was time for your first flight in the aircraft of your dreams: the Supermarine Spitfire. It was a chilly morning, the fog hasn’t fully lifted yet, and there she was: the unmistakable curved lines of the Spit, standing there, waiting for you, and only you to climb inside the cockpit and take her up above the clouds. You primed the engine, switched the mags on Miles Masters of No. 5 Service Flying Training School, flown by with your left hand, and shouted „Clear prop!” volunteers for No. 71 (Eagle) Squadron You pressed the starter and the booster coil button with two fingers at the same time, and the big three-blade propeller started turning. The starter whined for a couple of seconds, then pop-pop, the Rolls Royce Merlin engine caught to life with a throaty purring sound. You carefully taxied to the grass runway, made sure the aircraft – or „kite”, as the British called it – was trimmed correctly, and the prop pitch was set to fine. This was the moment of truth. You applied power slowly up to +7 boost holding the stick back, dancing on the pedals to keep the plane straight. 1470 horses pushed your back hard against the seat, as you eased the spade grip of the stick forward, slowly lifting the tail. The aircraft wanted to veer off to the left due to the gyro forces, but you expected this and compensated with a touch of right rudder. You opened the throttle to +12 boost and all of a sudden the rumbling stopped, and you were airborne. You raised the gear, closed the canopy, looked down and were amazed how far you’ve already gotten from the airfield. The speed and power of this thing was awesome. You climbed to 10,000 feet, roared through the valleys among the clouds, turned, climbed, rolled, and felt like you were the king of the entire world. On landing you bounced once, but overall you brought her down nicely. You switched off, jumped off the left wing, and just couldn’t stop smiling. Jim repeated your performance a few weeks later, and it was time for you to celebrate. The evening turned out to be something entirely different, though: News came that Japanese planes attacked the US fleet anchored at Pearl Harbor, and consequently, the USA entered the war.

In March 1942 both of you were assigned to No.71 Squadron, which later became the 334th Fighter Squadron of the on September 29th 1942, being transferred from the RAF to the USAAF. Your first missions were a blur: sticking to your leader like glue, twisting and turning inside the cramped cockpit. Trying to make sense of the chaotic furballs was more than you could handle. Although you came nowhere near to shooting down enemy planes, fortunately you survived your first Pilots of the 4th FG standing by their Spitfires at Debden missions without being hit, which you considered a success. Every evening you

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4 BLUE NOSED BASTARDS OF BODNEY made sure you spent half an hour in your Quonset hut, writing to your sweetheart. Yet, you had no idea how to describe these incredible events to Betty. How could someone who wasn’t there, who hasn’t experienced all this possibly imagine what it was like to flex your stomach muscles as you were turning with a fearsome Messerschmitt 109 at 25,000 feet above Abbeville, your oxygen mask sliding down on your sweaty face in the icy cold, seeing your friends go down in flames screaming in pain, or spinning down with half a wing. It was in such a melee that on November 14th 1942 a Focke- Wulf 190 carelessly wandered into your gunsight. He was only 200 yards away flying straight, having no idea how little time he had left to live. You wasted no time, pulled back on the stick a touch, and drew a bead on the nose of the E/A. You squeezed the trigger, and the Spitfire shook as you let go with the 2 cannons and the 4 machine guns. A one second burst was more than enough. You saw flashes around the cockpit, and then in an instant, the whole fuselage was engulfed in flames. The 190 turned on its back and plummeted down trailing thick black smoke, then blew to smithereens as it smashed into the French countryside. You were stunned. You didn’t feel euphoric, or victorious. You felt shaken. Another young fellow like yourself, growing up in Stuttgart or Aachen rather than San Diego was now a charred mass of tissue and splinters of bones, and it was all because of you. How did we all get into this mess?

A frame of your gun camera film confirming your first victory over a FW-190

In January 1943 you were promoted to First Lieutenant, then, a few months later, the 4th was reequipped with Republic P-47 Thunderbolts. These beasts were nothing like the nimble Spits. They were big, fat, and ugly. In the air they were sluggish, couldn’t turn nor climb, not like the Spitfire anyway. It didn’t take long, however, to recognize its strengths: The „Jug” had a longer range, it was faster, nothing could catch it in a dive, and the eight .50 cal machine guns in the wings quickly made a mess of everything they hit. You got your own aircraft assigned to you, and you named it “Buxom Betty”. On April 15th, Blakeslee scored the first victory with the new type, and soon after, the whole group adjusted their tactics and started achieving successes. On the 7th of May you were escorting Flying Fortresses, when the formation ran into 50+ Me-109s over Aachen. You and your wingman

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peeled off to dive on 5 of them attacking a straggler. Your first burst tore off the left wing of the rearmost plane, without the rest noticing. A touch of left rudder, and the second German was ablaze. The rest pulled up, but with the great momentum of the massive P-47 you had no problem staying with them as they zoomed up. You observed hits around the wing root and the cockpit of the leader, the canopy flew off, and the pilot bailed out. The abandoned 109 stalled and fell back as you zoomed past it going almost vertically. Returning to Debden a beat up was in order, and you screamed along the runway at 3 Jimmy Goldwyn standing by his P-47 Thunderbolt feet of altitude in front of a cheering crowd of mechanics and ground personnel. That evening, the rounds were on you at the bar, and British ale was downed in copious amounts. For this mission you were awarded the Air Medal, which you immediately put in an envelope, and sent home to Betty.

On May 31st your new orders awaited: You were sent back to the States as an instructor at Rankin Field near Fresno, California. It was less than 300 miles from San Diego, so you managed to see Betty and your family quite often. You enjoyed introducing the young cadets to the business of flying, but you missed your friends at Debden. In August 1943 news came that Jimmy Goldwyn was killed in action. He attacked a Fw-190 and forgot to check his tail: another 190 sneaked up behind him, and shot the Thunderbolt to pieces. Jimmy must have been killed instantly as his wingman reported that the P-47 went down completely out of control, and Goldwyn never attempted to bail out. This was when you decided to sign up for a second tour. For a very long time you had no luck. The Air Force needed you as an instructor, and you were a good one. Cadets walking towards their Boeing PT-17 Stearmans at Rankin Field

On Christmas day 1943 you were driving to your parents’ place with Betty, when you pulled over by the beach, and got out. You took Betty’s hands, looked her in the eyes, and popped the big question: Betty said yes immediately with that beautiful, wide pearly smile of hers. That evening, the entire family was together, celebrating. You wondered how many more evenings like this would you have the chance to experience.

It was on your 23rd birthday when your new orders reached you. You were finally going back to Europe. Although not to the 4th, your old outfit, but to the famous 352nd Fighter Group. You’ve heard of , John Meyer and many other skillful pilots who flew there, and you couldn’t wait to meet them. The assignment came with a promotion: Your single Lieutenant’s bar was

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6 BLUE NOSED BASTARDS OF BODNEY replaced with the double bar insignia of a Captain on your officers’ pink shirt. You boarded a ship in New York, and as the Statue of Liberty sailed by, you thought about how much has changed since the last time you sailed eastwards. You also thought about the first time you met Jim, and it brought a tear in your eyes. Will you see that statue ever again? Will you ever get to hold Betty in your arms again?

A picture you took as your ship sailed past the Statue of Liberty

On May 6th you reported at USAAF Station 141 in Bodney. The sight of four blue nosed Mustangs beating up the field welcomed you with an astounding roar. You went to see Meyer who was happy to welcome you. You were assigned to the 487th Fighter Squadron, lead by Meyer himself. You were to be a flight leader. The group had converted from P-47s to the new P-51 Mustang. The new fighter was amazing, everything a fighter jock ever dreamed of. It was faster and more maneuverable than the Thunderbolt, and it had the range to escort the heavies all the way to Berlin and back with enough fuel left for mischief. You logged several hours in the type back in the States, so that wasn’t a problem. Nonetheless, Meyer wanted to see how you handled the Mustang, so he told you to meet at 5:50 the following morning. You two would take off and he would show you the surroundings of Bodney. That evening, as you started unpacking you met Bill Whisner and Bill Pattillo, who lived in the same Quonset hut. They were nice fellows who were genuinely interested in your experience with the 4th. They also told you that the unit was more and more often referred to as „The Blue Nosed Bastards of Bodney”. They painted the nose of their new P-51s deep blue, and started using Meyer’s insignia as their emblem: a little angry bastard with a machine gun. You stayed up late, talking about Messerschmitts, Focke Wulfs, girls, the relative merits of the Thunderbolt and the Mustang, until you couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer.

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Pattillo’s Mustang parked near the Quonset hut you shared

The next morning you were awakened at 5AM. You put on your regulation shirt, your M1937 pants, jumped into your russet brown leather GI service boots, and grabbed your seal brown Star Sportswear A-2 leather jacket that was hanging on a chair by your bed. You put on your crush cap at a jaunty angle, stepped out the door and headed for the flight line, where your new P-51D “Buxom Betty 2nd ” was waiting for you.

The sight of four blue nosed Mustangs beating up the field welcomed you with an astounding roar

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READ THIS AFTER COMPLETING MISSION 12

Soon after the Normandy landings, you found yourself on a ship crossing the Atlantic yet again. Your tour was up, and although you were disappointed to leave your friends behind, you looked forward to seeing your loved ones again. As you stepped off the ship in New York, Betty flung herself into your arms. You two got married on September 7th, 1944 in La Jolla. Life was good. You two were young and alive, and that was all that mattered. Or was it?

Your two sisters were the bridesmaids at your wedding along with Betty’s cousin Sarah

You were assigned a desk job, and organized war bond events and tours. Your body was chained to a desk, but your mind was somewhere else entirely: up at 30,000 feet above Berlin, in the light olive green cockpit of a blue nosed, silvery P-51D, with your brothers in arms on your wings. Betty saw it in your eyes, and knew you wouldn’t rest until you got back up there. You kept applying for another tour, doing everything you could to get back to Bodney. For six

Bastogne, the surrounded city months your plea fell on deaf ears, but then, you finally managed to get a posting back to your former unit, the Blue Nosed Bastards of the 352nd FG. You were surprised not being sent to the familiar Bodney airfield, though. Hitler launched a massive counter offensive in the Ardennes, hoping to reach the port of Antwerp, cutting the Allied forces in two. The city of Bastogne was surrounded. Part of the 352nd moved to Asch, Belgium one day before Christmas, to take part in the . The following day, the group took a heavy blow when Major Preddy was shot down and killed by friendly ground fire as they were chasing a lone Focke-Wulf at treetop level. That was the day you arrived to Asch, and although they were happy to have you back, everyone was silent. Nobody could believe Preddy was no more. Next to some familiar faces there were many new guys who joined the unit after you left back in June. The primitive, Spartan conditions at Y-29 were nothing like Bodney. The pilots slept in tents heated by oil stoves and baths were taken from a bucket. It was December 25th 1944. Wot a way to celebrate Christmas! The following day, you were to go on your first mission over the Ardennes.

P-47s of the 366th at Y-29

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