The B-24 Death Dealer, Seriel No. 42-40611 of the 93rd Bomb Group 9th Airforce crashed after the mission Wiener Neustadt on 13 August 1943 in Wil SG, Switzerland, the crew was interned in Switzerland.
The WWII Adventures of Copilot: 2nd Lt. Russell Parker Liscomb
In 1940 I was 25 years old and lived with my father and stepmother in Newtonville, Massachusetts. I had tried several vocations, none successfully, but the economy was improving due to the military buildup for World War II. I was not averse to spending evenings with the boys drinking ten cent beer and smoking Camel cigarettes (also ten cents). One evening in the fall of 1940, my good friend Matt Billings and I were checking out some of the local bistros, when in an emotional high of patriotism we readily agreed that the best way to disperse the gathering clouds of war was to volunteer the services of our superb minds and bodies to Uncle Sam. The next day, as a prelude to such action, we went to our family doctor and solicited his opinion of our physical potential for service in the armed forces. The old Doctor, it later became abundantly clear, knew less than we did about military standards. Nevertheless, he did submit his opinion, to wit: Matt was a well developed muscular type ideal for modern warfare but, he added, Russ was altogether too puny and light (120 lbs.) and would be better suited to stay at home and guard the old folks and babies. Several days later, Matt, myself and a horde of other volunteers reported to an induction center in Boston where all were subjected to a very comprehensive physical and psychiatric examination, especially psychiatric. To our amazement and my consternation Matt was rejected because of a minor physical defect and I was immediately accepted and inducted into the United Stated Army. I was sent to Fort Devens, about 40 miles west of Boston, and introduced to life as an Army recruit. The first winter I lived in WWI temporary barracks. The means of heating was by totally inadequate coal burning stoves. Later, my assignment was to the 16th Medical Regiment, US Army. Even in 1940, the medical regiment was a doomed concept that may have had some value during the Crimean War. The Regiment consisted of three companies (approximately 150 men in each). One was a field mobile hospital, one a company of ambulances and drivers, and the third company was dedicated to the evacuation of battlefield casualties by litter. Need I say which company was graced by my assignment? Four men were supposed to handle each litter, which sounds plausible except that in training all "simulated casualties" (fellow soldiers from the ranks) were selected on the basis of gross tonnage. The terrain always seemed to be uphill. A weekly obstacle course race with overloaded litters did little to create good morale. Sometimes an overweight uncooperative "simulated casualty" was ejected from the litter, landing preferably in a muddy creek. Weekend restriction to the base was often the reward for the exhausted and bitter litter bearers. Company duty did have some bright moments. While at Fort Devens I occasionally dated Virginia L, of Wellesley Mass. Her father had done very well in business and he had bought Virginia a new Ford convertible for her birthday. One Saturday at noon, (we were on duty, on base 5-12 days every week) Virginia, accompanied by a blonde friend, arrived in front of the barracks, stopped her car and asked a group of idle soldiers if they could please advise Russ Liscomb that his friends were waiting, Shortly thereafter , I departed with the girls amidst a great roar of catcalls and soldierly social comments and suggestions. The following Monday, I was summoned to the First Sergeants' office where the incumbent was obnoxiously solicitous of my well being. His intentions became very clear when he cut short the small talk and said that he had seen my friends, the two "broads", when they had picked me up the previous Saturday. He then described in great detail a proposal whereby the two girls could join us for a weekend orgy, sleazy hotel and rotgut booze included. I replied that I understood his proposal, including the insinuations and because I was on friendly terms with both these girls , I could respond on their behalf. In what I thought was a very calm and haughty voice, I informed the First Sargent that the proposed assignation and socializing represented the most repulsive, revolting and insulting proposition in the lives of these two nice girls. When I added my endorsement to this response, the first Sergeant exploded with a record-breaking barrage of obscenities including many new to me. A sanitized version of his reply was, "You goddamn yardbird, you will spend the rest of your life on KP and there is no way you will ever reach the grade of PFC." His threats were soon consummated. KP duty really wasn't bad and there were many other recruits on the First Sergeant's list. Sometime late in 1941, an announcement was posted with a schedule of examinations for entry into the Flying Cadet Program. I lost no time getting an application in and I successfully completed the necessary physical examination. I subsequently reported, along with hundreds of other eager applicants, for the four-hour written test. After finishing, I was confident that I had attained or exceeded the minimum 120 points for acceptance. A few days later, I appeared before an Army Major who in a subdued and sympathetic tone told me that my score was one of the lowest he had seen and not even close to the minimum. He went on to say that under the regulations, I could apply again but he thought that such action would be rather futile in view of my extremely low score. To this stunning blow, I inquired if there was any possibility of a clerical or administrative error. The Major replied that the scoring process was mechanical and errors were virtually impossible. He agreed, however, to personally review my examination. When I left, I was truly depressed, as I realized that I was condemned to spend my military tour with the 16th Medical Regiment. That evening, as I was considering drastic action to shape my destiny, a phone call came for me from the Major on the barracks phone. The Major, after double checking my identity, casually announced that a slight error of 100 points had been discovered when my test results were checked. This news meant that I was accepted for the Aviation Cadet Program. The previously mentioned red-neck First Sergeant, amused and vindictive over my apparent failure, did not share my joy of leaving his command. He refused to grant any leave before my departure, but that was an annoyance I could endure because of my pending permanent change of station. Early in 1942, I received orders to report to Santa Ana, CA for preflight training. The train trip across the country seemed awfully slow. Because of the universal popularity of soldiers, it was easy to freeload from fellow civilian passengers. At Santa Ana, the academics were not difficult, but speed of foot was most necessary for survival. A very tight schedule, several changes of uniform every day and a very limited number of showers resulted in the slow of foot arriving late for the next formation which would result in demerits. Demerits were "worked off" by marching practice, guard duty and other forms of torture. Rain was infrequent, but the mud it produced was very gooey. Food was plentiful and a great improvement over that at Fort Devens. During this period, the threat of a Japanese invasion was very real, particularly to everyone on the West Coast. Our Base Commander , a retread who had started flying training near the end of WWI was especially nervous about the invasion threat, and he issued a standing order for several inspections of all cadets during the night in order to enforce his edict that all cadets sleep with pants and shoes on. Then "By God", he would say his command would be fully prepared to repel any penetration by the Oriental animals. Sometimes during the Sunday parade and inspection, under the broiling California sun, a hungover cadet would faint and slowly collapse in the dust of the field. In the eyes of the Commandant, this was a manifestation of the absolute lack of patriotic dedication, devotion and determination of an elite corps. He didn't seem to realize that the cause lay in the previous evenings debauchery. From Santa Ana I went to Fort Stockton, Texas in mid June by rail in Pullman cars with no air conditioning. On the outskirts of Fort Stockton there was a billboard, barely legible, extolling the local climate with the statement; "360 days of sunshine every year". Before leaving, there was good reason to believe the sign made a gross understatement. Soon the rumors spread of giant tarantulas, so large that if run over by a taxiing PT-13, a jolting bump could be felt in the cockpit. Even with the gung-ho spirit of the cadets, there was some rebellion against the bureaucracy. Fort Stockton"s water supply was very saline, and although the natives had been drinking the water for many years without ill effect, somebody had decided that future pilots should not be obliged to drink the local "horse salts." Arrangements had been made to transport potable water from a source about 50 miles away. After a while, this perfectly agreeable arrangement came to the attention of distant cost-conscious government officials who considered our imported water a frivolous expense. Then a team of investigators arrived at our little airbase. With clipboards in hand, they concentrated on an analysis of diarrhea among the cadets. Laboriously establishing groups of water drinkers (local) and water drinkers (imported). For several days, the investigators collected data every morning following reveille, imposing their time-consuming data collection on our very tight schedule. This caused late breakfasts or less time in the bathroom for some cadets. One of the more aggressive cadets decided to so something about this nuisance, and quickly organized a plot. Several mornings later in a prearranged response to questions regarding bowel regularity among the cadets, the entire formation responded unanimously that the previous night all hands had gone to the bathroom more than five but less than eight times and unlike previous data gathering, all other interrogatives were answered by absolute silence. The science of investigative medical studies was dealt a mortal blow, and the red-faced inquisitors, clipboards in hand, gladly left our desert home, never to return. Our bountiful supply of sweet water continued. Soloing a Stearman is a most memorable experience, and I managed in about eight hours. Instructors were civilian, but military officers served as check pilots. Those cadets who failed a check ride were "washed out" and most of those went on to become bombardiers or navigators.Ground loops were frequent and the minor damage to the wing tips was soon repaired. The most spectacular sight I remember seeing was a solo cadet moving around the traffic pattern at full throttle, while other aircraft in the pattern diverted up, down and laterally until the excited cadet remembered that a reduced throttle is a prerequisite for landing. I did manage to avoid airsickness, so I never had to make that long trip out in the hot Texas sun to the airplane to purge the cockpit. One form of punishment for errant cadets was to crank the inertia starter of the Jacobs engines, thus helping other cadets to start their engines. If the cadet in the cockpit did not manipulate the engine controls correctly, a rewind was required and the sweaty cadet on the crank often expressed his low opinion of those failing to start the engine on the first attempt. Down the road a piece from Fort Stockton is Pecos, Texas, another dreary spot on the West Texas desert. Here we were introduced to the BT13 Vultee Vibrator trainer with all metal construction, controllable-pitch propeller, flaps and fixed gear. I had several different instructors and it seemed that I had more solo cross-countries and fewer demerits than other cadets. Here, the reward for accumulating a number of demerits was the rite of marching in a rigid, erect posture around the wind "T", unprotected from the glaring sun, with seat pack parachute in place. Punishable violations included taxiing with flaps down, incorrect propeller pitch, etc. Towards the end of our basic training we had the first flying fatality caused by a cadet's too low, too slow turn to final. La Junta, Colorado for twin engine advanced training was the next stop. Assigned aircraft were Cessna fabric covered AT-17, known unofficially as the "double breasted Cub". Some aircraft did not have variable pitch propellers, and at La Juntas' mile-high altitude take-offs were long and time consuming. Night formations, later discontinued, provided some excitement and were fun. A mammoth cross-country with separate routes leading to a rendezvous point was supposed to climax with a giant formation of the class of 43-A. On this flight, I was in the left seat and by my side was a Second Lieutenant check-pilot. After take-off, I turned to the course I had calculated beforehand. After a short period on the first leg, several computations on my E6B computer indicated that we had a cross wind of approximately 60 knots. After pondering this alarming data, I reasoned (?) that if if the wind was that strong we would not be allowed to fly. The wind had been brisk on take-off but it didn't seem as strong as my calculations indicated. Therefore I reasoned the cross wind was probably about 35 knots, and I corrected the course to that value. Meanwhile the check-pilot removed his brand-new E6B from its case, checked our heading, spun his computer a few times and nodded to me indicating that my calculations were adequately accurate. As time passed it became apparent that the mysterious terrain below did not correlate with my penciled route on the sectional chart. The check-pilot reluctantly acknowledged that our position was imprecise and he took the controls and buzzed a railroad track that had providentially appeared below us. We followed this "iron beam" until we finally came upon an identifiable depot. A frantic scanning of the chart located our position and with a hastily prepared course, we proceeded to the rendezvous point. Arriving within a few minutes of the official specified time, there were very few aircraft in sight. After orbiting for some time, we joined a couple other navigational geniuses for a formation flight to the base. The rest of the armada had returned early, late, or had landed at other fields for orientation andor refueling. Some had ended up in Kansas and enjoyed an overnight stay. I thought that the successful returnees deserved a great tribute from the Base Commander, but he was totally incensed with the errant aviators and we did not receive any laurels. Graduation and date of commission was January 3, 1943, a joyous occasion followed by various reactions to our first operational assignments. In what would now be described as laid back, the squadron seemed to be more of a social, drinking and gaming society than a military combat organization. As copilots, we received little classroom instruction and reading of the operating manual did not always precede a training mission. First pilots had the usual disdain for right seat fliers and in some cases the first communication was made on the take-off roll, when in an effort to be unintelligible, the pilot would mumble instructions that we would later understand as "flaps up", "gear", "mixture", "booster pumps", ect. One of my first flights was on a low level gunnery (50 cal) mission, and as soon as we reached the gunnery range the pilot said that he really needed some gunnery practice, and he left the left seat for the rear of the plane. He did call me on the intercom with such instructions as; "lower. Let's do that again, ect." Later, he ordered me to return to the base and get in the pattern . "Call the tower on downwind". He finally returned to the cockpit as we neared the base leg, made a casual pre-landing check, and then greased the big bird onto the runway. One of my classmates, less lucky than I, retracted the flaps instead of the gear on take-off, and after an impromptu landing on the desert, all walked away from the successful landing. Here I was assigned to the crew of Alva "Jake" Geron, a Texan by way of Texas Tech. Close to the upper height limit of 6' 4", he was a real fine person. I would stay with Jake through training, combat and into Switzerland. After 14 hours 40 minutes of flying at Davis Montham, we were assigned to Alamogordo, New Mexico for crew training. This B-24 crew training base was still in the getting organized stage, and I believe was one of the first to use Ford Manufactured B-24s. Maintenance crews previously assigned to B-17s, as well as the flying personnel, had minimum training on the B-24, so frequent aircraft accidents were to be expected. Rumors of poor maintenance and low quality manufacture were plentiful and the subject of many bull sessions. Morale with both the fliers and ground crews was low. A night-time mid-air explosion of a B-24 directly over the base, and the suicide of a pilot did little to dispel our anxieties. At this base on Feb. 12, 1943, we were scheduled for a night training flight with take-off after dark. The preflight was very slow because we had to find maintenance people to fill oxygen bottles and replace dead batteries. These problems, as well as several minor ones were corrected. The full crew was aboard and we taxied to the end of the runway. There were still some glitches in the electrical system, but the final preflight and run up were within the specifies limits. As we began the takeoff roll, Jake, myself and the Flight Engineer standing between us were, I think, the only members of the crew awake. As we gathered momentum I locked the throttles at full power and all seemed normal. As we broke ground, Jake gave me the thumbs up sign for retracting the gear. The lever seemed very obstinate, so I looked down as I hit the lever again to be sure it was in the full up position. Then all hell broke loose as the aircraft returned to earth. By reflex I shielded my face with my hands, and without seatbelt fastened, I was thrown against the instrument panel. In that brief moment I knew that this was it-the ultimate experience, that so many before and since have known. As I was knocked unconscious, I thought that this was an easy and painless way to go. Then, as I came to, Jake was pulling me up from the cockpit. My body seemed ok and I joined Jake and others helping crewmen still trapped in the fuselage. The B-24, in classic form, had split along the top of the fuselage and the top turret had dropped into the radio operators position on the flight deck. Jake and others pulled and dragged other crewmen from the aircraft as fires began in several places. One crew member was pulled out of his clothing from his waist down, and another with a broken leg was carried and dragged to a safe position. The crash crew finally arrived, but they seemed reluctant to approach the burning aircraft. Jake grabbed a fire axe and with a few mighty blows freed another of the crew members. As we left the scene, the aircraft fire increased and let off a pretty good explosion. At the Hospital, I wondered why everyone was staring at me not realizing that my face was covered with a thick mixture of blood from minor cuts and fire foam. Soap and water quickly improved my appearance. A few of the crew were hospitalized, but most of the crew were scheduled to fly again after a three day "vacation". There was, of course, an accident investigation, but the results were never made known to me. Upon return to flying, the squadron supply officer summoned me and demanded to know the whereabouts of the 10 parachutes and oxygen masks that I had signed for. I could only explain to him that in my view the lives of crew members deserved a higher priority than his precious parachutes. It was a very dark night, and the take-off direction was into an area with no light or visible horizon, a condition requiring very precise instrument flying. Also, considering the condition of the aircraft, a power loss at the critical moment could have been a factor. Jake had a flight check and we went back to flying. The first night flight following the crash was interesting because we had random electrical failures, and an engine failure caused by my inadvertent closing of a master switch. This happened as I was prone on the floor in front of the copilots seat, checking a fuse, when my foot hit one of the four master switches (switch covers were installed later). The engine was restarted after a very fast emergency reaction. Later on the flight, all of the crew may have been a little anxious as Jake cooly set the airplane down on a dark runway. After touchdown and the closing of the throttles, there were some spectacular but not dangerous flames from the engine exhausts. These bright flames were very noticeable on this black night. One of the crew members, a little nervous after the big crash, thought that this was another disaster and he attempted to evacuate the aircraft through the top hatch while we were still speeding along on our landing roll. Our Flight Engineer, a man of action, used a handy wrench to neutralize the escaping airman, and calm was again restored to the flight deck. After only 27 hours of rather exciting flying we moved on to Clovis, New Mexico for further training. We were at Clovis for about a month and a half, and my memories of this assignment are of a busy schedule, lots of boring hours in the right seat, and better airplanes and better support and maintenance. On April 23, 1943 we arrived a Topeka, Kansas to pick up a brand new B-24D and take it to England and do some serious flying. After some local test flights we flew from Topeka to Presque Isle, Maine. My log does not record this flight, but when we arrived at Presque Isle the weather was below minimums and we diverted to Montreal. At Montreal, we were confined to the airfield until the weather cleared the next day, thus killing any ideas we had for exploring the night life of Montreal. On May 18, 1943, after meticulous ground checks and compass calibration, we flew to Gander, Newfoundland, home of goofie-noofers (natives) and black flies. We waited four days for favorable winds and then left for Preswick, Scotland. The monotony of the flight was interrupted once. As I was walking through the fuselage, the top turret gunner chose this moment to check out the twin .50 caliber guns. Having not heard on the intercom his request to check out his guns, I thought that the damn Germans has come halfway into the Atlantic ocean just to get a shot at us. When we finally arrived at Prestwick, nobody in our crew could understand the young Scottish lass in the control tower. Fortunately the weather wasn't too bad and we followed another aircraft into the circuit. At Prestwick, the aircraft was taken by the 8th AF for modification, and we were scheduled to travel by available ground transportation to our combat assignment, the 93rd Bomber Group. The first leg of our journey was to London on the Royal Scot, a luxury train. Then through some administrative booboo, we reported to a a B-17 base where we were exposed to unwarranted insults, disdain and little sympathy because of our commitment to B-24s. Escaping this misfortune hastily, we at last found our new home with the 93rd BG (H) 409 squadron at an airbase near Norwich. We first flew there on June 9, 1943. The group did not fly any operational missions and there were daily training flights stressing formation and low level techniques. The rumor mill was very active and all sorts of daring exploits were envisioned. We flew to Ireland for a modification (IFF) and went on pass to London. While in London we experienced some buzz bombs attacks. The natives took these attacks with their unflappable aplomb. At the base, we often went pub hopping by bicycle, but this caused serious navigational problems as all sign posts had been removed because they could be of great use by the enemy in case of an invasion. invasion. Retracing our steps back to the base after biking to several pubs was just about impossible. Later, the practice of issuing bicycles to officers was discontinued when it was noted that there were more injuries from biking than from combat flying. On June 25, 1943 the 93rd BG departed England for a new air base, Terria, near Benghazi, Tripoli. One of the groups B-24's, with several senior crew chiefs aboard exploded in flight, possibly caused by ignition of gas fumes. It was quite normal to have strong gasoline fumes in the aircraft, but not all the time. This condition did not inhibit the cigar smoking hot pilot with his "50 mission" crushed and battered hat. We were one of the first aircraft to arrive at our new base. Only a single runway was paved. Living facilities consisted of a GI issue pyramidal tent for the crew's four officers. Erecting the tent was a new experience for all of us, and was accomplished by trial, error and bad language. Next to us was a British Army Air Defense unit composed mostly of recovering soldiers not healthy enough for combat but too healthy to be sent home. In a neighboring tent was a British Army doctor, who in addition to tending to his unit, traveled to other British Army units in the area. We became acquainted and shared beer when available. The supply of beer was unreliable and forward units, such as ours, seemed to be on the bottom of the list. There were two methods of cooling the beer. The first was to schedule a test flight and fly high enough and long enough to cool the beer, followed by a wingover and an expedited landing. The second method was to wrap the beer on gunny sacks which had been soaked in 100 octane gasoline. The gunny sacks were hung on the tent poles to catch any breeze. Then the beer would be cooled by the evaporation of the gasoline. According to my records, our first combat mission was flown on July 2nd. I don't recall the specific destinations of the first eight missions, but some of them were in preparation for the Sicilian invasion. There were also targets in Rome, Sicily and southern Italy, and most of these were milk runs and opposition was not very spirited. The anti-aircraft fire was pretty heavy sometimes, particularly around the Messina Strait, between Sicily and Italy. We sometimes had as a fighter escort, the RAF Spitfires out of Malta, their classic elliptical wings a welcome sight. We had little fear of the Italian fighters because they seemed to prefer to demonstrate aerobatics beyond the range of our guns rather than press an attack, as the Luftwaffe did. Prior to the raid on the marshaling yards in Rome, (on the other side of the city from the Vatican) crew members were excused of they felt that the mission posed any threat to the Pope's Vatican. Very few selected to stay home. Starting on the 24th of July, we flew low-level practice missions almost daily. I recall that on one of these flights, I glanced over to the aircraft on our left and was amazed to see a very large cloud of dust immediately behind the aircraft. Upon returning to base it was discovered that this aircraft sustained some damage to the bomb bay doors. Also during this period I believe that we participated in a search for a missing B-24, perhaps the "Lady Be Good". Flying a six-hour search pattern at low altitude over the summer desert is not very good therapy for a young officer who had over-indulged in Guinea Red wine the evening before. The red wine had been supplied by the crew of a B-24 which had landed at a fighter field in southern Italy and bartered with the natives. Dust and more dust and heat were a hazard to men and machines. Engine changes were frequent because of the dust and dirt. The decision to replace an engine was difficult because the replacements came from a repair depot in Egypt and the quality of their product in no way compared with the original Pratt & Whitney factory product. Sometimes, to minimize the amount of dust at takeoff, the night before a mission we would taxi the airplanes to a position closer to the end of the runway. After the first aircraft, however, takeoffs were mostly by instruments because of the dust. Powdered eggs, powdered milk and Spam were the staples of our diet and diarrhea was all too common, coming in the night with the resulting mad dash to the facilities, (a slit trench) which were not always readily visible in the gloom of night. Washing our mess-kits could also be quite exciting. Two GI cans were filled with water and placed above a mixture of sand and 100 octane gasoline. One can contained the soapy wash water and the other the (soapy) rinse water. One day as I was standing, washing my mess kit, a pocket if gasoline exploded and burned the front of my legs pretty good. Our neighbor, the good British Army doctor, tended to my burns and until my legs were healed he insisted on new dressings every day. This was also an occasion to share any beers when available. Combat losses were few, if any, during this period. I do remember that one B-24, flown by friends, apparently lost an engine on takeoff and crashed, causing an unmistakable black cloud off the end of the runway. Our neighbor the doctor raced to the scene, waded into the wreck, and saved some of the crew. His comments afterward were typically British; modest in understatement. There were some other casualties, and if an aircrew was not scheduled to a mission, they might be assigned to the burial detail. Grim duty at best. So, we come to that fateful day; August 1, 1943. Target; Ploesti, Romania. The target was announced at the briefing the night before and as I recall it was not a complete surprise because selection of that target required great accuracy and range only a B-24 with bomb bay tanks could accomplish. Following the signal for takeoff there were many anxious moments as the aircraft lumbered down the short runway at maximum military emergency power. The early morning takeoff reduced the usual hazards of temperature and wind. An agonizing long slow climb northward across the Mediterranean joined us up with the rest of the group. We were flying on the right side of a flight leader. I don't recall who that was and I couldn't find any information in Stewarts' book. Jake followed the practice of staying in the left seat, and if we were off the left of the leader, I would do the flying. We did fly formation from the opposite seat for short periods, but it was more difficult with the bubble windows. The bubble windows were installed for the purpose of broadening the field of vision for the pilot and copilot. They were effective, but the curvature of the bubble made it real weird if one left a good tight formation position and had to look through the curved part of the window. Prior to landfall at Corfu, a member of our crew spotted the fall of the lead aircraft. Reading Stewart's book refreshed my memory; that we were in the second group. We were prepared to climb to higher altitude and we were familiar with the procedure for formation penetration of clouds. Getting safely over the mountains posed no problems and we descended quickly as soon as the terrain permitted. We maintained strict radio silence even when our navigator (Simpson) got on the intercom and stated that the leader was making the wrong turn. Extra armour had been added beneath the flight deck and flak suits were donned as we came closer to the target area. With flack suit and GI helmet on, the resemblance to a turtle was remarkable. When we finally got to the target area, we went down to minimum altitude. We found the flying more demanding than the fun low-level practice runs across the flat desert. We were now committed to the target chosen by out group leader and we followed as part of K.O. Dessert's 409th Bomb Squadron. In practice K.O. had said that he didn't want any of his planes flying "way up there at 50 feet". As we approached our strange target the enemy made his presence known by firing point blank at us from haystacks which concealed 88mm and other guns. A ME-109 dived at us, and as it opened fire our top turret started firing, not with the usual short bursts, but continually until the ME-109 had gone past us. A few seconds later in a backwards glance I saw a fighter crash land in a fiery ball of flames. It could have been the same ME-109, but there were others in the area. We had been hit and some of the instruments showed abnormal oil pressure, but except for some power loss in number three, we were able to keep our place in the formation. At this point it was not a precise, tight formation. The briefed method of attack was for several waves of bombers to cross the target and drop bombs with various delay fuses. Theoretically, the first wave would drop the bombs with the longest fuse delay. As we proceeded at full throttle, some of the first waves' bombs were already exploding. Unlike some other copilots on the mission, I did not have a .50 caliber gun mounted by the window. I sat there following through on the controls, my hand on the throttles, etc, ready to react quickly. Another glance to our right and I saw a B-24 touch down and plow along in a wheat field. Meanwhile, on our left, the top of an oil tank went sailing into the air followed by sort of a falling leaf descent into the fiery mess below. Later we would learn that there were quite a few barrage balloons with steel cables in this area. We were lucky to miss them. At our indicated speed of about 250 mph there wasn't much time for sightseeing, but I did see burning B-24s spewing flames, smoke and sometimes a parachute would emerge for the short trip to earth. As we passed our target I saw a flaming B-24 headed down the main street and is the one, I believe, that crashed into the womens' prison. Moments later a B-24, smoking and burning, pulled up in a full hammerhead stall and two or three parachutes appeared before the plane fell off and crashed. One of the airmen swung violently up as his parachute opened. On the backswing he hit the ground and started running. As we left the target area, another B-24 group approached the target from the left, but they were above us, probably at over fifty feet. According to Stewarts' book, this was the 98th Bomb Group and they were attacking their assigned target. As soon as possible after passing the target area, we reduced power and took stock of our condition. We saw other aircraft, but our problems with number 3 engine would not allow us to stay in formation, so we discussed the problem and decided to go it alone in order to get maximum range with the remaining fuel. We had sustained hits in the number 3 engine, and we had a hit in the right side hatch which injured the gunner stationed there. Sometime during the return flight we feathered the number 3 engine because of critical oil pressure. Jake and other crew members tended to the injured gunner, but he died before we reached Benghazi. The tire on the right main gear was punctured, but at this time it was a minor problem. From the target area, and until we left the range of fighters, we were very lucky to be unmolested. As we got over the water of the Mediterranean, our constant calculations of position, fuel usage and landfall estimates confirmed our suspicions that getting back to our base at Terria was critical. The crew then joined in jettisoning all unnecessary weight; guns ammo, armour and all other loose items went out. The possibility of ditching became very real and we reviewed the procedures for what was usually a messy affair; the splitting of the fuselage, the descent of the top turret into the flight deck, and the floatation qualities of a large rock. Finally, right on the navigators estimate, the African shore appeared, and we were within sight of an airbase where a few B-24s were circling and landing. Although our base was only a few miles down the road, we decided to land as soon as possible. We fired a flare (red, I think) and took a course so that we could make one turn to final. Immediately on touchdown, I cut the four master switches (number 3 was started just prior to landing). Jake brought the wounded bird to a perfect landing with the right wing high to favor the flat tire. We let the airplane drift off of the runway to keep it clear for the others. We came to a stop, and before the crash truck and ambulance arrived, we just sat there, amazed that we were again on terra firma. My log shows 13 hours of flying for that day. We got a ride back to our base at Terria, and once there we went to the debriefing and joined the few crews that made it back to back to our base. A day or two later we returned our aircraft to the home base and left the airplane to the ground crews for repairs. After standing down for two weeks, time that was spent repairing the aircraft and reorganizing the crew, our next mission was to Vienna-Neustad, Austria. The target was an aircraft manufacturing plant. On this mission we flew the right wing of the group leader, which was a great improvement over our usual spot near the tail end of a formation. We had not changed the number three engine because all of us, including the crew chief, figured that the engine would make it if we babied it. This seemed better than replacing it with one of questionable quality. On the way to the target, we passed over several fighter bases and we could see airplanes in the traffic pattern. No fighters came up to altitude because most of the bases were training operations and I suppose that we were not expected to be so far into Austria. On the bombing run, some rather inept pilot behind us managed to overrun us at bomb release and hit us with a few incendiary bombs which, after punching a few holes, fell to the target below. Shortly after the bombing run, the oil pressure on number three became critical and required feathering. Soon another supercharger malfunctioned and, to make our day, the first engineer announced that the pump used for transfer of fuel from the bombay tank to the main tank had quit and there was no way to transfer our reserve fuel. I guess that there was no backup system. As we left the target area, we could not maintain speed or altitude and we dropped back from the main formation. Even though we were not under fighter attack at the time, there is no experience more discouraging than to see your main formation disappearing in the high sky. Then followed a frenzied study of our maps and calculations of maximum range based on fuel remaining and reduced performance. The closest friendly landing spot was in occupied Italy at one of the forward fighter bases. A few crews had landed at fighter bases in Italy on short strips, which subsequently required a lightened aircraft to make a short-field takeoff and the return to the home base in North Africa was made with minimum fuel. The closest of these fields was not within our limited range and there was no way we could stretch our range to reach those fields. The navigator suggested that we head towards neutral Switzerland. We were now alone in the sky and we flew over airfields but still no fighters rose to greet us. As we neared a safe haven, the navigator identified Friedrichshafen (Germany) as Zurich (Switzerland) and we set up a long, gentle approach to that rather large airfield. We were now over Lake Constance at two or three thousand feet when several of us wondered aloud why there were dirigible hangers at a Swiss airport. With great dispatch, we broke off this approach, reversed our direction and headed for Switzerland. By this time, the engines were getting very weary, and one of the propeller governors chose to misbehave, leaving us in a dilemma because twin engine operation was rather risky. So Jake picked out a wheat field not far from the shore and set up a hurried approach to that destination. Jake and I wrassled the yawing aircraft almost scraping some trees at the edge of the field. The four officers and our recently promoted Engineer were the only crew members who had flown all previous missions. The rest of the crew was of the "pick-up" variety. Most had been taken off crews because of incompetence or for disciplinary reasons. Prior to our controlled crash, all the crew had been told to take crash positions and remain that way until the aircraft came to a complete stop. Jake touched down nicely, but the field was soft. We were OK as long as we could keep the nose gear off of the ground. As we slowed down the nose wheel touched and sank into the soft earth. We stopped in a very tail high position. The new members of the crew had chosen to evacuate the aircraft right after touchdown, and when we nosed in, they were thrown around inside the fuselage. They sustained some injuries, nonserious, and later applied for the Purple Heart Decoration for battle injuries. Jake did not concur with the award of any decoration. After we had slid to a stop and all of the crew were out, and as previously directed, an incendiary bomb was ignited and the old bag of bolts went up in flames. By now, the Swiss Army were running across the field to greet or capture us. There followed an interrogation by the Swiss Army. We responded, as directed, with name, rank and serial number only. There was quite a bit of publicity because we were the first US aircraft to land Switzerland, but there were some Americans who had escaped over land from Germany. The most welcome item was the down beds, a great improvement over the GI cots of our desert home Life for the next 22 months was very easy. My only contribution to the war effort was to work as a code clerk at the American Legation. I was finally released in exchange for two German soldiers who had also found safe haven in a neutral country.
Source: Bill Liscomb, Son of Copilot: 2nd Lt. Russell Parker Liscomb
Verdereben aus der lybischen Wüste
