The flight from North Ireland was a hair-raising event, more on this later. We landed late in the afternoon of April 15^th at the home field of the 445^th Bomb Group, 15 miles south of Norwich. It also was the group where major James Stewart, the film star, was stationed. They fed us and gave us a place to spend the night. We were to be assigned to a squadron the next day. However in the morning, word came for four crews to transfer to another Bomb Group, 15 miles west of Norwich, which had just suffered severe losses and needed replacement. On April the 8^th, the 44^th Bomb Group had lost eleven out of 27 planes due to flak and fighters on a mission intended for Brunswick, Germany but which ended up bombing a target of opportunity, Hangerhagen Air Dome. The Luftwaffe threw a massive wave of fighters against the formation. In short order, the 44^th was decimated. We were not too happy to be a replacement under these circumstances but as it turned out, I shall be eternally grateful that our crew was assigned to the 44^th Bomb Group.

The 44^th's home was Shipdham Air Base #115 near Shipdham, England, a small town 15 miles west of Norwich in East Anglia about 100 miles northeast of London. The crew consisted of 10 airmen:

Standing: Navigator - John McClane; Pilot - Charles Peritti; Copilot - Burr Palmer; Bombardier - Warga

Kneeling: Waist Gunner- Cannetti; Tail Gunner - Stamper; Waist Gunner - Freeman; Engineer - Corlew; Radio - Schneider Hold mouse over each photo to see individual names

Our crew was assigned to:

There were four squadrons in the 44^th Bomb Group, the 66^th, the 67^th, the 68^th and the 506^th. I must give Will Lundy of the 67^th Squadron credit for much of the background information on the 44^th Bomb Group that I have acquired. The group was activated in January 1941 at McDill Field, Florida. It went into action with the 8^th Air Force on November 7, 1942 and flew its 200^th combat mission on August 4, 1944 while I was attached.

We were known by one and all as "The Flying 8 Balls," a title bestowed on the group in its pre-combat period when things just could not go right. More on the history of the 44^th Bomb Group in the next chapter.

The 8^th Air force had three divisions. The 1^st Division was all B-17 Flying Fortresses, the 2^nd Division was all B-24 Liberators and the 3^rd Division was mostly B-17's with a few B-24's (later transferred to the 2^nd Division). Our fighter escort protection came from the 8^th and 9^th Air Forces which had P-51 Mustangs, P-47 Thunderbolts and P-38 Lightening fighter planes.

To transfer from the replacement and indoctrination center in North Ireland to our combat assignment, an old war weary B-24D had been stripped down and made into a transport. Five crews were taken to the flight line along with all their baggage. Now 50 men and their gear may not sound like a lot today but remember a B-24 was not a 707. Our B-4 bags etc., were thrown in the belly of the plane and we were ordered to get in wherever we could find space to squat. We all knew the plane was badly overloaded. It's difficult to explain how I felt when I knew the plane was committed as it accelerated down the runway. To say it mildly, I was frightened but somehow the craft lifted off and we were airborne. There was great relief when we finally touched the runway at the 445^th Bomb Group.

We arrived at Shipdham April 16^th and were assigned to a Nissen hut near squadron headquarters. Approximately 16 officers were quartered in the hut with the four officers of our crew near the door, two bunks on either side. It was a typical setting with little room between the bunks and foot lockers at the end of each bed. There was a shelf above the beds for pictures and personal articles. I was one of the very few who had a radio. It was a portable that a man was going to throw away because it had quit working. I offered him five English pounds which he accepted. My hobby was radio electronics and I soon repaired the set and acquired a new set of batteries at group maintenance. I still have the radio after 40 years.

Photo courtesy of Shipdham Aero Club, Shipdham, England, 2004

We flew two training flights on April 20 and 21 and our first combat mission was on April 22^nd. It was in this Nissen hut I had my first experience of what happens when a crew fails to return. We came in one day after debriefing to find four of the beds stripped clean. When I say clean, I mean clean. Nothing was left, not so much as a fine tooth comb. The practice was that as soon as squadron headquarters was notified that a plane had been lost, to send in a clean up crew to remove all personal belongings before the rest of us got back. This served two purposes: one to keep the rest of us from taking what we wanted of the missing men's possessions and secondly to go through the personal belongings so as to remove anything that might be offensive to the family when they received the MIA's personal effects.

The bed next to mine furthest from the door belonged to the co-pilot of another crew. Both he and the pilot were very large men, especially this copilot Our crew had already flown a number of missions when the copilot and his fellow officers were assigned to our barracks. The copilot told us he was an officer in the infantry. He had applied for the Air force, was transferred and went through flight training as a student officer. This particular copilot had a small dog that he loved to death. It was a German Dachshund and believe it or not, the dog and the copilot had great similarities in their faces. It was uncanny, everyone remarked (and snickered) at the likeness. I hate to be unkind but if this guy really did transfer from the infantry, he was a real "Dog Face."

After flying several "easy" missions, the copilot got to bragging, "What an easy way to fight a war." He said his old unit was almost wiped out in the invasion of Africa. Well, we knew better, especially after our third mission to Berlin but it did no good to tell this man anything. Then one day it happened, he found out some nasty things could happen to you in combat against the German Air Force. Their plane was shot to pieces over Germany by the Luftwaffe. A 20mm cannon shell hit the armor plate glass right in front of his face. It left a large deep cone shaped indentation directly in his line of sight. The copilot had to stare at this all the way back to England. Several crew members had been badly wounded and the planes trim tabs had been shot out. The pilot and he had to put both feet onto the instrument panel and pulled with all their might as large as they were just to keep the plane flying. They finally were able to crash land at Manstoa, one of the three special "Crash Strips" the British had constructed in the south of England near the coast. These fields had a huge 9000 foot runway, 750 feet wide that a damaged plane could land on in almost any direction. Their plane crash landed, wheels up.

The next day, our crew got orders to fly down to the emergency field to pick the survivors up, which we did. We went over to the wrecked plane, it was a disaster and total wreck. I will never forget seeing the cone in the armor glass similar to what a BB does to an ordinary window pane. Young people can be so cruel and we were no exception. We at once started in on these guys, especially the copilot on, "What an easy way to fight a war." For several days, we did not let up. The copilot would sit on the edge of his bunk staring into space. I had no idea he was cracking up mentally until it became obvious to everyone in the hut. My pilot called the Flight Surgeon who ordered this airman out of combat due to a mental breakdown. This was the first and only time I saw a man go "crazy" before my eyes. To this day I'm sorry for what we did to him. As usual, the clean up crews cleared his bed area as clean as a hounds tooth. We never saw or heard of him again.

The "old man" of our crew was Corlew at age 32 and the baby was Freeman, age 19. I turned 21 years old on 3/18/44 but looked more like 17. I got used to being asked by perfect strangers, "How old are you?" As reserved as the English people are towards anyone that they have not been introduced to formally, even they would even pose the question. On one occasion while on rest leave, we four officers were in route to London by train. European passenger coaches have compartments with bench seats facing each other. These compartments open to a long corridor running the length of the coach on one side and a doorway which opens directly onto the station platform on the other side. Peritti, Palmer, Warga and myself were on one seat, opposite us were an older lady and, I presume, her granddaughter about 18 years of age. We chatted small talk among ourselves as did the couple across from us. No conversation had crossed the aisle as no introductions had been made. I could tell the grandmother was looking at me. She was the first to speak and looking directly at me said, "Young man, do you mind if I ask you a question?" I replied, "No, Ma'am, you want to know how old I am." She burst out laughing and asked how I knew what was on her mind. I told her I was used to being asked and did not mind at all. The remainder of the journey was lively with chatter and besides we wanted an excuse to get acquainted with the granddaughter.

Another time, after being rotated back to the ZOI (U.S.A.), as I waited at a street car stop in St. Petersburg, Florida, another woman asked me how old I was. As a joke, I told her that I was 16 years old. She gasped in horror and wanted to know what I was doing in this uniform. I told her I had borrowed it from my brother. The poor lady almost had a hissy on the spot. I never did tell her the truth.