True Accounts of WWII

• Flight Officer John C. Morgan, Medal of Honor
• Charlie Erickson B-17 Flight Engineer
  
• Sgt. Rex L. Brasher
• T/Sgt Patrick O'Keef
• Leslie Lennox Lt. Col. (Ret)

On July 18th 1943 Flight Officer John c. Morgan was just another Co-Pilot taking off on a mission, by the end of the day he had earned this nations highest award for valor, the Medal Of Honor. Here is his story as told by 1st Lt. Robert L. Campbell:

We were on our way into the enemy coast when we were attacked by a group of FW l9O's. On their first pass, I felt sure they had got us for there was a terrific explosion overhead and the ship rocked badly. A second later the top turret gunner, S/Sgt. Tyre C. Weaver, fell through the hatch and slumped to the floor at the rear of my nose compartment. When I got to him, I saw his left arm had been blown off at the shoulder and he was a mass of blood. I first tried to inject some morphine, but the needle was bent, and I could not get it in.

As things turned out it was best I didn't give him any morphine. My first thought was to try and stop his loss of blood. I tried to apply a tourniquet, but it was impossible as the arm was off too close to the shoulder. I knew he had to have the right kind of medical treatment as soon as possible and we had almost four hours flying time ahead of us, so there was no alternative. I opened the escape hatch, adjusted his chute for him.

After I adjusted his chute and placed the ripcord ring firmly in his right hand, he must have become excited* and pulled the cord, opening the pilot chute in the up draft. I managed to gather it together and tuck it under his right arm, got him into a crouched position with legs through the hatch, made certain again that his good arm was holding the chute folds together, and toppled him out into space... I learned somewhat later from our ball turret gunner, Sgt. James L. Ford, that the chute opened O.K. We were at 24,5OO feet about 25 miles due west of Hanover, and our only hope was that he was found and given medical attention immediately.

The bombardier, 2nd Lt. Asa J. Irwin, had been busy with the nose guns and when I got back up in the nose he was getting ready to toggle his bombs. The target area was one mass of smoke and we added our contribution. After we dropped our bombs we were kept busy with the nose guns. However, all our attacks were from the tail and we could do very little to help. I had tried to use my interphone several times, but could get no answer. The last I remember hearing over it was shortly after the first attack when someone was complaining about not getting any oxygen. Except for what I thought to be some violent evasive action we seemed to be flying okay.

It was about two hours later when we were l5 minutes out from the enemy coast that I decided to go up to check with the pilot and have a look around. I found the pilot, Lt. Campbell, slumped down in his seat, a mass of blood, the back of his head blown off. This had happened two hours before, on the first attack.

A shell had entered from the right side, crossed in front of F/O John C. Morgan, the co-pilot, and had hit Campbell in the head. Morgan was flying the plane with one hand, holding the half-dead pilot off with the other hand, and he had been doing it for over two hours!

Morgan told me we had to get Campbell out of his seat as the plane couldn't be landed from the co-pilot's seat as the glass on that side was shattered so badly you could barely see out.

Morgan and I struggled for 3O minutes getting the fatally injured pilot out of his seat and down into the rear of the navigator's compartment where the bombardier held him from slipping out the open hatch. Morgan was operating the controls with one hand and helping me handle the pilot with the other.

Questioned as to why he had not received help from the other crewmen, Lt. Koske explained that the men in the rear of the aircraft were unconscious from lack of oxygen, the lines having been shattered hours before. The ship had been undefended save for the nose and ball turret guns. Morgan's feat had been little short of miraculous he had kept his ship in formation and holding the fatally wounded pilot off the controls with one hand, flown to the target and out again alone and unaided, with no radio, no interphone, and no hydraulic fluid. The ship was brought safty home for an emergency landing. 

for more nformaton visit the 92 Bomb Group at http://www.327th.org/

Charlie Erickson B-17 Flight Engineer/Gunner a true story.

When the Memphis Belle was in Memphis, volunteers would spend forty hours a week working to preserve this historical icon. That is over and above their normal work week. We have been asked many times why we put so much time and effort into an aircraft that is over sixty years old. This is why!

 In July 1944, Charlie Erickson was a nineteen-year old Flight Engineer/Gunner embarking on his 31^st combat mission. He was not yet old enough to vote or to drink.

In his own words: 

“That fatal day in July 1944, started just like the other 31 days that we had flown missions together against the enemy. We were briefed before the mission that we were headed to Memmigen Airdrome in southwestern Germany and could expect moderate to heavy flak going through the Brenner Pass, and at the target. We were also briefed that we may encounter some enemy fighters.

 We reached the Initial Point (IP), which was Kempton, Germany. Everything seemed normal to me. We got flack while in the pass and all planes made it to the I.P.

The I.P. is where all hell broke loose. There were German fighters all over the sky.

The came in waves, from the 12 o’clock position, and then the four to eight position. Needless to say, all of our guns were firing almost constantly. I was consecrating on the fighter in the four to eight position. These planes would throttle back and sit there at 20mm cannon and rocket range which made our 50 caliber machine guns pretty ineffective. A short time into the battle my turret (upper turret) was hit and my oxygen supply and hydraulic fluid got together to make the turret an inferno. Needless to say I started backing out of the turret.  About that time the plane lurched and I fell backward (which was actually forward in relation to the plane). I was trying to gain control of my body movement because my parachute was sitting next to the doorway that went into the Bombay. The Bombay was my normal escape route in case of an emergency. I not could control my body movement because the plane had gone into a spin.

 I fell through the opening between the pilot and co-pilot that goes to the bombardier/navigator compartment. As I went through the opening, I saw that the pilot and co-pilot were dead or critically wounded. I kept falling forward, still trying to control my body movement. I saw that the Plexiglas nose dome was gone and so were Lt. Walt Higgins and Lt. Ted Rother. I continued to roll toward the nose. As I was thrown out of the nose, I grabbed a metal stringer. Of course, that did not help. I tumbled through the air knowing that I was going to die. Sometime during the fall, I felt something hit my chest. I checked and found a parachute that had caught on my harness. I grabbed the chute and snapped it in the “D” ring on the right side of the harness. I landed safely with only burns on my head and shrapnel in my left leg. I was picked up by people in a small village and taken to a mail highway where they turned me over to the German Army. I was put in a stable at an Army training center in Kempton for about three days.
 
The morning of the second day, a German officer came in and asked if there was anyone that could identify the bodies of Lt. Higgins and Lt. Rother. He said they were found in a field and apparently left the plane without parachutes. I did not step forward to identify their bodies because all you were supposed to tell the enemy was your name, rank, and serial number. Based on the way I left the plane and Walt and Ted leaving without chutes, I have always believed that one of their chutes caught on my harness as I rolled through the forward compartment. “

This is why we do what we do. So that all of the generations that come after us, will visit the Memphis Belle and learn from her.  Learn the stories of our WW II veterans, learn that the price of freedom is not free, learn and understand what their forefathers did to protect the values of this great nation.

If you have a story from WW II please email This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it use Our Heros in the subject line. Thank you. 

Return to Top  

 Sgt. Rex L. Brasher

From 1942 until 1945 Rex Brasher was a qualified gunner in B-17 aircraft stationed with the 92^nd Bomb Group Heavy at Poddington England.  He was also one of the most knowledgeable individuals on the complex turrets.  Because of this knowledge he was taken off flight status given the task of maintaining these critical units.

This is one of his good experiences others were the things bad dreams are made of.

 “We lived in round Nissen huts heated by one stove in the center of the hut. I think there were about twenty airmen to each hut. The ranking sergeant had a small room partitioned off for privacy. At the end of each bed was a foot locker for personal items. The beds were kept neat and clean as was the whole hut.  After we finished our daytime duties we came back to the hut and relaxed.  Of course this was after eating our evening meal which consisted of brussel sprouts and mutton two times a day. We didn’t march to the mess hall, just had to be there on time or be left out... At this time of year it got dusk at three PM so the nights were long and monotonous as there was only the BBC on the radio but they played a lot of American music. Then the “BLACKJACK” game started.  We usually had a limit of a few shillings so that no one could loose a great deal of money.

One night I discovered I had a few rounds of .50 cal. machine gun bullets in my jacket pocket. I decided to liven up the evening a bit. Being an armorer, I knew what would happen if I dropped them into the hot stove so I quietly spoke to the armorer’s in the hut about what I was going to do. One by one, they left the hut. I pretended to be stoking the fire and dropped five rounds of ammo in the fire. I quietly walked out to join my buddies outside the hut. We were snickering like a bunch of ten year old kids when BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. The ammo went off. The door to the hut flew open and out rushed sixteen terrified airmen. No one squealed on me and although the First Sergeant knew an armorer had done it, he could not pin it on any one of us as we all said “Not me”.

When a round of ammo is dropped into a fire the most dangerous part is the primer which flies backward, while the powder explodes, the projectile doesn’t go any where as there is no pressure buildup to propel it. The projectile will bang against the stove but not enough force is there to even dent the sides. So, that ended a dull evening and a blackjack game as cards, money, and men scattered everywhere”.

Return to Top

T/Sgt Patrick O'Keef

I flew 27 B-17 bomber missions mid 1944 with the 8th Air Force, 388th Bomb Group. My website displays many original combat pictures I shot as the aerial photographer. Click Here

Return to Top

Leslie Lennox Lt. Col (Ret.)

Assembling the "Mighty Eighth"

Lt. Leslie Lennox

Early in the evening, our Squadron Operations would post the names of the crews that were scheduled to fly the following day.  There were two ways we could be notified if the Group had been alerted to fly. One was by means of lights on the front of the orderly room, and the other with raising of colored flags.  If a green light was on, the Group was alerted, if a red light was on we would fly, and if a white light was on, the Group would stand down.  The light was monitored frequently throughout the evening to learn our status and, normally, we would know before going to bed if we would be flying the next day.

On the morning of a mission, the CQ (charge of quarters) would awaken the crews about four or five o'clock, depending on takeoff time.  The questions we always asked were, "What is the fuel load?" and, "What is the bomb load?"  If his  answer was, " full Tokyo tanks," we knew we would be going deep into Germany.

Shortly after being awakened, "6-by" trucks would start shuttling us to the mess hall We always had all the fresh eggs we could eat, when flying a mission. After breakfast, the trucks carried us to the briefing room.  All of the crew members attended the main briefing, and then the Navigators, Bombardiers and Radio operators went to a specialized briefing.  At the main briefing, in addition to the target information --anti-aircraft guns, fighter escort and route in--we received a sheet showing our location in the formation, the call signs for the day and all the information we would need to assemble our Group and get into the bomber stream.

After briefing, we got into our flight gear, drew our parachutes and loaded onto the trucks for a ride to our plane.  We were now guided by the time on our daily briefing sheet.  We started engines at a given time and watched for the airplane we would be flying in formation with to taxi past, then we would taxi behind him.  We were following strict radio silence.

We were now parked, nose to tail around  the perimeter, on both sides of the active runway, and extremely vulnerable to a fighter strafing attack. At the designated takeoff time, a green  flare would be fired and takeoff would begin.  Every  thirty seconds an airplane started takeoff roll.  We were lined up on the perimeter so that the 12 airplanes of the high squadron would take off first, followed by the lead and then the low squadron.

Each Group had a pattern for the airplanes  to fly during climb to assembly altitude. Some would fly a triangle, some a rectangle and our Group flew a circle, using a "Buncher" (a low frequency radio  station) which was located on our station.  The patterns for each Group fit together like a jig saw puzzle.  Unfortunately, strong winds aloft would destroy the integrity of the patterns, and there would be considerable over running of each other's patterns.

Many of our takeoffs were made before daylight, during the winter of '44 and '45, when I was there, so it was not uncommon to climb through several thousand feet of cloud overcast.  Also it was not uncommon to experience one or two near misses while climbing through the clouds, although you would never see the other airplane.  You knew you had just had a near miss, when suddenly the airplane would shake violently as it hit the prop wash of another plane.  It was a wonderful feeling to break out on top, so you could watch for other planes, to keep from running into each other.  To add to the congestion we were creating, the Royal  Air Force Lancasters, Halifaxes, and Wimpys would be returning from their night missions, and flying through our formations. Needless to say, pilots had to keep their heads on a swivel and their eyes out of the cockpit.

After take off, the squadron lead would fire a flare every 30 seconds, so that we could keep him located and enable us to get into formation quicker.  The color of our Group flare was red-green.  The first thing you would see, when  breaking out of the clouds, was a sky filled with pyrotechnics, so you had to search the sky for the  Group flare, which would identify the lead airplane of your Squadron.  Once you had it located, you could adjust your pattern to climb more quickly into formation with him.  As each airplane pulled into  formation, they would also fire a flare, with the lead plane, making it much easier for the following  aircraft to keep him in sight.  I think most crew members would probably agree that the pyrotechnic show, in the skies over England, in the morning when the Eighth was assembling, was a rare sight to behold.

The order of progression for assembling the Eighth Air Force was to first assemble the Flight elements, the Squadrons, the Groups, the Combat wings, the divisions and, finally, the Air Force.

As soon as the four Squadron elements were formed, the high, low and second elements would take up their positions on the lead element, to form a Squadron.  When the three Squadrons had completed assembly, it was necessary to get into Group formation. This was accomplished by having the three Squadrons arrive over a pre-selected fix at a precise time and heading.  The high and low Squadrons were separated from the lead Squadron by 1000 feet and, after getting into Group formation, they would maintain their positions by following the lead Squadron.

Then it was necessary to get into the Combat Wing formation.  We were in the 13th Combat  Wing, which consisted of three Bomb Groups:  the 95th,the 100th and the 390th.  Whichever Group was leading the Wing that day, would arrive over a  pre-selected point, at a precise time and heading.  Thirty seconds later, the second Group would pass that fix, followed by the third Group, thirty seconds later. We were then in Combat Wing formation. The navigators in the lead airplanes had a tremendous responsibility, to ensure that the rendezvous times were strictly adhered to.

There were three Divisions in the Eighth, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd.The 1st and 3rd Divisions consisted of B-17s only, and the 2nd Division was B-24s.The B-24s were faster than the B-17s, but  the B-17s could fly higher, therefore, the two were not compatible in formation.  As a result the 1st and 3rd Divisions would fly together and the 2nd Division would fly separately.

Now that the Groups were flying in Combat Wing formation, it was necessary to assemble the Divisions.  This was usually accomplished at the "coast out"--a city on the coast, selected as the departure point "fix."  The Group leader in each Combat Wing knew his assigned position in the Division, and the precise time that he should arrive at the coast out departure point, to assume that position in the Division formation. The lead Group in the Division, which had been selected to lead the Eighth on the mission, would be first over the departure fix. Thirty seconds after the last Group in the first Wing passed that point, the second Wing would fall in trail, and so on, until all Combat Wings were flying in trail and the Division would be formed.  One minute later, the lead Group in the other Division would fly over that point, and the Combat Wings in that Division would follow the same procedure to get into formation. When all of its Combat Wings were in trail, the Eighth Air Force B-17 strike force was formed and on its way to the target. At the same time the 2nd Division B-24s were assembling in a similar manner and also departing to their target.

Meanwhile, as the bombers were assembling for their mission, pilots from the Fighter Groups were being briefed on their day's mission. Normally, 600 to 800 P-38's, P-47's, and P-51's would accompany the bombers to provide protection against enemy fighter attacks. Fighter cover was not needed by the bombers until they were penetrating enemy territory, therefore to help conserve fuel. fighter takeoffs were planned to give them enough time to quickly assemble after takeoff, and climb on course up the bomber stream to the groups they would be covering.  The combined  strength of the fighters and bombers brought the total number of aircraft participating in a mission to approximately two thousand.

A major problem that presented itself, on each mission, was that the bomber stream was getting too stretched out.  It was not uncommon for the headlines in stateside newspapers--in trying to show  the strength of our Air Force--to state that the first Group of bombers was bombing Berlin, while the last Group was still over the English Channel.  It made great headlines but was a very undesirable situation.  It meant that the Groups were out of position, and not keeping the proper separation. Furthermore, it was almost impossible for them to catch up and get back into the desired formation.  This made the entire bomber stream more vulnerable to fighter attacks.

Finally, our planners figured out what we were doing wrong.  When the first Group departed the coast out fix, it started its climb to what would be the bombing altitude.  Then, as each succeeding Group departed that fix, it, too, would start climbing.  The problem with this procedure was that, as soon as the first Group started its climb, its true airspeed would start to increase, and it would encounter different wind velocities.  Now it would  start to pull away from the Group in back of it, and the "stretchout" of the bomber stream would begin.  By the time the last Group had reached the coast out, to start its climb, the first Group would be leveled off, with a true airspeed approaching 250 miles per hour, and the bomber stream would be really stretching out.

The solution to this problem that had been frustrating the Bomber crews for so long was pretty simple.  We would no longer start climbing at the coast out, but instead, at a designated time, all Groups would start climbing, irrespective of position.  This meant that we all would have similar true airspeeds and would be influenced by the same winds aloft. That took care of the problem.  It was still possible for a Group to be out of position, because of poor timing, but the entire bomber stream wouldn't get all stretched out. 

When you consider the way our Air Traffic Control system operates today, and all the facilities at their disposal to guide each individual airplane through the sky to ensure its safety, it's almost unbelievable that we were able to do what we did.  To think of launching hundreds of airplanes, in a small airspace, many times in total darkness, loaded with bombs, with complete radio silence, and no control from the ground, and do it successfully day after day, with young air crews, with minimum experience, is absolutely mind boggling.

The accomplishments of the Eighth Air Force have been and will be reviewed by historians from World War II on.  There never will be another air armada to compare to it.  I feel confident that they will never cease to be amazed by our ability to assemble hundreds of heavy bombers, under the conditions we were confronting, into the devastating strike force we now fondly refer to as, the "Mighty Eighth."

Return to Top
 

Leslie Lennox Lt. Col (Ret.)

Pacific Ditching
  
On 2 December 1948, five C-54s, from the 374th Troop Carrier Group at Harmon Field, on Guam, where they were stationed, took off for Kadena Air Base, on Okinawa.  They were to pick up and transport back to their home base in Spokane, Washington, Maintenance and Support personnel from the 98th Bomb Group, who had been on  temporary duty on Okinawa.  The pilot of the lead airplane was Lt. Col. William R. Calhoun.  I (then First Lt.) Leslie A. Lennox, was his co-pilot.           

The eight hour flight to Kadena was completed without incident.  After landing, the planes were serviced and passenger handling personnel completed the manifest,  assigning each individual to one of the aircraft.  The C-54 had a fore and aft belly compartment for storing cargo or baggage.  For this flight, each compartment would be completely full of heavy baggage.  The return flight would be by way of Guam, Kwajalein, and Hickam Field, in Hawaii, with the final leg into Spokane Air Force Base.
           
Early on the morning of 3 December, the passengers were loaded and the planes departed on the first leg of the trip, to Guam.  This was a routine flight for all aircraft, as we had regularly scheduled weekly passenger and cargo flights into Okinawa.  Later that evening, after crew rest at Harmon Field, we departed for Kwajalein--another approximately eight-hour flight. During the last three hours of flight, our airplane developed an oil leak in #3 engine, which made it necessary for us to transfer twenty gallons of oil from our reserve tank, into that engine. We landed at Kwajalein, without incident, and maintenance personnel serviced the plane, inspecting #3 engine very carefully to try to determine where it was losing oil.
           
There was no indication of a leak anywhere on the engine, so it was decided to clean the engine thoroughly, and run it for a while to see if a leak might appear.  When none was found, the conclusion was that the engine must be burning excess oil, due to having been running for such a high number of flight operating hours.  Although not a desirable situation, this was considered to be “manageable” and not necessarily a flight hazard.  The decision was made to continue the flight as scheduled.
           
After crew rest, we departed from Kwajalein, at approximately 2100 hours on 4 December, for the twelve-hour flight to Hickam Field.  We climbed to our assigned altitude--9,000 feet--and, as co-pilot, I watched the oil quantity gauge for #3 engine very closely.  After the first hour, the pilot, the flight engineer, and I agreed that perhaps, during the inspection, back at Kwajalein, they had tightened the key engine parts and the clamps to the oil lines, correcting the problem.  It was a beautiful night, just a few puffy clouds below us, no “en route weather” to interfere--quite typical for over the Pacific.  The airplane was operating nicely, and we were settled in for the long haul to Hickam and, as the second hour passed, confident that we would have no further trouble with #3 engine.
           
However, after little more than three hours into the flight, I noticed that the oil quantity gauge for #3 engine was, again, indicating a loss of oil.  I notified the pilot and he made the decision that we would continue on, and would operate the engine as long as possible by transferring thirty gallons of oil from the reserve tank, leaving twenty gallons in reserve.  Then, if necessary, we would shut the engine down.
           
I continued to check the rate of loss, and we were using about one gallon every three minutes.  This was excessive.  It was apparent that, in about an hour and a half, we would lose that engine.  The pilot, then, decided to change our flight plan to land at Johnston Island--a tiny “speck” in the Pacific Ocean, between Kwajalein and Hawaii.  But that was still 700 miles, and five hours, away.
           
Except for losing oil, #3 engine was operating normally, as were all other engines.  I transferred oil, as necessary, for over an hour.  Then, with twenty gallons still remaining in the reserve tank, the pilot decided it would be best to shut the engine down.  With the loss of power, we were unable to maintain our assigned altitude.  So, without increasing power, we let the airplane drift on down, slowly, until we were maintaining 6000 feet and an airspeed of 150 miles per hour.  Everything was looking good and there seemed to be no cause for alarm.  We notified the other airplanes, in back of us, of our condition and our intention.
           
We’d had very little rest at Kwajalein, so, the pilot suggested that I go back to the crew compartment to try to get some sleep and he would call me a little later, to relieve him.  I went back and stretched out, and immediately went to sleep.  My next awareness came when the navigator, Lt. Fred Froelich, shook me and told me to return to the cockpit, as it appeared that we were going to have to ditch.  I rushed up to the cockpit and crawled into my seat and, when I looked at the instrument panel, could hardly believe what I was seeing.  We were at 1000 feet, and losing altitude, our airspeed was indicating 115 miles per hour, and now #4 engine, which had also developed an oil leak, had been shut down, too.  We were in serious trouble!
           
I put on my Mae West (life jacket) and took the controls, while the pilot put his life jacket on. Even with the additional power applied to engines #1 and #2, we were unable to hold altitude.  The airplane was flying at just above stalling speed.  The flight engineers, Sgt. Donald A. Keefer and Cpl. John F Rehfeldt, were sent to the rear, with instructions to jettison a large air compressor, which was tied down back there, and “anything else that would lighten our load.”  They jettisoned the main cargo door and, with the help of some of the passengers, were able to push the air compressor overboard.
           
Just to the rear of the main cargo door, eight life rafts--with the capacity to take care of fifty men, in the event of a ditching--were tied down.  While the  attention of the engineers was diverted elsewhere, some of the passengers, not realizing that they were  life rafts, decided that, if they threw out those “bundles,” that would help to lighten our load.  Before the engineers could stop them, they had thrown out all but two.  There was nothing more in the cabin that could be thrown out, and it was impossible to get to the heavy baggage in the belly compartments.
           
Meanwhile, up in the cockpit, we were trying to keep the airplane in the air. We now had full power applied to the engines and the cylinder head, and oil temperature gauges were pegged to the maximum.  It was only a matter of time before the engines would start to detonate.  To keep the airplane from stalling, we had to trade altitude for airspeed and, as a result, we were soon flying just a few feet off the water.  When an airplane is in such close proximity to the ground or water’s surface, air will compress under the wings, giving added lift.  We could now feel  the cushioning effect  of this.  We were just skimming the surface, but we were still airborne. 
           
The navigator’s position was directly in back of the co-pilot’s.  His light was shining out of the side window, which enabled me to see the water sliding under us.   My attention was divided between the engine instruments and our height above the water.  When the airplane climbed slightly, so that I could no longer see the water, I turned my attention entirely to the engines, to see if we could reduce power and cool them down.  Just then, one of the engines backfired and, when I looked out the window again, we were back down to the water.  I started to say to the pilot,  “It looks like we...,” but, I didn’t get to finish, “... are going in,”  when we touched down on the water.  Nobody was looking at a watch, but my guess is it was probably about 0300 on the morning of 5 December.
           
We had three things in our favor--we were heading almost directly into the wind, which reduced our ground (water) speed; the sea was relatively smooth; and the flight attitude of the plane was slightly nose-high.  The initial touchdown was relatively smooth, as we touched down tail first.  However, as the main part of the fuselage settled into the water, deceleration was sudden and quite severe--like hitting a brick wall.  We had on lap belts, but the plane was not equipped with shoulder harnesses.  As a result, I was pitched forward into the crash pad, above the instrument panel.  I had hit the side of my head on the window handle, which opened a cut on my scalp, but it was not very serious.
          
All electrical power was lost upon impact, so we were now in total darkness.  Water had not yet reached the cockpit, but we could hear it entering the compartment below us.  In addition to the two pilots, the navigator and the radio operator were also in the cockpit area.  We left our seats, attempting to go to the rear of the plane, but the door was jammed shut and we could not get it open.  Each of our planes had had an extra 400-gallon internal fuel tank installed, as a safety factor for our long haul from Hickam to Spokane.  The tank, which was still full of fuel, had been secured just aft of the crew compartment.  On impact, it had shifted and was now blocking our entrance to the rear of the plane. Our only alternative exit would have to be through the navigator’s astrodome.  We removed it and, one by one, climbed to the top of the fuselage.
           
Once we were outside, it was evident that the airplane was still intact.  The only damage that I could see was that about three feet of the left horizontal stabilizer was missing.  The majority of the men in the rear had exited through the main cargo door and were in a group in the water.  The two life rafts had been inflated and they were hanging onto them.  I inflated my Mae West and jumped into the water with them..
          
The C-54 had a “wet wing” which means that the fuel tanks were an integral part of the wing.  Therefore, when the wings opened up, on impact, much of the high octane fuel was released into the water.  When I jumped into the water, I got a mouthful of water and gasoline, but was able to hold it until I surfaced and could spit it out.  I swam to the rafts and asked the engineer who happened to be alongside me, where the rest of the rafts were. That’s when I found out that some of the passengers, in the frantic attempt to help keep us airborne, had thrown them out, inadvertently, to “help lighten the load.”
           
The pilot asked if anyone had retrieved the “Gibson Girl” (the emergency radio).  Nobody had.  Since the main cargo door was still partially above water, he went back inside the fuselage to try to get it.  The Gibson Girl was secured to the top right side of the fuselage, with a quick release fastener.  However, the fuselage was filling with water so rapidly that he was unable to get it.  The airplane was starting to settle deeper into the water, so we decided we’d better move away from it quickly.  Estimates were that it would float for only about 10 to 15 minutes before it would sink.
           
We decided we had better take a head count to see if everyone was accounted for. We were fairly evenly divided between the two rafts.  Seventeen men were on one of the rafts and 18 were on the other.  Two of the passengers were missing, but all of the crew was accounted for, and no one appeared to be very badly injured, as nearly as we could tell.  We wondered why those other two men had not made it to the rafts.  In later discussion, we guessed  that they must have jumped out of the escape hatch on the right side of the fuselage, floundering in the darkness, before they could swim around the tail to get to the rafts on the other side.
           
With only two five-man life rafts, we were not in very good shape, but it could have been much worse.   Most of us had  survived a “successful” night ditching.  We all could have been killed!  As the pilot said, later, “We weren’t trying  to ditch, we just ran out of altitude.”  We all had  on life jackets, so we were supported in the water, and we had the raft to hold onto, as well.
           
Shortly after getting into the water, many of us became sea sick.  Fortunately, this served to purge our stomachs of the gasoline some of us had swallowed.  Our most immediate concern was the high octane gasoline we were floating in that was saturating our clothing.  Several hours passed before we could drift away from it.
           
There was absolutely no way all thirty-five of us could fit inside two five-man rafts.  We decided that we would have to take turns, spending 30 minutes in the water and 30 minutes in the rafts.  This seemed to be a good, workable plan--until daylight.  Then, as we looked around, we could see shark fins sticking out of the water in just about every quadrant.  We were surrounded by them!   At that point, some of the men decided that they were not going to take their turn back in the water.  And some of them did not.  It was a pretty scary time.
           
We started to dispense the shark repellent, that was located in our Mae Wests, into the water,  but we could see that it was not going to be very effective, because it was drifting behind us, and not covering the area around the rafts.   Fortunately for us, the sharks were not very aggressive, although they were coming in dangerously close.  We decided that our best defense against them would be for the men inside the rafts to watch their particular section of the raft and, if any sharks came in too close, merely  to splash water at them.  Strangely enough, it seemed to work, because they would back off and swim away.  We also decided that we should keep our legs tucked up under the rafts, and try to have as little movement in the water as possible.  Although it was not a very comfortable situation, after the initial shock, we resigned ourselves to the fact that there was nothing we could do to get rid of the sharks.  We would just have to try to survive in their midst.  And there was no doubt in my mind that we would  be rescued--if we could just survive the sharks.
           
The crews in the aircraft behind us knew that we were going to ditch, so our radio operator, S/Sgt.  William L Underwood, had keyed his transmitter to transmit a continuous tone, knowing that, when the tone ceased, they would know that we had hit the water.  They revealed to us, later, the eerie feelings that  they’d  had,  listening to that tone, and--when it suddenly stopped--being unable to determine our fate. They  had looked for an explosion or a fire, and  seeing none had given them hope that we might have ditched successfully.  They continued on to Johnston Island, where they would refuel, so that they could return to the area and try to locate us.
           
I knew, from my training as a flying officer, how the Air Rescue Service worked, and what a tremendous effort would be forthcoming to  try to locate and rescue us.  With that knowledge,  I knew that it  would be only a matter of time  before we would be rescued.    I also realized that it would take time for airplanes to reach Johnston Island  to organize  a search.
           
Even though some of the men would not get out of the rafts and get into the water, morale seemed to be pretty good, in general.  We had tied the rafts together, and the sea was relatively smooth, so we had no trouble holding onto the rafts.  Also, because of our location (14 degrees, 40 minutes north, latitude / 175 degrees, 50 minutes west, longitude)  the water and the air temperatures were comfortably warm.
           
However, one man, who appeared to be having a problem adjusting to our somewhat precarious situation, had obviously given up all hope.  He kept saying that we would not be saved, and were all doomed.  He seemed to be extremely despondent--possibly in a state of shock.  He continued to rave on, in a very incoherent manner, and, later that morning, lapsed into a state of unconsciousness, from which he never recovered.  He just died! Because the rafts were so overloaded, they were both partially submerged, and we knew there was no way we would be able to keep his body in the raft.  Since there was no way of knowing how long we would be out there, we were concerned about trying to keep a decomposing body in our midst.  In discussing what we should do, we agreed that we had no recourse but to commit his body to the sea.  I am not positive about this, but I’m fairly sure that one of the men near him removed his valuables, to save for his next of kin, before we put him over the side.  In a short time, he had drifted out of sight and was gone.
           
Both rafts were equipped with survival kits, tied down in the center of each raft.  The men in the other raft decided to open theirs to check its contents.  No sooner had they begun, than the raft was upset and the entire contents of that kit was lost. This was the only time a raft was upset, but that one time cost us half of our survival gear.  Losing that small amount of rations was not so important, but the loss of the signal flares was critical, and the kits did contain a small amount of water.  We decided, then, that we would only open our kit to remove signal flares when we spotted an airplane.
           
We were now anxiously listening for the sound of airplanes but, unhappily, we didn’t hear any.  It was a beautiful, sunny day and we were becoming accustomed to having the sharks around us.  However, one problem we did encounter was the large number of tentacles from the Spanish man-of-war jelly fish floating in the water.  Although we never saw the fish, the tentacles would float on top of the water and get on whatever skin was exposed at the surface of the water, mostly our hands and necks.  Once attached, we could not brush them off, and our skin would burn for quite some time.
           
It had been a very long and difficult day and, now that the sun was starting to set, we were more than a little disappointed that we had not heard or seen any search planes in the area, that day.  Suddenly, just at twilight, we heard the drone of a plane and spotted it flying by, just a few miles away from us, at such a low altitude we knew it had to be a search plane. Immediately, we opened our kit, removed a signal flare and fired it into the air.  There was no response from the plane, so we fired a second one.  This time, the plane turned toward us, and flashed its landing lights.  We were absolutely bursting with jubilation, because we knew, now, that they knew that we had survived.  As the plane came closer, we fired another flare, to give him a better fix on our location.  It had become too dark for him to see us in the water, but he made several passes over us.  We later learned that it was an Air Rescue B-17, which had attempted to drop a boat near us, but, upon release, the forward shackle, that was holding the boat, had failed to disengage.  By the time they got the boat to drop, they were about forty miles away from us.
           
Most of us were fairly confident now that, when daylight came, surely other airplanes would also be in the area looking for us.  That thought bolstered our morale and helped us to get through that endlessly long night.  We knew the sharks were probably still with us, but we could not see them.  We kept our legs tucked up under the raft and, occasionally, our legs would rub together and, for one agonizing moment, it would feel like there was a shark under there.  That night we tried to get as many men as possible into the raft, by sitting closer together around the rim of the raft, with one leg in the raft and the other in the water.  Although the top of the raft was under water, our Mae Wests helped to support us, and we were able to get several more men into our raft.
           
With the coming of daylight, on 6 December--our second day in the water--our hopes were running high that we would start seeing airplanes in the area.  Having made contact the previous day, our position should have been known by the searching airplanes.  Bad weather would not be a factor, because this was a typical Pacific, fair-weather day--bright sunshine, light wind and a fairly calm sea.  It was about mid-morning before we heard airplanes off in the distance, but they did not come close enough for us to see them.  This went on all day.  We kept hearing airplane engines, but always in the distance.  Although we knew they were searching for us, they were not coming close enough for us to try to attract them with a flare.  We later learned that the airplanes that we had heard that morning, had looked for, and found, the boat that had been dropped the night before by the B-17.  Expecting us to be close  to it, they had concentrated their search in that area, miles away from where we actually were.  After several hours of this, we were beginning to feel frustrated and discouraged about not being spotted.  This letdown feeling may have contributed to the tragic loss of another of the men.
           
Some of the men were still refusing to take their turns in the water, among the sharks.  To protest this, one man had let go of the raft.  He was several feet away before we realized what was happening.  He said he would not return until those men who were refusing to take their turns in the water got out of the raft, too.  We could not persuade him to come back, and he was starting to drift farther and farther away from us.  We tried to push the rafts toward him, but we were unable to do so and, in spite of our pleading, he made no attempt to return.  Another of the men said that he was a good swimmer and would swim out and try to coax the first man to return.  Both men were now about fifty feet away from the raft.  We could see that our volunteer “rescuer” was finding it difficult to swim with his Mae West on,  so, fearful that we would lose both of them, we told him that he’d better return.   When we saw the water around him change color, we just “knew” that he was being attacked,  but it turned out that he had started to dispense his shark repellent when he saw sharks too close by.  He made it safely back to the raft, but, unfortunately, the other man drifted away from us and was lost.
           
Shortly after we had recovered from that incident--about mid-afternoon of the 6th--we heard the drone of airplane engines again.  This time, the sound kept getting louder and louder.  Then, off in the distance, we could see them--four Navy PB4Ys (a 4-engine patrol /bomber, similar to the Air Force B-24) flying abreast, at about 500 feet, coming directly at us.  We immediately got a signal flare out of the survival kit and, when the planes were about half a mile away, fired it into the air.  The #2 plane from the right dropped his wing and flew directly over us.  Needless to say, there was a great deal of arm waving.  The other planes dropped in trail, and circled back around.
           
On the next pass over us, they dropped magnesium flares and large quantities of dye marker.  There was no way they were going to lose sight of us this time.  After getting us well marked, they started dropping additional rafts and survival kits.  The rafts were landing close enough that we could recover them quickly.  Now we were able to spread out and get everyone out of the water and into a raft.  Ironically, if the man who swam away had stayed with us for just a couple of hours longer, he, too, would have survived.
           
The bomb-bay doors on the PB4Y, when opened, slid up inside the bomb-bay and left a gaping hole in the underside of the fuselage.  Each time a plane came by, a large bundle would come out of that hole, and a lanyard in the plane would open a parachute which would lower it into the water.  As one plane came over, we were anxiously watching to see what would be dropped next, when out came a large survival kit we were convinced was going to hit us.  The parachute opened, the kit swung over the top of us, and we reached up and grabbed it, just before it could hit the water.  He was right on target.
           
A short time after the Navy planes spotted us, a B-17 came on the scene and dropped a boat and, this time, it dropped about 200 yards from us. Three men took one of the several rafts we now had and paddled over to secure it.  We were really in great shape now.  If we had to spend another night out there, we could all get in the boat.  What a difference the crews flying those PB4Ys had made in our outlook for survival!
           
We opened one of the survival kits they had dropped, and in it were several tubes of sunburn protective cream.  Even though we were already severely sunburned, we decided to apply it to our faces.  As we discovered, later, this turned out to be a bad decision, because of the difficulty we would have trying to remove it from our badly burned skin.  In addition to the sunburn, I was having a lot of discomfort from the Mae West.  The Mae West fits snugly under the chin.  A combination of the coarseness of its material and a 3-day growth of beard, in addition to the irritation of the salt water, rubbed the skin on my neck raw, as I tried to turn my head.  I found myself turning my entire body, rather than turn my head.
           
We had been very busy, retrieving equipment and enjoying our good fortune, when suddenly someone yelled, “There’s a ship on the horizon!”  Because we were so low in the water, we could only see the superstructure, so couldn’t really tell what it was.  None of us could take our eyes off of it  as it approached, and as it gradually came closer, we could see that it was a gigantic aircraft carrier.   It’s hard to describe the overwhelming emotions we were feeling, as we watched that great big, beautiful ship come gliding toward us, then circle around us and stop a short distance away from us.  The enormous flight deck of the “USS RENDOVA” was completely lined with sailors. 
           
What a truly awesome sight!
           
We could see that they were lowering a small boat and a landing ramp, so we made no attempt to paddle over to the ship.   In just a short time the launch was alongside our rafts.  They had elected to pass a line to a raft, and tow it over to the ramp, which worked very well.  I watched the men in the raft ahead of me, noticing that, as they climbed onto the ramp, they were having considerable difficulty standing up.  A couple of sailors would  have to grasp their arms and help them up the ladder.  When we got to the ramp,  I understood why they were having such a problem.  Because of having been in the water for so long, the muscles in our legs had lost their strength and couldn’t support us.
           
We were taken directly into the sick bay area, where the medics were standing by to take care of any possible injuries we might have.  The most severe injuries came from gasoline burns on the body, especially on those men who had on heavy flight jackets.  One man had swallowed a large amount of gasoline, and was in very critical condition.  He later died in the hospital at Kwajalein.  When an autopsy was performed, it was discovered that his intestinal tract had been severely damaged from the gasoline he had swallowed.
           
The doctors, and other medical personnel, were wonderful to us.  They checked each one of us, thoroughly, to determine whether we needed immediate medical attention or not.  The majority of us did not, but all of us were suffering from exposure and exhaustion.  We were all severely sunburned, and removing the cream we had put on our faces, earlier, was a very painful chore.  Because there had been losses, they were very careful to get a complete list of the names of all the survivors, to be sent back to headquarters.
           
After being checked out in sick bay, we were fed, issued some clothing we could change into and bedded down for the night.  An aviator’s worst nightmare, of having to ditch in the ocean at night, was over.  It’s hard to describe the overwhelming feeling of security we were enjoying, knowing we were safe now, in the hands of the U.S. Navy.
           
The following day we were feeling much better.  We were underway to Kwajalein and enjoying the experience of being aboard an aircraft carrier.  We had an opportunity to talk with the ship’s crew, and relate to them what had happened to us.  One of them told me that, looking down from the deck, they could see that we were surrounded by a very large number of sharks, and they had been afraid that the sharks might attack us before they could get us out of the water.   They thought perhaps  the sharks might have been attracted by the activity around the ship, but, as we explained to them, the sharks had been with us the entire time, keeping a very close watch over us.
           
A couple of days later we arrived at Kwajalein, where we were put ashore.  We thanked the crew for the magnificent job they had done on our behalf, and left the RENDOVA.  We also separated from the men of the 98th Bomb Group.  They would be flown on to their original destination--Spokane, Washington--by the Military Air Transport Service, and a B-17 was waiting to take the C-54 crew members back to Guam.
           
I applied for thirty days leave and returned Stateside, to spend some time with my family.  They had known I was coming to the States, but not that I had been headed for Spokane.  They had been waiting for the call “from California”  that I had promised my wife.  When the call never came that Sunday, as expected, and still had not, the following day, she began to be concerned.  My father-in-law, seeing the banner headline, “C-54 DITCHES IN PACIFIC--37 MEN LOST”, in Monday’s paper, had hidden the newspaper, so that my wife would not see what had happened.
           
When she finally did see the story, that Tuesday, she had told herself that it “couldn’t” be my plane, because none of the information in the paper “matched” what she knew to be true.  I had told her I would call fromCalifornia, because our original flight plan had been to land at Fairfield-Suisin AFB, in California, after delivering the 98th Bomb Group personnel to Spokane.  Also, I was stationed on Guam, and the newspaper had said that the downed C-54 had “originated in Okinawa.”  In addition to which, she was not familiar with the  “374th Troop Carrier Group”.  She only knew that I was in the “6th Troop Carrier Squadron.”   Nothing was the same!   And besides, she had rationalized,  I could  have been on one of the other C-54s, involved in the search for the one that had ditched.  That also would have kept me from calling.
           
She continued this “fiction” for herself, until Wednesday, when a call from our local paper confirmed that I had, indeed, been one of the “survivors” of that “downed C-54.”   Her first “notification” came  from a very insensitive reporter, who--after ascertaining that she was the wife of “LT. LESLIE LENNOX”--informed her that he was “doing a story on the survivors of that C-54 that ditched in the Pacific,” a few days earlier, and “would (she) mind answering a few questions” about her husband, who “was one of them.”   Disbelieving, and so hysterical she could hardly talk at all, she handed the phone to her father, to answer his questions, and ran across the street to a friend’s, to try to make some sense out of the implications of what that reporter had said.  Fortunately, we had been given the opportunity to call our families, from the Rendova, later that day, so I was able to calm her down and convince her that I really was all right  But she didn’t really believe it.
           
When I arrived home, in mid-December, she was still furious with that reporter, but very happy to see that I was all in one piece, and had not lost any limbs to the sharks, but had suffered only a slight wound and a bad sunburn.  We had a wonderful Christmas together, extremely thankful that we could be together.
           
In February, I reported in to Hamilton Field, California, for processing back to Guam.  I was assigned to the USS Breckenridge, a Navy personnel transport ship.  Quite a few civilians were on board, traveling on a space availability basis, to visit military personnel stationed in Hawaii.  I struck up a conversation with an older couple who told me they were going there to visit their son.  I asked them what he did and they told me he was a Navy pilot. My next question, of course, was “What does he fly?”  When they told me that he flew PB4Ys, I could hardly believe what I was hearing.  I asked them if, by any chance, he had been on one of the planes that had found the survivors of that ditching accident, in early December.  They said that he most certainly had and, furthermore, would be meeting them at the dock when we arrived at Pearl Harbor.   Consequently, when the ship docked at Pearl Harbor, I had the opportunity to meet, and thank, Lt. Wade Squire, personally.  He had been the co-pilot on one of the rescue planes.  We had a lot to talk about!  I have been forever grateful that I had that opportunity to meet him and thank him.
           
I returned to the 374th Troop Carrier Group and continued flying C-54s all over the Pacific for another 15 months, without further incident.
           
I have written this from the time span of nearly fifty years of memory, trying to recall the details surrounding this incident, as nearly as I can remember them.  What is missing from this narrative is documentation of the tireless efforts put forth by the personnel from the many organizations who were involved in the search and rescue of thirty-three airmen, in December of 1948.  All of the survivors owe all of them an immeasurable debt of gratitude--especially, the B-17 crew, the PB4Y crews, and the crewmen of the USS RENDOVA, all of whom did such an outstanding, professional job!
           
We do, indeed, owe them our lives!

Return to Top