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Harvey Jacobs B26's Over Europe

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Lt. Harvey Jacobs WWII Memoirs This memory will be the first on the site. I had no hand in developing this story but it is an excellent example of what I hope will be many others to come. My thanks to Mr. Jacobs for his permission in 1999 to recopy the memoir and his valuable assistance and friendship over the years. Harv passed away on January 9th 2004.

Pilot B26 Martin Marauder 8th Air Force - 323 Bomb Group - 456th Bomb Squadron

Pilot B26 Martin Marauder 9th Air Force - 344 Bomb Group - 497th Bomb Squadron
REMEMBERING

C.O.Robinson, Harvey’s crew chief who mysteriously disappeared shortly after the Normandy invasion. It was generally felt that C.O. snuck aboard Klassie Lassie because, as with all crew chiefs, it was his baby. Harvey had left for the Zone Of The Interior (home) before that mission. There were 3 planes in line to be the first to complete 100 missions, Klassie Lassie, Mild & Bitter and Flak Bait. Mild & Bitter was the first to go on its 100th. Klassie Lassie was just behind, but unfortunately was shot down over the Normandy peninsula on its 100th. Flak Bait survived an astounding 202 missions and the war.

GOOD NEWS UPDATE....It turns out that C.O. Robinson indeed survived the war and had been rotated home safe and sound. After 50+ years believing he was lost C.O. turned up much to the happiness of his former crew member.
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What follows are recollections from my childhood on...both happy and sad...humorous remembrances...and memories of those, both family and friends, who played such an important role in every phase of my life. My parents Rose and Charles Jacobs who aside from the precious gift of life, gave me love and caring guidance by imparting, to the best of their ability, the wonderful values by which they lived. Len and Bob for the wonderful memories of a young boy looking up to his brothers and, of course trying to emulate them. A beautiful gal by the name of Hermine Cohn who wrote to me on D-day to "Go in there and give them Hell" and then gave me not only her hand in marriage but the meaning of life, because she became my life. She is my sweetheart, my lover, my companion, my best friend and my fountain of indescribable happiness. Aside from giving me her heart she gave me two wonderful children, Marty and Lanis, who someday may read this and know that I truly love them. Notwithstanding the pride I have felt in watching them develop from children to responsible adults, they have blessed me with three wonderful and beautiful grandchildren ...Courtney Erin, and Logan Charles Jacobs and Nicolas Thomas Howe. How can words describe the happiness Courtney, Logan and Nicki have given me.
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Two weeks after my eighth birthday on July 2, 1930, my brother Len and his fiancée Charlotte Pompian, drove all of us (Mom and Dad, my brother Bob and myself) to the North Aurora Exposition Park. It was a wonderful and exciting spot where one could have a picnic, go swimming in an extraordinarily large swimming pool, or go on rides such as one would find at River View or Great America. In those days, wherever crowds would gather, a landing strip was always found for the barnstorming pilots of the era and of course the Aurora Exposition Park was no exception. These were the guys, most of them veterans of World War One who were trying to make a living by joining flying circuses or taking those people, who had the nerve, on a 4 or 5 minute flight for a couple of bucks. These were hard times and these pilots could not afford high priced mechanics to maintain their airplanes. They performed, by themselves, whatever minimum maintenance was necessary to keep their planes flying, and, many of them were held together with bailing wire and chewing gum.

Lindberg had just flown the Atlantic Ocean non-stop and all the kids, plus many adults, were completely fascinated by the thought of soaring into the wild blue yonder. Airplanes and flight totally captivated the imaginations of most everyone. As for the pilots, well they were God walking on the earth with a leather helmet, goggles and a white scarf wrapped around their necks. On that fateful day Charlotte observed the look in my eyes as I gazed at the airplane taking off and landing, loading and unloading passengers, and made a decision that years later she said she must have been out of her mind to even think of. She took me by the hand, and without anyone realizing what was happening, walked me towards this rickety open cockpit biplane. Up we went for a thrill I will never forget. When we landed, I looked up at Charlotte and said, "Someday I am going to be a pilot” Well, when my mother found out what had taken place, she reached a higher altitude than we did in the plane and Charlotte almost did not become my Sister-in-law! Fortunately she did, and I always introduced or spoke of her as my sister...she was and is that dear to me.
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Although this lovely creature couldn't see me for the dust and did an excellent job of ignoring me, I had a terrific crush on Hermine. Imagine my surprise when, during our junior year at Sullivan High School, she accepted my invitation to attend my fraternity's splash party at the Sovereign Hotel. Delta Sigma Rho was actually a bunch of rejects from all the other fraternities, a truly raunchy bunch. After Hermine had agreed to go with me, my “dear friend”, and fraternity brother, asked her to be his date for the splash party. When she refused, saying that she had already accepted my invitation, he countered by suggesting she should go with me but he would take her home. This too was rejected. My brother Bob let me use his car for the evening,

and from the hotel we drove to the local hangout called Harry's where you could get a fantastic hamburger or hotdog for about 12 cents. When the waitress asked if we wanted onions on our sandwiches, Hermine said no so I naturally also refused, even though I hate hamburgers with out onions. After we finished eating, we drove up to North Western University and parked on the edge of a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, a very romantic spot! Hey with the onion routine I figured I was a cinch for some fancy necking. The couple we doubled with were in the back seat smooching like it was going out of style. The moon was coming up over the lake, and old suave, debonair, Romeo me, tuned in the beautiful music of our day on the radio. I put my arm up on the back of the seat naturally expecting Hermine to melt into my arms. After all, how could she refuse? Instead, my ego was deflated like a punctured balloon as she straightened up, quickly moved away from me, and quite firmly stated, "Harvey Jacobs, your idea of a good time is not my idea of a good time."

With that she got out of my car, and at that precise moment my fraternity brother pulled up in his car with a bunch of guys aboard. Hermine got in and asked him to take her directly home, and the damn fool did!
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It was Sunday morning December 7, 1941, "a day that will live in infamy", and my life, plus the lives of millions of others, changed forever. Since graduating form high school, I had been attending the Chicago campus of Northwestern University night school, taking whatever courses I felt would help me succeed in the business world. During the day I worked as an assistant credit manager at the Revere Electric Supply Company earning the fabulous salary of $10.00 weekly. That Sunday morning I was deeply engrossed in my homework when my friend, came up to our apartment and informed us that Japan had bomber Pearl Harbor. The next day, the entire workforce at Revere listened to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's speech announcing that a state of war existed between Japan and the United States of America. The following Saturday after work I went downtown to the marine recruiting headquarters and attempted to enlist. 39 recruits were given physicals and only 7 of us passed. Being only 19 years of age my application required a parent’s signature, for at that point in time, even the minimum age to be drafted was 21. When I got home later that day I found Mom deeply engaged in conversation with my cousin and Godmother. Folding over the top of the application, I handed it to Mom with a fountain pen and without really looking she started to sign when my God-mother asked, what is that Rose?" When Mom saw United States Marine Corps at the top of the form, she flatly refused to sign. After considerable arguing and pleading, permission was finally given to me to enlist in the Army Air Corps,

ground forces, which I did the following week. Too quickly, the day arrived for induction and I will never forget the look of anguish on Mom's face as I kissed her good-bye. Bob drove Dad and me downtown and dropped us off at the recruiting office. From there, a rough, tough Sergeant marched us to the railroad station where the train transported us to Camp Grant in Rockford Illinois. There we received our first taste of Army regimen, a crew cut, a quick physical to make sure we were still alive, shots in both arms, and a "short arm" inspection. By this time, all vestiges of dignity had been removed and we were now soldiers in the United States Army Air Corps. Well, not quite soldiers, for we still had to endure six weeks of basic training, which we received at the Jefferson Barracks, St Louis Missouri. This was a real fun time! We lived in drafty tents on the banks of the Mississippi, which we affectionately called "pneumonia gulch". We walked 2 1/2 miles each way for our delicious gourmet meals, endured long hikes with rifle and full pack, and generally learned things never utilized during my 4-year hitch in the service. Upon completion of basic, and because of my typing ability, I was assigned to G-3 of HQ. and HQ. squadron where I became the Post Detail clerk. My job was to assign each squadron a list of details (K.P. latrine orderly, ditch digger and many other boring and distasteful jobs too numerous to mention), which they had to fill with what ever manpower they had available. I had earned my first stripe and had a relatively easy, no brainer, type of job that practically guaranteed my staying stateside for the duration of the war. In addition, my living conditions improved drastically, as I had moved from the tents to a very comfortable barracks. I had also applied for flight training and three months later, in June a decision had been made. It was the first of many choices to come my way. The Army Air Corps had taken over the Stevens (now Hilton) and Blackstone Hotels and my squadron was chosen to manage the operation. This meant that I could live at home, take the bus to work every day, and fight the war without my firing a shot, or, getting shot at! At the same time, my orders came through transferring me to Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas, to embark upon the challenge of a lifetime.to earn my Silver Wings. My choice was one I never regretted making, and of which I have always been proud.
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Kelley Field was 6 months of pre-flight Training rammed into a 30 day period and suddenly for many, the dream of flight came to an end. The dreaded term "washed out" became a reality for those who could not stand the pressure, or who could not fully understand and master the wide scope of subjects in which we were being trained. There was aerodynamics, theory of flight...meteorology, the study of weather and its implications on flight.aircraft recognition, where the outline of an enemy plane was flashed on a screen for 1 second. You had to recognize it, for in combat, that would be all the time you would have to decide whether it was friend or foe. We also had to learn to receive and send 10 words per minute in Morse code.

It was a wonderful but frightening time, for every day you would say goodbye to another buddy, and at the same time wonder if tomorrow might be your last day. Our Class 43-A, was diminished in size and those of us who survived, breathed a sigh of relief, and moved on to primary training.
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Just 60 miles or so west of San Antonio, our next challenge appeared in the form of the civilian flying school at Cuero Texas. We had civilian instructors for our school portion, civilian flight instructors, civilian check pilots, and Army check pilots. In retrospect, I feel they were all in cahoots with each other to make us fully aware that our stay there was uncertain, to say the least. Once again, the fear of being washed out was with us, and unfortunately, many did not survive.

I was extremely fortunate in having Jess Henslee as my flight instructor. He was a very gentle, soft-spoken, and remarkably patient man. He had a profound love of flying and as if by osmosis, would transfer that love and burning desire for flight to his students. My main civilian check pilot, Mr. Bigrigg and Jess Henslee made a perfect pair, although I was not fully aware of that fact until I completed primary.

My good friend Lou Mansfield became ill and was hospitalized for several days. I brought him his mail daily and would visit for a while. In the next bed was a civilian employee, and we would merely say hi and goodbye to each other. However on the last day he became very friendly and talkative. He questioned me at to my flight instructor and how I felt about him. He then asked the same about my civilian check pilot. I told him I had yet to meet Mr. Bigrigg, I understood that he was the roughest, toughest S.O.B. on the base and that he was even more miserable than my army test pilot, "one ride O'Keefe". With a sinister smile on his face he informed me that he was Bigrigg, and in the morning I would be the first on his list for a flight check. Needless to say, that flight was a nightmare for he screamed and cursed at me during and after each maneuver.

It was two hours of living hell! I fully expected to be washed out at that point, but instead, he told Jess to get me out in the area for I needed to work on all my maneuvers. On my next check flight he wasn't so hard on me, although I wouldn't have called it a piece of cake. It was customary for those who have completed their training to have a congratulatory drink with his instructor and when I arrived at Henslee's house, there stood Bigrigg with a big smile on his face. In one hand he had a drink and in the other the notepad he always had strapped to his leg during a flight. He turned to my page that covered my first flight, put his arm around my shoulder and let me read the only notation he had made..."pylon eights slightly off".

Prior to this experience, my big day had arrived, for after approximately 10 hours of training I soloed! Jess had landed at an auxiliary field, got out of the plane, smiled at me and said, "your ready...take her up". I opened the throttle, roared down the runway and as I watched the earth slowly slip away, the realization of my childhood dream was at hand...I was flying! Upon landing it was an Air Corps tradition to wear your uniform backwards, which I did with great pleasure and pride.

After soloing, Lou Mansfield and I would frequently rendezvous outside the normal area and fly formation, tipping each other's wings up and down. Lou was a great pilot and much better at this maneuver than I. However, his instructor, who was not well liked, taught him to hold inside rudder when banking instead of neutralizing the controls. As a result his check pilot washed him out. During the many solo flight I had during my primary, I would after practicing the prescribed maneuvers, just do my thing by experimenting with aerobatics or flying towards a rain cloud in my open cockpit getting soaked to the skin. How can one describe the thrill and pleasure of flying in and out of a great cumulus cloud, soaring like a bird, or just enjoying the peace and serenity of flight. You have power, you are in command, you are alone, but are your really? For as you wing your way through the wild blue yonder, the last line of a poem by John Gillespie Magee Jr. comes to mind, "Put out my hand and touched the face of God".
Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth.
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hovered there
I've chased the shouting wings along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air
Up up the long delerious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew.
And while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed serenity of space
Put out my hand and touched the face of GOD

So after 2 months and 60 hours of flight training, the weary but ecstatic survivors were ready to conquer the next obstacle in their quest for those Silver Wings.
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Brady, Texas is located in the geographic center of that vast state and is referred to as 'The Heart of Texas'. Frankly, I think it was suffering from severe angina! Brady was a typical small town, with the traditional bandstand in the center of a little park. Surrounding the park was the business district, which consisted of a small hotel, a cafe that did serve delicious chicken fried steak, a movie theatre, general and feed stores, village hall, a jail, and loads of very attractive young gals who certainly did their part in 'keeping up the moral of the fighting men'. Be that as it may, this was where Curtis Field, another civilian flying school under Army supervision, was located and that would be our home for the next 60 days of basic training. We were getting into some serious stuff here, We had graduated from the Fairchild PT-19 with its 175 HP Ranger engine, to the BT-13, fully equipped with a 450 HP Wasp engine, radio, and a variable pitch prop.

The plane was affectionately known as the Vultee Vibrator, and let me tell you, it certainly did! Once again I was lucky to be assigned to a wonderful instructor, Mr. Jennings, and I didn't do too badly with my two check pilots. We found our ground school subjects had become quite technically advanced. Our curriculum included radio communication, navigation and a flight simulator called the Link trainer. In Link you received your first taste of flying on instruments while enclosed in a contraption that simulates actual flight. The operator can subject you to all types of weather conditions while you are attempting to fly a prescribed navigational course. We all had difficulty adapting to the Link with all the severe weather the operator threw at us. On many occasions we would find ourselves either hopelessly lost or in an untenable situation ready to spin in and crash. I had this innate propensity to either say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time and find myself in a peck of trouble. When one of these events occurred in the Link, and I was ready to "bail out", I did. I flipped open the lid and jumped out saying, I'm hitting the silk"! I thought that was quite funny, as did the operator, but unfortunately, the base commander did not. He had just walked into the room and observed my little fiasco. I did not receive my walking papers as I expected, but I did get a generous piece of his mind in no uncertain terms.

(Note: Link trainer (model C-3) of the type used during WW II for teaching pilots proper procedures of instrument flight, such as using a radio range for determining an airplane's position in bad weather and a subsequent let-down to a field for landing. An operator sat at the desk and transmitted radio signals, which the "pilot" in the link heard though his ear phones. The pilot "flew" the link through various turns, climbs, and descents, and the link's "course" was traced in red ink by the remote "bug" on a map on the table. After a flight was completed, the pilot could study the red-line course to determine what he might have done incorrectly.)

It wasn't all fun and games but a lot of serious work. We were now into formation flying, night flying, instrument flying, and cross-country flights. We would fly a round robin, where we would leave our local area, fly to two or three other locations without landing, and then return to our base. We plotted our own course using the 'dead reckoning' system of navigation, compass headings, speed and direction of the wind, drift, and of course speed of the aircraft and the time element involved. It was quite a challenge and several of the fellows got hopelessly lost, ran out of fuel and had to make emergency landings in some farmer's field. As one of the guys was getting out of his plane, he saw and heard this farmer running towards him brandishing a pitchfork and screaming in Spanish. His first thought was that he had landed in Mexico, but as it turned out, he was still in Texas. Night flying was a different ball game altogether. At first, in was a frightening experience for everyone. It was a combination of instrument flying, and at times, using visual contact. Unfortunately, night flying decimated our ranks further as many fellows showed signs of vertigo and were immediately washed out. The fun part of flight training came in the form of aerobatics, which had been introduced to us in primary at Cuero. Now, the fine-tuning of the various maneuvers was taking place. It was not enough just to do the maneuver.... precision was of the utmost importance. Not only were we taught to deliberately stall and spin the aircraft, but also how to regain a normal flight attitude. It was extremely important for emergency procedures. Ultimate proficiency in other maneuvers, such as loops, immelmanns, slow barrel and snap rolls, was mandated. Your life would depend on them in aerial combat. Naturally, to a man, we all wanted to fly fighters and these maneuvers were part of a fighter pilot's training. We all said, "I want" but the Air Corps said, "You can't have"...so we all became bomber pilots. Speaking of fighters, one day a P-38 Lightning landed at Brady and all the students were at the flight line watching with our tongues hanging out. To this day I cannot believe what I saw, but it actually happened. I must preface this story by saying that the P-38, because of it's twin boom construction, was an extremely difficult plane from which to bail out, as the horizontal bar connecting the booms could slice you in half.

As a result, engineering devised an emergency system, comprised of a compressed spring, which, when released, would eject the pilot, seat and all. The pilot swooped in and made a beautiful landing, but unfortunately, he was still 10 feet off the ground. When the plane stalled and bounced in, the impact released the pilot who somersaulted through the air, and somehow, became separated from his seat. He landed, fortunately, in a sitting position on his parachute, which obviously absorbed much of the effect of his collision with Mother Earth. In the meantime, the plane was bouncing its merry way down the runway. The pilot, most likely in a state of shock, got up and started running after the plane hollering "Hey, Hey"! Unbelievably, he came through this experience without a scratch. The plane however, was not as lucky, for it crashed at the end of the runway.
By the time the basic training period was completed, those of us who remained felt that we had taken a giant step towards our ultimate goal of bring called 'pilots'.
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The final obstacle was at hand...advanced flying training. Those of us that had thus far survived the severity of primary and basic, arrived at Lubbock Army flying School, located just south of Amarillo in the Texas panhandle. We were weary and fatigued, our nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point, but we realized that our dream of wearing those Silver Wings was just two months away. For the first time we were stationed at a full-fledged Army base with Army instructors, check pilots and personnel. Once again lady Luck was in my corner as I was assigned, along with three others, to Captain Storey, a soft- spoken, fatherly type, who nestled his students under his wing. In his gentle manner Captain Storey let you know that he expected 101% from each of us. He demanded total concentration and effort on our part, not just to learn from him, but also to excel in each and every maneuver and nuance regarding flight. In effect, what we had learned and accomplished up to that point, was basically fun and games. We had absorbed the basics of flying...now, it was up to Captain Storey to hone and fine-tune this newfound ability to near perfection. We were made to realize that it was not enough just to be able to fly, but in order to survive in combat, we would have to learn our lessons well and become 'good' pilots. We were divided into teams of 2. My partner was Fred Mingus. Although Fred and I knew each other throughout our training, this close relationship for the next two months, established a bond and a friendship that has lasted to this day. We were now flying twin engined aircraft, the Cessna AT-17,

with two 225 HP radial engines and the Curtis AT-9 with two 325 HP engines. Both airplanes were equipped with retractable landing gear, adjustable pitch propellers and additional radio and navigational instrumentation. Ground school and Link trainer became quite formidable, as was actual flight training. We were into extensive formation flying and both day and night navigational flights. It wasn't long before Fred and I realized that we had become captain Storey's favorites. It was fairly obvious, for if we erred, he would chew us out like there was no tomorrow. Then he'd make doubly certain that we understood what we had done wrong so that we would not make the same mistake twice. Being young and so close to the realization of a life long dream, Fred and I became quite cocky.... and foolish! One day we flew outside of the normal training area for some extracurricular activity. Each one of us attempted and succeeded in power rolling the aircraft. A normal slow roll is accomplished using only the ailerons, whereas a power roll uses only the engines by increasing the power on one while decreasing the power on the other. This was quite a feat for a student. Although we gained the envy of the other trainees, it came back to haunt us later on. Most of the fellows made it through advance, very few washed out. Our sights were set on successfully completing our training, and suddenly, it was graduation day, the day we had worked so hard to realize. My cousin and God-father Cook Heller brought Mon and Dad to Lubbock for the commencement exercises. We marched into the hangar as enlisted personnel, endured the ceremony, were handed our silver wings and official orders designating our rank, sang the Air Corps song and heaved a sigh of relief. It was over. Our dream had come true. Tradition has it that one must never wear the wings he receives at graduation but must pin them on his Mother, wife or girlfriend. So as soon as the festivities were over,

I pinned them on Mom and she, with tears of joy in her eyes, placed on my chest the wings I had purchased at the PX. I had entered that hangar as an enlisted man and was now leaving as a pilot and officer of the United States Army Air Corps. As we exited the hangar, a horde of GI's were anxiously waiting, for another ritual was that a newly commissioned officer had to give a $1.00 bill to the first GI who saluted him. As was the custom, Flight Officers Mingus and Jacobs, with bars on their shoulders and wings on their chests, went out to have the congratulatory drink with their instructor, a very proud Captain Storey. Thinking he would be delighted with our exploit, we related the power roll scenario to him. Immediately we regretted opening our mouths. He sadly responded that he had overlooked one extremely important facet of our training. "Always remember" he said, "there are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots". If there had been a hole in the floor Fred and I would have crawled into it. Prior to graduation we had actually been given a choice as to our assignment. We could choose The Air Transport Command.... Ferry Command.... the B-24 Liberator,

a lumbering giant of a plane commonly known as the Flying Boxcar..... the B-26 martin Marauder, which had a multitude of names none of which were complimentary such as: The Flying Prostitute, (note: in reference to its small wings...that is NO VISIBLE MEANS OF SUPPORT) the Flying Coffin, the Widow Maker, and the Baltimore Whore. The B26 was as close to a fighter plane as you could get. Aerodynamically, like the bumblebee it could not fly, but as the saying goes, if you put enough power on a kitchen table, it will fly. Power it had, 2 Pratt and Whitney 2000 HP radial engines along with a slick cigar shaped fuselage and short wings gave it an extraordinarily high wing loading of 72 pounds per square foot.

The wing loading made it an exceedingly 'hot' airplane that would stall out between 130 and 140 MPH. It was the fastest bomber in the air, and was unbelievably maneuverable. It was, however, considered extremely dangerous to fly. It was an exciting challenge and much to the chagrin of my parents, I chose the B-26. This, too, was a choice I never regretted making. As I once said to General Muench, when he quoted in his book, "The Maruader men were a special breed of man, and I am damned proud to be one of them"!
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It was a wonderful train ride back to Chicago. Although Mom and Dad were upset with me for choosing a combat aircraft, I could see the unmistakable signs of their pride in my accomplishments. After we arrived home, Mom was constantly on the phone with all the relatives explaining why I couldn't give them each one evening. As I had only 7 days leave, Mom finally decided to have a family dinner and invite all the aunts, uncles and cousins. It was a rather hectic dinner with all the questions being fired at me one after another. After all that Army chow, I was enjoying my Mother's cooking to the fullest. I would take a mouthful, ask for butter to be passed, answer a question, and ask for the butter to be passed, swallow my food and answer another question. Suddenly, Dad slapped me across the face. Instead of answering my query as to why, he struggled to his feet, secured his leg brace so that he could walk, grabbed me by the collar and marched me out of the room. Dad, by then quite upset, informed me that saying 'pass the f----g butter'. was not appropriate or acceptable family table conversation. I immediately realized why a definite hush had come over the table. I told him how sorry I was and explained that not only wasn't I aware that I had said it, I certainly would not use such language in front of my family. It came out automatically, for in the Army, after three requests, that was SOP (standard operating procedure). Well, Dad insisted that I apologize to all of the guests and like a dutiful son, I did. Needless to say, it took many years to live that gaffe down.
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In the same vein, one of my classmates, Bob Hribal, went home to a small mining town in Pennsylvania. He was the first native son to return as a pilot and was treated like a hero. There were parades, dinners and of course the obligatory visit to the high school. A special assembly was called and Bob was called upon to relate his experiences during flight training. When he asked for questions from the student body, they came fast and furiously. Suddenly to his amazement he was whisked off the stage and his moment of glory was concluded. He later was informed that when asked what he did in his spare time, he inadvertently replied, Oh, we just f----d around".
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Chicago was known as a service man's town. It has a USO that was nationally known and the loop area was always jammed with military personnel. One day, after visiting my old HQ & HQ squadron, I was walking north on State Street behind two soldiers. One of them was so fascinated with the large department store windows that he did not see a 2nd Lieutenant approaching from the other direction. The one soldier saluted, but the other one, so completely engrossed with his window-shopping, failed to do so. The officer, thoroughly impressed with the gold bars on his shoulder, proceeded to castigate him unmercifully. He then had the gall to order him, as a punishment, to salute the officer 100 times. A crowd, including Military Police had gathered around this absurd and shameful spectacle, so the poor guy had no choice but to stand there and toss this wimp highball after highball. Somewhere around the halfway mark, a full Colonel appeared making his way to the center of the crowd. Somebody explained what was taking place and he merely stood there with a disapproving look on his face. It was now obvious that the Lieutenant was getting quite embarrassed and was looking for a way out, but unfortunately for him, there was none. When the soldier completed his 100th salute and before the Lieutenant could leave, the soldier said, "Sir, isn't it customary for an Officer to return all salutes rendered him"? The Lieutenant gulped and sheepishly looked at the Colonel who merely nodded his head affirmatively. When he answered yes the soldier replied that he had just saluted him 100 times. Again the Colonel nodded his head and the imbecilic officer stood there and returned 100 salutes. When he finished, he took off like a shot out of hell...the soldier saluted the Colonel who, with a smile on his face returned the salute. .
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Too soon my leave was over, and with great anticipation, I was on my way to my next assignment. I boarded the train that would take me to the Avon Park Bombing Range in Florida.

In the early stages of the war, all trains had a club car where one could relax; enjoy a drink and friendly conversation.

The only chair available was next to a Major who, obviously, had been freshly recruited from civilian life. He was diligently studying the Officer's Manual attempting to learn as much about being an officer as possible. After all, he now had gold leaves on his shoulders and he didn't have the foggiest idea as to what was expected of him. At this point in time, the armed forces, growing rapidly in size, needed experienced personnel from management positions in various branches of the service. They would, therefore, approach business executives and appeal to their sense of patriotism, enlist them in the service of their choice, and offer them a commission commensurate with their age and experience. To fully understand the rest of this story, I must explain that when I entered flying school, I chose the Aviation Student rather than the Aviation cadet program. Although the programs were identical, the cadets would graduate as a 2nd Lieutenant, whereas the students would become Staff Sergeants. At that time I was happy as an enlisted man and had no desire to become an officer. However, 2 months prior to my graduating, the Air Corps abolished the Flight Sergeant classification and replaced it with the new rank of Flight Officer. It was so new; there were no officer bars available. As necessity is the mother of invention, we made our own by taking blue Scotch tape and placing two fields of blue on gold colored 2nd Lieutenant bars. It didn't take long for me to realize and fully enjoy the pleasures of being an officer. Now back to the story. I sat down, brusquely saying, Good evening, Major". He looked up, smiled and with a perplexed expression on his face said, Good evening Sir." After all, my rank was so new; it was not listed in the Officer's manual. A pleasant conversation ensued during which I always referred to him as Major, and all his remarks to me were prefaced with a Sir. As the evening wore on, this poor Major became quite frustrated. He not only wasn't able to comprehend my rank, he truly did not know how to handle the situation. Finally, in sheer desperation, he asked me for an explanation as to where my rating stood in the military hierarchy. When I told him I was a Flight Officer, he said he understood that because of my wings. I then asked if he knew what a 2nd Lieutenant was and he nodded affirmatively. You can imagine the shocked look on his face when I informed him that a Flight Officer was one-step below.
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Avon Park Florida is located in the center of Florida, just south of Lake Wales, north of Sebring. and east of Tampa. It is bounded on the north by a lake, which has its share of water moccasins, and generally was in the center of a tremendous citrus area. When we would venture into the town of Avon Park, we would usually pick some oranges off the trees. On our first day of training began and we ambled down to the flight line and had our first look at that beautiful, but badly maligned bird, the B-26. For me, that began a love affair that lasts to this day. Each instructor had four rookie assigned to him and he would work with two of them at a time. Bob Hribal, a classmate from flying school, and I were teamed together. We were both cognizant of the fact that one of us would become the 1st pilot and the other, the co-pilot. The transitions from the training airplanes to this medium bomber were breathtaking. The B-26 had tremendous power, was extremely fast in comparison, and of course, was exceptionally "hot."

It was too much airplane for inexperienced pilots and until we had sufficient training in handling her, the casualty rate rose dramatically. The saying was, "One a day in Tampa Bay." and unfortunately, that was the dilemma that existed. Between Mcdill and Avon Park, both B-26 training stations, we did, in fact lose at least one plane a day. We all felt that if we lived through training, we would survive combat. After several months, the day arrived when our instructor would decide who would sit left seat as 1st pilot. We each shot three landings and unfortunately for Bob, he had an off day and his were on the rough side. I 'greased' mine in and they were so smooth, you hardly knew that you were on the ground. Shortly there after, Bob was removed from my crew and after being given another chance, was switched to the left seat. During this period, all training flights would have a full complement of crew aboard, such as flight engineers, radio operators, gunners, navigators, and bombardiers. This crew varied from flight to flight and being more concerned about learning to handle this hot lady, little attention was given as to who was aboard. Moreover, the crew would change from flight to flight. One of the privileges of being 1st pilot was the opportunity of choosing your flight crew, and that began the saga of Staff Sergeant David C. Pritchard.
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I must preface the narrative on 'Pritch', as I affectionately called him, with an epic example of my, previously mentioned propensity for creating incredible problems. During the initial instructional period Bob Hribal and I would take turns flying left seat on each training mission. On this fateful day, I was to fly as 1st pilot. During the ground check, the pilot, along with the crew chief, would inspect the exterior of the aircraft for any sign of malfunction. During the inspection, I suddenly heard a voice behind me asking, "What do you think of this 'lousy' airplane?" Turning around, I saw a civilian standing there dressed in a business suit and hat. Being young, foolish, and rather stupid, I did not take into consideration the fact that a civilian, standing on a flight line on a military base, would have to be someone of import. In addition to the above, being quite cocky, I opened my big mouth and proceeded, in no uncertain terms and replete with an inordinate amount of profanity, to call him a jerk. Having vented my indignation, I climbed into the cockpit to continue with my mission. I filled out the form 1-A [the listing of names and serial numbers of all aboard], and handed it to the crew chief. As I proceeded with the cockpit check, prepatory to starting the engines, I noticed the crew chief handing the form to the civilian. I gave it no further thought or concern and four hours or so later, upon landing, checked in with the Squadron Operations Officer who informed me that I was to report to the Commanding Officer.... not the Squadron C.O..... the base C.O. I was in 'deep doo doo'...I was in trouble! During to the high rate of training accidents of the B-26, the Truman Investigating Committee, comprised of several Senators under the direction of Senator Harry Truman, was making a determination as to whether or not the B-26 should remain, or be removed from active service. I had severely castigated a United States Senator and he was 'pissed'.

The C.O. had been requested to proceed with my Discharge Without Honor, which meant that I could be re-drafted in 7 days as a buck private. When asked why I had acted in such an irresponsible manner, I could only reply that I was extremely proud to have been chosen to fly the finest airplane ever made. In addition, I deeply resented any person, who obviously knew nothing about aviation, ridiculing the B-26. Fortunately for me, General Anderson, the C.O., along with Generals Jimmy Doolittle, Herbert Thatcher plus several other high ranking officers, felt as I did and fought for and succeeded in saving an airplane that ended its career with an outstanding record. It had the highest degree of bombing efficiency plus the lowest loss rate [one half of one percent] of any combat aircraft. My actions, however, did justify punishment, so, with compassion, the General ordered a 3-day house arrest plus a 3-day stint of drilling the enlisted personnel of my squadron.
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My house arrest was merely a confinement to quarters with an MP in attendance 24 hours a day. They made certain that there were no unauthorized departures from my quarters. Room service was not included, so they would accompany me top the mess hall for my meals and to the 'john' for all necessary ablutions. As for the remainder of my punishment, at 6:00 each evening, I would have the squadron Top Sergeant call the enlisted personnel to attention. When they were all present and accounted for, I gave him the order to commence drilling. All I had to do was stand there and at the conclusion of the drill, instruct the Sergeant to dismiss the group. However, on the first night, just prior to my ordering the drill to start, a short, gremlin like character with a speech impediment, [he stammered], approached and informed me that he had just finished a detail and didn't have an opportunity to have dinner. Would I excuse him so he could go to the mess hall before it closed. Naturally permission was granted, but with the understanding that he would report back to me immediately upon finishing his meal. An hour later, just as I was giving the order to dismiss the squadron, he reported back saying that there was a long line at the mess hall, therefore, the delay. The next day, at precisely 6:00 P.M., he once again, because of late detail, asked for permission to get to the mess hall before it closed. I figured, what the hell, its no skin off my nose let him go. As expected, just as the squadron was being dismissed, he reported back to me with the identical excuse...there was a long line at the mess hall. This time, however there was an impish grin on his face. On day three, the same scenarios with the same impish grin covering his face. This time my face was quite stern as I granted permission and ordered him to report back to me after he had eaten. Sure enough, as the squadron was once again being dismissed, he reported back as ordered. As he stood there beaming from ear to ear, I informed him that I had been a GI prior to being an officer, and I was quite proficient at giving close order, rapid fire drill. I drilled his butt all over the area until he was soaked with perspiration. When I asked if he thought he could get away with that stunt, his reply was simple, direct and formed the foundation of a friendship that lasted until his recent death. His answer was, "Sir, I wanted to be certain that you remember me...my name is Staff Sergeant David C. Pritchard and I have flown with you on several of your training missions. You are one helluva a pilot and I want to be your tail gunner, for I feel that going overseas on your crew, I will stand a damn good chance of coming back alive." So you see, I didn't choose Pritch, he chose me!
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As for the crew picture...from left to right...yours truly...replacement bombardier, name long forgotten...Dean Hodges, co-pilot...Howard Yard, radio op...David Pritchard, tail gunner, and John McNamara, flight engineer.

Pritchard highly recommended Harland R. Bird for flight engineer and Howard N. Yard for radio operator. Bird, who came from Bradley, Arkansas,

was a soft spoken individual with a wry sense of humor and was a very sincere and dedicated person who knew every aspect of the B-26. I gave him an extremely exacting test on his knowledge on the plane by taking random questions from the tech manual. His responses were immediate and accurate and I knew he would be a superb addition to the crew. Yard, from Scarsdale, New York, was a very quiet, very withdrawn person with a most interesting background. He was either a millionaire or multi-millionaire and had been around the world twice before the war. His mother was a Reynolds of the R.J. Reynolds clan and his Father had been financially involved in the railroads. In spite of this background, and in spite of the fact that he was 12 years my senior, on several occasions he would approach me saying, "Sir, I want to ask your advice" and I would laugh hysterically. I assume, that as his pilot, he expected me to be worldly-wise and have all the answers. Hey, he had been around the world. I had made it to Wisconsin once or twice. Being only 21 years of age and the youngest member of the crew, my only concern was that the lives of five men were dependent on my ability as a pilot. Bob Hribal was replaced by Ed Penney as my co-pilot and Walter J.Brown was assigned to my crew as navigator. It was my desire that each member of my crew would be able to land the aircraft in the event that both pilots were incapacitated. This program progressed nicely until the day Penny and Brownie attempted a crosswind take off in a small Piper Cub. A sudden gust of wind flipped them over and Penny ended up in traction for a spine injury. His replacement was Dean W. Hodges from Greenfield, Iowa, the only married man on the crew...
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The compass is one of the most important instruments in an aircraft. It is an integral part of the navigation process. Without it, you're lost, and sometimes with it, if it is out of alignment, the end result is the same. If it is inaccurately adjusted, for every degree it is off and for every 60 miles of flight, you will end up 1 mile off course. On a long flight this could end up with disastrous results as we discovered one evening on a celestial navigation flight for Brownie. We were to fly due north from Avon Park for approximately 2 hours or 500 miles, and then reverse our course and return to base. It was a beautiful cloudless night with very calm and stable air conditions. We took off, I established a 360-degree heading, and adjusted the trim tabs so that minimal corrections were needed to keep it on course. Brownie, with his sextant, was to "shoot" the stars at prescribed intervals and establish our precise location. About 30 minutes into the flight, Brownie entered the pilot’s compartment to inquire if I was maintaining the proper heading. When I replied in the affirmative, he shook his head and said that he must be doing something wrong because his calculations showed that were west of our prescribed course. Brownie became more exasperated as the flight progressed, for each reading showed us farther and farther west of course. When we reached our ETA, [estimated time of arrival] we should have been directly over our base. Instead it was as if we had entered a black hole for there were no lights visible anywhere. Consternation reigned as we vainly tried to determine where we were. Suddenly Pritchard, who had been riding in the bombardier's compartment, stated that we were over water and had been for almost thirty minutes. Knowing that Avon Park is located in central Florida. equidistant from both the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, the question was, which body of water was below us. We were running low on fuel and I had to make a decision. I chose to trust Brownie's readings and headed due east. I leaned out the fuel mixture as much as I could without impairing engine performance, gradually increased our altitude, and issued instructions for everyone to wear their parachute. After 30 or 45 minutes of flight we began to see the lights of Tampa and Macdill Army Air base and set our course for our home field. I established radio contact with a very worried tower operator, received landing instructions and set her down on good old terra firma. While we were rolling down the runway, one engine conked out and the other started sputtering. We were out of fuel. It was later determined that our compass was off approximately 15 degrees and we had been about 200 miles off the west coast of Florida...
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About a month prior to our leaving for overseas, the opportunity to remain permanently as instructors was offered to 2 other pilots and myself. The prospect of not being shot at, plus decent living conditions and pretty girls, who simply adored aviators, was almost too much to decline. The other two didn't, I did, and that was the third decision that was exceedingly disturbing to my parents. At this time, it had been made perfectly clear that upon completion of training, crews would be given orders to leave immediately for overseas duty in the ETO [European Theater of Operations]. Unfortunately, because of the urgent need for combat crews, no leaves or furloughs would be granted. This bombshell came as a devastating blow to everyone involved, as we all fully realized that there was the possibility of not returning, and we would not be able to see our families before shipping out. Hodges and I were from the Midwest and Yard, Brown and Pritchard were from the New York City area. there was nothing I could do to arrange a flight to the north, but I felt I could at least manage to get Bird home. A navigational flight was set up to so that Brownie could shoot the sun on a day flight and the stars on the return flight at night. We were to fly to Barksdale Field, Shreveport, Louisiana, land, refuel, and return after sunset that evening. Knowing that Shreveport was only 40 miles south of Bird's home in Bradley, my devious mind concocted a plan, which I did not reveal to anyone until we were almost ready to land at Barksdale. Bird, almost in tears during the entire flight, was bemoaning the fact that he would be so close and yet he wouldn't be able to see his family because we were under orders to return that evening. I commiserated with him until we were about 15 minutes out of Barksdale. I asked him about the switch on the electrical panel over the door leading to the bomb bay. I knew if the switch were turned off and on again while we were under full power, the generator would be completely destroyed forcing us to RON [remain over night] while the necessary repairs were being completed. I'll never forget the expression of gratitude when I told him I did not have eyes in the back of my head so it would be impossible for me to report anyone deliberately destroying government equipment. Needless to say, upon landing, everyone took off not to return until 6:00 PM the following evening.

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