That was a good one Walt.
And then there was the mission that was a planned rescue op. from the start. Buhdman intentionaly ditched behind enemy lines. Here are three of our after-action reports:
C-47-1 eskimo
Once General Patton heard that his "Loverboy" (Sgt. Barrow) was down, he ordered the rest of the Buccaneers to
rescue him at all costs.
The C-47 seemed pretty sluggish compared to my usual P-38, "Sgt. Hall and His Unfeasibly Large Testicles", but it
was a breeze to fly. I climbed to 10K before crossing the mountains. I spotted Sgt. Barrows crashed P-38 at about
20 miles out and dove down at 270 mph. At 10 miles out I spotted bogies high to the West and called them out to
the lucky bastards who got to fly planes with guns.
I touched down and taxied up to Sgt. Barrows (Buhdman) P-38. As I approached I saw a parachute wrapped
around the left vertical stab. My eyes traced the chute cords 20' back to a lump that I soon realized was Sgt.
Barrow. With a dogfight erupting above me I dashed out of the 47's cargo door toward Sgt. Barrow. My mind was
racing, trying to figure out what had happened. It suddenly all made sense. Sgt. Barrow never wears his harness,...
and always flies with the canopy open. The S.O.B. opened his parachute inside the plane,... AGAIN! This time,
however, it got caught on the rudder. His plane must have dragged him around for the better part of an hour
before it ran out of gas and glided in. It's hard to imagine that he could have survived being dragged on the ground
behind his un-piloted P-38 at 120 mph as it slid to a stop, but I am sure that's what must have happened. The long
shallow pond behind his 38 probably saved his life! Just his luck that he survived the ordeal!
My eyes watered as I knelt over him to undo his chute harness because the smell of scotch was so strong (a gift
from Patton, you can bet). His eyes popped open as he awoke from his snooze. He immediately exclaimed,
"HHHHHeeeeeeeeeyyyyy ......eeski...mowww!!". He then proceeded to vomit on my blouse, and passed out. "Sgt.
Barrow, drunk as always", I thought to myself. I threw him over my shoulder, marched back to the 47, and shoved
him though the cargo door.
I then proceeded to take off to the east, away from the fight. I got a glimpse of a 190, but the buccaneers chased
it off. It wasn't long before I heard that oosik and Delta had gone down. oosik was now dead and Delta needed a
rescue. ...Thanks Sgt. Barrow. I debated going back for Delta. Knfe called me back to get him, and Whitey told me
to head back to base. I turned back for Delta four times, but on each occasion spotted multiple bogies. My squad
was now anchored, and more Buccaneers were going down, ... Gronk, and then ...Camel. I shamefully decided to
run for home (as knfe repeatedly pointed out). Sabre managed to find me and escort me home. An N1k and FW-190
were driven off so that I could land safely.
I just hope that Patton is happy.
eskimo
And:
Eskimo,
You had better watch your six, good buddy ! That's not the way it happened at all. Besides, I've never even
met the good general!
I was on a secret, hush-hush, low-level recon mission somewhere in enemy territory. For security reasons, I can't
tell you what I was doing or exactly where I was going. Suffice it to say that it was very, very important. Why else
would they risk such a valuable pilot as myself on a mission so dangerous?
Anyway, I made my way a tree-top and boulder level over the eastern mountains and was making my way
northward over the coastal plains when I heard the dreadful sound of small arms hits and a couple of loud BANGS. I
never saw the troops who got me, but they must have been very good shots. I was traveling at over 360 IAS and
right on the deck. Very good they were, or very lucky. The bottom line is BOTH engines started coughing and
sputtering and emitting gray smoke. I knew I was in for a rough landing on a very short field!
I climbed for what altitude I could grab and had a look around. These coastal areas are pretty tough on landing
gear with all the scrub brush that grows there, but this time luck was on my side. There in the distance, about 2
miles off, I saw some cultivated land. These fields would do nicely for a belly landing.
About that time, my number one engine quit. Skewing wildly to the left, I worked the trim and the controls to
regain control about the time number two bit the dust. I was committed now.
Luck was still with me, for my glide slope put me just past the near end of the plowed field. Must have been corn
there earlier in the year for the stalks still protruded from the dirt clods that formed the furrows. I held her steady
and eased her down very, very slowly until I literally slid into the dirt. I worked the rudders wildly trying to stop
myself before I hit the hedge-row at the other end of the field and managed to stop about twenty-five yards short
of smashing myself into oblivion. It was just about then that I noticed the wet spot in my crotch.
I had gotten off a mayday call before I crashed so I knew help was on the way. That was pre-arranged when the
mission was planned. What I didn't count on was the radio being damaged during the crash landing. I could get a
few words out now and then, but mostly what I transmitted was static. At least, that's all I could hear, so I
presumed that's what I was sending.
I saw a small fire on my right side, but after careful inspection, I realized that it was posing no threat to me or the
aircraft. Still, I figured it would be better if I got out of the plane. Here was where my luck ran out. I had bounced
the plane in a bit when I hit the ground and now the canopy was warped just enough that the door wouldn't pop
open like it usually did. It seemed I was stuck inside until help arrive. Help, or the bad guys, whoever got there
first. Thank god that fire was no threat!
It wasn't long before I saw dots in the sky to my south. I hoped against hope that it was the rescue force, not an
enemy patrol looking for something to shoot. As it turns out, the radio wasn't damaged beyond hope, because I
heard the familiar voice of one of my squad-mates telling the rest of the rescue force that he had spotted me and
was surveying the area for a place to land. The country road next to the field would make a dandy landing strip.
The rest of the story is pretty much as you describe it except for: A. I was not drunk. I have carried that bottle of
scotch on every single mission I have flown in this theater. It must have broken during the crash or been hit by a
small arms round. Believe me, I was terribly disappointed to realize that the spot in my crotch was NOT pee. An B,
my chute got tangled up in the wreckage after you accidentally pulled the rip chord trying to extract me from the
cockpit. If you had let me get out on my own after you pried open the hatch, everything would have been just
fine.
As for the trip home, I was beginning to wonder after the third attempt to go back to my crash site whether or not
you had popped the cork on your own bottle or something. The medic finally reassured me that you were acting
under orders and that if I didn't calm down he would use the rest of the morphine to calm me down. The last thing
I remember about that flight was me screaming a string of profanities and then a slight sting in my leg and then a
beautiful pasture with a most marvelous little stream running through it and … and … a blonde …
buhdman, out
------------------
Walt (buhdman) Barrow
(formerly lt-buhd-lite)
The Buccaneers - "Return with Honor"
home.earthlink.net/~wjbarrow
And:
Eskimo,
Buhdman,
I took over Alpha Flight (in P-51s) when Alpha Lead (Sabre) had to abort. We were providing cover at roughly 5K
as orderd, with the P-38s at 10K. The 38s becamed engaged with at least 2 enemy cons West of the recovery
area and above 5K.
Two cons came through the 38 cover, a 190 and a Spit. Our flight took care of the 190 in due course. An F4U also
got through the 38 cover and Alpha flight engaged. I wound up in a chase with the F4U and eventually got enough
hits into it that it crashed attempting to ditch.
I turned back to the vicinity of the C-47 and by now we had another (or the same) Spit and a 190 to content
with. I was turning to engage the 190 when the Spit came up on my 6 and poured it into me.
I immediately bailed and landed some 8 or so miles E to ENE of 21. I waited for rescue, but each time either the 47
or fighter approached my location, enemy fighter would appear and drove 'em off.
I heard much discussion on how and with what aircraft to attempt my rescue. But the situation was too hostile for
either the 47 or the fighters to attempt a landing at my location.
At one point, an enemy dove on my ground position firing. I did a snake dance and to my amazement, he missed.
He was chased off and downed by the remaining 38s and 51s.
I eventually started a walk East toward the coast to facilitate a possible rescue. I managed to cover perhaps 3
miles when first a 190 appeared overhead, but apparently did not spot me or simply ignored me.
A Spit then appeared from the South or SouthWest, overflew my location, turned (180) and proceeded to shoot me
on the ground.
(What a d** s***)
delta
