An Interesting story..

[5PointOh]

Picture this: Flying along in your favorite bird and you happen to be 15k or so near a CV or stat target.  Next thing you know oil all over the windscreen or radiator hit.  Frustrating right?  I found this on one of my favorite websites... http://www.littlefriends.co.uk/index.php

The following article is a copy of a private publication by the pilot concerned, Stephen C. Ananian. It is reproduced here with his permission and my gratitude.

Ramrod was the code word to designate a mission in which fighter planes escorted our bombers. I guess the word comes from the days of the old west. Cowboys that herded the cattle were called ramrods. They rounded up the strays and brought the cattle home. I often felt like I was riding herd on the bombers, protecting them from enemy fighters and bringing them home safely!

Every fighter pilot remembers his first combat mission. Mine is one that will be talked about for a long time.

October 5, 1944. We were awakened early. It was a cold and windy day. Briefing was the usual quick and efficient session. Mission for the day, Ramrod, escorting two boxes of B-17s... a short hop, four hours... Target, Munster, in the Rhur Valley... lot's of Flak* expected... probably no fighter opposition... perhaps a few ME-262s**... Altitude, twenty seven thousand feet... Freezing level at two thousand... Violent up drafts... gale warnings over the English Channel and North Sea... That means that Air Sea Rescue won't be patrolling the flight path... "if you see any baracks in this area don't strafe them. It might be a POW camp, and we would not want to risk shooting our own men".

I was flying Chet Malarz' plane. It was a sleek P-51B. His mechanic told me it was a good airplane and the engine was practically new. Only ten hours flying time since it was installed. We were in white flight. Tom Rich was flight leader and I was flying his wing. take off was at nine forty one...

*Flak: Anti aircraft fire
**ME-262s: German jet propelled fighters. Very fast and very dangerous.

 
We circled the field in formation while the Group formed up. "Land -fall out"* was at ten twenty-six and we headed out over the North Sea. I could see white caps on the water below us. It looked cold and gray. Just before we hit the Dutch coast we spread out in battle formation. We rendezvoused with the bombers as we made "Land-fall in".**

The route was almost straight in across the Zuider Zee toward Hamburg, then a 90o turn toward the Rhur valley. We had nearly crossed the Zuider Zee, flying over some small islands. Denmark and Sweden were to the North and The Third Reich was straight ahead. All was serene...

It was hard to believe that we were at war and that the enemy was below.

Suddenly BAM! One puff of black smoke with an angry looking orange center, FLAK! My engine quit cold and I lost power. "Upper white leader this is upper white two here, my engine has just cut out! I've been hit!"

Tom's calm voice replied, "Upper white two this is upper white leader. I'll go back with you. Do you know what's wrong?"

I knew I must have been hit but it didn't make sense. One burst of Flak at this altitude could never hit anyone... no smoke... no holes that I could see. I realized that the engine was running but it just didn't have any power. I checked all the instruments... oil temperature O.K. coolant temperature O.K. fuel pressure normal... oil pressure seemed a little low... had plenty of gas in my tanks but switched to fuselage tank just in case... no help there... supercharger highblower is engaged... Or is it???

That's it! Oil pressure is falling off and the supercharger has disengaged. Since the supercharger is engaged with engine oil pressure I must have been hit in an oil line, or in the supercharger itself...

That was bad news. I can't go far without oil... Five minutes if I'm lucky...

I was now at twenty thousand feet over the Zuider Zee, and descending. Bail out here Steve and you're a dead duck! If I'm really lucky I'll be a prisoner of war...

Then again, there was Sweden near by! But I didn't come all this way to become a prisoner of war in Sweden!

On the other hand, I might be able to make it to the North Sea and bail out over the water!

Then I remembered the briefing! Storm warnings over the North Sea. No Air Sea Rescue boats patrolling today! No sense in worrying about that now. First things first.

I called Tom Rich over the Radio. "Let's go home!" Tom's reassuring voice came back, "Good luck Steve, I'm right with you!"

That was the way it started. Two silver mustangs, like knights of old, returning from the crusades wounded, heading back to England. We slowly descended, I, in a flat glide with no power, and Rich "S-ing" back and forth to keep from over shooting me. Protecting my rear from enemy aircraft.

*Land-fall out: Navigation term denoting time crossing the coast outbound.
**Land-fall in: Time crossing coast over mainland

[5PointOh]

Tom was on the radio alerting Air Sea Rescue about our predicament. My hands were full trying to get my plane back home to Fowlmere. I thought, "And this is Chet's aircraft that I was supposed to take care of..."

My manifold pressure gauge was reading ten inches of mercury, the lowest reading on the dial. I had the trim tabs rolled back and the stick in my stomach in an effort to stretch my glide to the sea. I kept looking at my air speed and rate of descent.

We hit the coast of Holland and I was over the North Sea! Altitude seven thousand feet. At this altitude, atmospheric pressure was enough to give me the power to keep me aloft! I had hoped this would happen! As we hit the coast we were met by two P-47s from Air Sea Rescue. They were escorting me back. My rate of descent was now reading zero. Things were looking better!

Of course I had a few problems too. Oil pressure was now zero and oil temperature was 40oC. It was obvious that my problem was in the lubrication system.

I looked back and saw Tom. What a comfort! Still with me.

Down below the water was churning! I had to cool that engine somehow! If I could only get the oil in the bottom of the crankcase up on those cylinder walls!

That's it! I started to rock the plane violently in uncoordinated movements.

It worked! The oil temperature started to go down!

Tom asked what I was doing. "Lubricating the engine!" I said. I kept looking ahead for the English coast line.

Then Tom called "White two, I see the coast." We were going to make it! Great news!

Then it happened! A run-away prop! While I tried to keep it from changing pitch, all hell broke loose! The coolant boiled out and smoke and oil filled the cockpit. The engine sounded like someone was pounding on it with a sledge hammer. The heat in the cockpit was unbearable!


I looked at the altimeter 300 feet! Minimum altitude for bailing out was 250 feet. It would be close but I had no choice. As much as I disliked it, the time had come for me and the aircraft to part company!

"This is it Tom. I'm bailing out!"

Then I lowered my seat, pulled my goggles over my eyes, lowered my head and released the canopy. I tore off my oxygen mask and detached everything that tied me to the plane.

Just before I disconnected my earphones, I heard Archie Towers' * voice on the radio. He must have been monitoring the whole thing back at Gas Pump **.

"Say again upper five four! I didn't understand!"

Tom answered him. "He said he's bailing out!" For the first time there was a note of concern in his voice.

Archie didn't answer. Then complete silence.

I raised myself to jump and the slip stream knocked me back in the cockpit. I rolled the plane over and started to drop out.

Just as I left my seat, I looked back and saw the radio antenna and stabilizer just behind me. I was afraid of hitting the tail section. I pulled back on the stick a little as I fell and cleared the stabilizer.

I pulled the rip cord. My oxygen mask went floating past my face... falling... falling head first spinning toward the water... Pop! The chute opened... Whitey (he was our parachute man) once told me every chute packed at Fowlmere, had opened... I'm glad the record was still intact!

Then a strange thing happened. My dinghy floated in the air past me. This dinghy, if you remember, is stowed in a canvas pack that you sit on. It was secured to your Mae West* by a line aptly called an umbilical cord.

The procedure for a water landing, is to loosen your chute harness, and drop out of your chute ten feet above the water. The canvas bag is carried away by the chute. The dinghy is pulled out of the pack by the umbilical cord. You hit the water. Splash... inflate your Mae West... inflate your dinghy... climb in, and wait for rescue. Simple! Right???

Wrong! I hit the water almost as soon as the chute opened. Once the harness was wet it was impossible to unfasten the buckles.

Fortunately for me, when the dinghy floated past my nose in mid air I reached over and pulled the CO2 inflation cartridges and inflated the dinghy! The whole thing took place in a matter of seconds!

I hit the water and bounced from the top of one wave to the next. I was skimming off the top of the waves like a flat rock bounces off the surface of a lake. My chute aided by the heavy winds, was pulling me for a roller coaster ride!

*Mae West: Endearing term for ones' life preserver.
When inflated it made you look like you had Mae West's figure!
Thus it was called a Mae West.

I was flat on my back, struggling to dump the chute, and swallowing the North Sea like a pint of Half and Half at the Checkers (the local Pub back at Fowlmere)! I was in real trouble and on the verge of drowning.

Then this P-51 starts to Buzz me. It was Tom! What was he doing? He made another pass and then I understood! Having seen my predicament he was trying to spill the chute with his prop wash! On the third or fourth pass he succeeded. I think he hit the chute, at any rate it worked.

I don't remember too much after that. I could not climb into the raft because the chute went down and started to pull me under. I just hung on to the raft for my life.

According to Tom, the P-47s from Air Sea Rescue dropped their four life rafts as soon as I hit the water. This caused some confusion, because there were now five rafts and five dye markers spread over twenty square miles of the North Sea. One of them was me, but which one? Tom said when they finally located me, I looked like a drowning mouse hanging on to a doughnut. I tried to wave once and let him know I was alive, but I nearly drowned.

Things were getting worse! The water was cold. I prayed, and I spoke to God. "It's up to you God. I can't think of anything else I can do." God didn't answer. He probably agreed with me.

I knew Tom would be running out of fuel soon. besides, what else could he do? He must have been reading my mind. His plane passed overhead and wagged its' wings. He was wishing me well and headed for home. The P-47s having more fuel were still there...... but for how long?

I looked up at the circling Thunderbolts (P-47s). They could not have had too much fuel left and would have to go home too. Then I would be alone. What could they do anyway? What were they waiting for?

I became aware of a change. It was a sound. An airplane engine. Different! Then there it was! A Walrus! It was an Air Sea Rescue flying boat. A twin wing, Flying Bathtub! Now he started to circle about. There was one thing I knew. He could never land in this wind nor on this water with ten foot waves! If this was Air Sea Rescues' answer to my problems, I was in deep trouble! God it's up to you!

I think that I passed out then. I was aware of the sound of a plane taxiing on the water toward me and came to. As I rose and fell on the wave crests I caught sight of the Walrus. It had landed and was heading right at me! Standing up in the hatch was an R.A.F. airman with a big smile on his face. "Here Yank catch this." He threw me a line. Don't know how I managed to grab the line, but I did! He hauled me toward the plane and grabbed me with a boat hook.

A water-logged pilot is a heavy load under normal conditions, with a parachute and heavy seas I was an impossible load. "Don't worry, " he said. "There are two ships on their way."

A few minutes later, I saw the trawler with the Union Jack flying from the stern. Then I was being pulled into a life boat. Someone gave me a rum to drink. It was warm. I realized then how cold I had been. A seaman put a blanket around me and held me in his arms, like a father holding a son

[5PointOh]

I felt warm. How was that Walrus going to manage to get off? I passed out. Later I learned that the Walrus cracked a pontoon trying to lift off. They were picked up by the other ship that had come to the rescue. They tried to tow the Walrus to port. It sank!

That night I woke up at an R.A.F. hospital on the Thames Estuary. The next day I was back at Fowlmere. The day after, October 7, I flew my second mission... Ramrod to Bremen...

I had it made! I knew that I was going to live through the war. I knew also that we were going to win!

I don't think I ever thanked Tom for all he did. He had called Air Sea Rescue and vectored two P-47s, a walrus, escorted by two Spitfires and the two ships that finally rescued me.

When the walrus arrived at the scene, I had been in the water an hour. The pilot realized I could not survive much longer and asked permission to land. He knew he would be lucky to make the landing, let alone the impossibility of a take off! I had been in the cold water too long and he felt he had to risk it.


Of course Tom's quick thinking, and expert flying, kept me from drowning on splash down. All those people trying to keep me alive! How could we have ever lost the war? I am very grateful!

All in all I was in the "drink" for one hour and twenty minutes. That Mustang flew, losing oil, for over forty-five minutes. I still can't believe I was hit by one shot from an anti aircraft gun. I'll always be indebted to Tom Rich for his great flying and quick thinking! Flying low over water and deflating a parachute is some sort of stunt! Why I was able to survive in that cold water, with gale force winds, and ten foot seas, I'll never know.

To top it all, those R.A.F. flyers, in Air Sea Rescue. Attempting a landing under those conditions, and making it! Yes, someone up there loves me!

Come to think of it, I don't think I ever paid back Chet for the loss of his plane. Chet, I owe you a beer. Tom, I owe you my life, and my undying gratitude! Thanks! Thank you all!

Upper Five Four out!...







I hope you enjoyed this.

[Guppy35]

Good story.  Thanks for posting it.  Many classic stories like that.  Deacon Hively of the 4th FG was part of leading the rescue of a down pilot.  He too had had to hit the silk into the channel on one occasion.  A Spitfire XII pilot I got to know was covered by his wingman over the channel when he had to get out.  His wingman also ended up in the channel from fuel starvation.  Both rescued by RAF Walrus flying boats.

Not quite the same as ending up back in the tower, nice and dry, with a brand new plane waiting for you

[stodd]

Cool story.