The Wrong Stuff
I loved that one. A great book with a different style than any other WWII account a person is likely to read. Also, has one of my favorite descriptions of a fight:
From "The Wrong Stuff", by Truman Smith (WWII bomber pilot)
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There were about 60 of the Bandits – obviously not Friendlies – and they queued up above our right flank. . . .
I switched to the Fighter Channel to hear if anyone had called Balance for support. What I heard chilled the pee in my bladder, because I had never heard such terror in a voice. It sounded more like a woman screaming for her life. Not a yell. Screaming!
“BALANCE-ONE, this is VINEGROVE ONE! OH, MY GOD! HELP US! BANDITS! COME HELP US!! THEY’RE SHOOTING THE SH*T OUT OF US!! BALANCE – VINEGROVE, OHHH MY GOD!!!” The voice faded into sobs and was unintelligible. . . .
He had to be inexperienced to even expect we would get any help from our scheduled escort, BALANCE-ONE.
“VINEGROVE-ONE, this is BALANCE-ONE."
No sh*t! There really was a Balance-One out there someplace. He actually answered the call for help . I couldn’t believe it, because nobody had ever come to our rescue before, except that one time MY FRAN checked on us.
“BALANCE-ONE, this is VINEGROVE-ONE,” came the reply from our Fighter Channel Guard, “We’re south of the target. Where are you?”
“Well, we’re just a little busy right now Vinegrove-One."
I couldn’t believe the calmness in Balance’s voice. If they were “busy,” there was a slaughter going on in the busy-ness of killing and being killed. Yet, his voice was unruffled, as if he were a salesperson willing to wait on you as soon as he was free.
. . .
This time the Bandits queued up on our left flank at 9 o’clock high and their number seemed to have diminished to about fifty, still outnumbering us two-to-one, ship for ship.
Out of the habit I had formed , I looked over my shoulder in the opposite direction of the obvious threat, so as to avoid any surprises – and was I SURPRISED!
There were two little “dots,” way up at 3 o’clock high and they were coming in our direction in a hurry. They were aircraft. I could even make out, as they neared, that they had twin engines and twin-boom tails. That could mean only one thing. They were American P-38 Lightnings – BALANCE ONE!
Before my goose-flesh got too happy, I thought, BALANCE? That was no balance. Two Friendly fighter escorts and FIFTY BANDITS?
Make that FIFTY BANDITS and only one Friendly, because one of the two Friendlies started flying zig-zag over the top of us, like a mother hen protecting her chicks, and the other Friendly kept going until he was above the group of FIFTY BANDITS.
Boy, this was going to be some kind of a performance . One P-38 was going to protect the bomb group by himself and the other P-38 – by himself – was going to take on FIFTY BANDITS(?).
Now I had seen all kinds of competition, but this was like a single matador jumping into the arena with 50 killer bulls. Somebody was going to get killed for sure. But if victory was going to go to the guy with the biggest “balls,” then BALANCE-ONE was, unbelievably, the 50 to 1 favorite.
My God! Balance One flew out over the top of the Bandits, rolled upside down into a “split-S” and dove straight down for the FIFTY BANDITS!. He must’ve eaten nails for breakfast.
G*dd*mned American fighter pilots: vain, insolent , conceited, arrogant, cocky and impertinent Fighter Jocks! God bless ’em all. My skin crawled and my eyes got moist – “Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for another.”
There was no doubt, it was a “gutsy” move and I was impressed. Such bravery also impressed the fifty Bandits, because – as if one plane – they all pitched forward into a vertical dive to get away from my hero, the “Forked Tailed Devil,” as the Luftwaffe had dubbed the P-38. This was the cool voice on the radio who had been “Just a little busy right now.”
Swinging back and forth behind the Bandits, he blew up two ME-109’ s before they all dove into the cloud deck below us – with Balance One still tailing them.
WOW! What a show! It was well worth the high price of admission. Only the inside of my oxygen mask could have heard my “Thank you Mr. Balance,” and – “Where in hell are you going?” as I addressed our Top Cover who also took off for the wild blue yonder at the conclusion of their performance.
