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n
December 27, 1944, the Group was directed to provide supplies to
the “Beleaguered Bastards of Bastogne.” While it was a
Group-level mission, it was considered to be an uneventful
flight, so Capt. “Red” Sammons was designated group leader.
I was flying the last position in our squadron, number 13. The
flight was uneventful until just prior to reaching Bastogne. We
were towing a glider piloted by the “Abilene Kid,” J.D.
Hill.
Just
prior to reaching the landing zone, we sustained a direct hit
just aft of the trailing edge of the wing in the belly of the
aircraft. Evidently the hit penetrated the wing tanks because we
had quite a fire going. Immediately upon realizing the severity
of the fire, I ordered the crew to bail out. The radio operator
and crew chief immediately bailed out; however, George
“Weapons” Weisfeld told me (and I will never forget),
“Joe, I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to leave.”
We
managed to continue flying until J.
D. Hill cut loose his glider. At that point I told George
“Let’s get out of this SOB before it blows up.” George
went out the back hatch and, from what he told me later, darn
near didn’t make it. By the time I got the aircraft stabilized
and the automatic pilot set, put my chest pack on, and opened
the cabin door to leave, I realized I had to find another
departure route, as by that time the cabin section of the
aircraft was nothing but a mass of flames. I closed the cabin
door, went back to the cockpit, jettisoned the top hatch, and
climbed out, hoping I wouldn’t fall into the props. Believe it
or not, there was no wind blast [the aircraft was nearing a
stall] and I was able to crawl on my hands and knees on top of
the aircraft until I reached the point directly over the
navigator’s bubble. I recall noticing that by that time the
fire had already penetrated the crew compartment.
The
next thing I recall, I was looking up at several shroud lines of
my parachute hanging loose in the breeze—then looking down and
at the aircraft burning just yards away, which is the same time
I hit the ground, quite abruptly. I was told by a colonel on the
ground (whose name I cannot recall), that I slid off the side of
the aircraft at a point approximately over the navigator’s
bubble, my chest pack hitting the horizontal stabilizer of the
tail section, my chute opening on impact, the chute going on the
top side of the horizontal stabilizer and I on the bottom. A few
seconds later the aircraft blew up, the drag of the chute and my
weight pulled me free and very shortly afterwards I was safely
on the ground.
I
landed about 50 yards from a trench occupied by members of the
101st Airborne Division, who
immediately came out and drug me into their rifle pit. I
received severe burns about the head, and knocked my right leg
out of kilter when I hit the ground. The GIs who picked me up
were very generous with their liberated cognac . . . .
Several
of us, including J. D. Hill and Case Rafter, were placed in
charge of a POW convoy, after one or two nights in Bastogne, and
departed for Paris. The medics at Bastogne had treated my
injuries prior to our departure. However, by the time we reached
Paris, the bandages obviously needed replacing and I do not
recall if I was treated there by a French doctor or an American
military doctor. My head was bandaged completely, like a mummy.
The only openings were for my eyes, ears, mouth, and nose.
An
amusing incident occurred in Paris immediately after our
arrival. I went to a big hotel there, which was used by all the
rear echelon officers. When I checked in at the desk, the
clerk—an Army corporal—asked for my orders. I had no orders,
but I had a .45-cal. machine gun issued to me at Bastogne to
“protect” me from the POWs. I laid it on the desk and said,
“Corporal, here are my orders. I want a dinner and I want you
to notify my organization to come and get me.” At this point
the corporal said “Yes, sir!”
I
went upstairs to the dining room, linen-covered tables and all,
laid my machine gun on the floor and had a most enjoyable
dinner. No one came near me, spoke to me, or bothered me in any
way; I don’t know whether it was my appearance, the machine
gun, or both. When I went back downstairs to the desk corporal,
he informed me—with an expression of great relief—that by
the time I reached Le Bourget Airport my outfit would have a
plane there to take me back home. He also told me that there was
a staff car now waiting at the door to take me to Le Bourget. I
think he was glad to get rid of me.
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