The following is as an OCR scan which probably has some of the usual OCR 'typos' remaining.

I was one of our infamous B-26 co-pilots who transferred to the P-47. Originally, I was in the notorious Wilson R. Woods 323 BG. Then to the great 397th. BG and on to the 367th. F.G. all in the span of I3 months. What really caught my eye was the Jack Ha1le experience with the former B-26 copilot who must have just preceded me. As the story relates to the station St. Dizier, I was to have joined the 367th. at St. Dizier if I could have found it. This will be another part of my story as I wade through it.

Air bases were expendable at this time; they were also secret. Since I was being transferred under special 9th. AF Hq orders, 1 was being chauffeured in a command car driven by a Sgy. We left the 397th., departing late in the day. Black out, lights and poor road conditions hampered progress. After two days pursuing the 367th., we finally found them outside the village of Jarny. I was unloaded at the 367th. F.G.. flack suit and all, a going away gift I did not have the heart to leave behind.

The Jarny airstrip was nothing more that metal planking tied together with spikes which hopefully would bear the aircraft's weight. I was introduced to Jim Franklin who was to check me out in a P-47. I was toured around all of their shiny new bubble canopy birds that had all the invasion colors removed. We came across what was to be my aircraft. It had the invasion stripes still showing through the O.D. color and had a lattice canopy. Jim said, "there she is and she's all yours." Only two of the eight 50s has been loaded, one on each side. He showed me two bags, one under each wing (simulated bombs). He chuckled when he said they are loaded with latrine lime.

I got into the cockpit which was quite roomy. I thought Jim would somehow join me to provide in flight instruction. Not so! He again chuckled that this old bird was all manual but airworthy. This is the throttle, your hand is on the stick. Remember, you have to pull the canopy shut. 0 yes, switch on the radio, we'll tell you what to do. Fortunately, I had been given a manual but it was for the new hydraulic jobs. This thing was like the big Vultee we flew in basic. I wanted to fly fighters, here was my chance. I positioned it on the plank runway and shoved the throttle forward. Away I went, kicking the rudders right and left to keep moving forward, until speed took over. Time to pull up, and none too soon. They pulled tree branches from the wheels when I returned.

I'1l never forget the experience of closing the canopy. The latch was so far back, I had to loosen my parachute straps, just to reach it. The plane went into a dive as I turned to reach the latch. I was low to the ground, and it was the dive that shifted weight and eureka, the canopy closed. Whew! That done, I was finally alone over France in a P-47. Wow! I switched on the radio to hear, "Bob, where are you, we've lost sight, come back over the field in a southerly direction, we have a target for you to attack." The target turned out to be just a few miles from the field. It had been outlined in white, latrine lime I assumed. The controller told me to look close at the target, find the bullseye. After that, climb to 5000 feet and call in again for instructions.

Instructions were similar to an actual mission part of my training. From this altitude I was to dive on the lime pit, dropping the bombs at 1000 feet, pull up , circle the target, drop down and strafe it with the two fifties. The latrine lime sacks landed in an adjacent farmyard as I pulled up too quick for a good release. Circling as instructed was a piece of cake. They had put in tracers to see where the shells were going. Missing the target again, I called in results. Do it again, came the words. Make a longer pass and hit the bulls eye. I ran out of ammo. I figured they did not want to waste good ammo so the controller said, keep the base in sight, climb to a good height and see what kind of pilot you are. I don't recall how long I was up, but I felt confident I could fly a P-47 and returned to the field.

A short time later, I'm sitting in the briefing room. Instead of the long drawn out B-26 instructions I was used to hearing, the fighter group squadrons were all told to proceed to such and such quadrants, then contact ground control for targets. I was in the 394th. squadron whose call sign was casket. Our target turned out to be a convoy of vehicles in the steep hills of Bavaria I was tail end Charlie #4 in the fingertip formation. I won't go in to the chewing out Sid Plat: SQ CO gave me for crossing over to join up. No one had told me the proper procedure. I got into position the hardest way. As my friend Hallett would say, "these guys fly with their feet." I had not t.tuned in to how easily trim tabs worked on these fighters.

Soon we were over enemy territory heading for an enemy convoy stopped on the road. The hand signal given to echelon, not much for me to do but wait until the other were positioned 1-2-3. Suddenly they went down, then me. I was so excited that I held the trigger finger down too long. Firing off eight 50's was a lot different than firing off two. I felt as though the old bird was going in reverse. Later, I learned that overheated guns would continue firing until they cooled off. Anyway, with the tracers pointing out my problem, it was time to pull up, but since I did not want to shoot down my buddies, I needed to stay low so as not to spray 50s all over the sky, but still clear the hills that were coming up fast. I figured I was doing the best I could do when the entire hillside blew up in orange & black. Unbeknownst to me until the debriefing that night, when the guns fire, cameras in the wings document the action.

When my film segment came up for review, Lt. Robert L. Smith 394 FS 9th. AF appeared first. Next the convoy is visible, returning fire (my first awareness that they were shooting back. Suddenly my overheated ammo trail went through a barn on the hillside (at least it looked like a barn.) As it turned out, that was why the convoy has stopped. It was a fuel depot. Everyone turned to me and asked how did you know the barn was a fueling station? Recovering from the shock of what has actually happened, I smiled and informed the group that B-26 co-pilots had a lot of time to observe the action and it's surroundings. Got another star for the air medal, five more points toward going home. Best of all, we parked "Old Maudie" as I had named the old P-47. Got a new bubble job, all hydraulic, with new gun sights, like sitting atop the Empire State Building.

So it goes, still had very few hours in the Thunderbolt when once again I was #4, #3 was our friend Jack Hallett. I was another B-26 co-pilot on his wing. Remember he had prior experience with a B-26 co-pilot. We're strafing an armored column and in the excitement, my leader suddenly pulls up trailing black smoke all over the sky. Breaking radio silence, Sid Platt our SQ CMDR said #4, you stay with #3 and head for home. He was nearly at tree top level and near stall speed 1 was not yet a skilled flyer of the P-47 but, had to stay close matching his speed and altitude. Hallett took over and instructed me to open the canopy (thank goodness it was hydraulic), all I had to do was push a button, Lower your wheels, now full flaps were additional instructions given. The nose was so high, it felt like sliding into second base. Something beautiful got us back to A-74. Upon examining the damaged thunderbolt, it was concluded that Jack mushed into the German tank as he pulled up catching the bottom two cylinders, but mysteriously missing the prop. Such harrowing close calls proved the stamina of Pratt-Whitney engines made in Kansas City, MO, the authors home town.

Now back to the big thrill. The stripped down B-26 in the 367th, groups possession. As I stated earlier, I was 9 months in the B-26 environment as a co-pilot, and it still makes me wonder how it all happened. In review, starting in flight school (class 44-E) in the advanced level we were given a page to express our desire of which aircraft of 3 aircraft to fly. I simply put P-38, P-38, P-38. I used to wonder if that choice was a factor of my B-26 experiences as I returned to Pecos, TX, Following post graduation (2 weeks leave), I along with 200 other pilots to be immediately sent overseas without any further training. I soon found myself along with a group of 44-E classmates aboard his majesties Cunard White Star liner "Synthia" which had been converted to a troop ship enroute to the war in Europe. We were confined at camp Kilmer. Volunteers were asked to take early boarding to assign quarters, among other things. Several of us thought that since no further leaves would be granted, why not volunteer and get the good quarters. So we boarded two days early and set ourselves up in style on the "A” deck, 4 guys to a cabin. Two days later came the troops, thousands!

Along with the troops came boots, campaign hats, pips and crowns, riding crops, you name it, the BRASS. We were promptly removed from our our select quarters and moved down two decks. Nurses occupied the "B" deck. We set sail grumbling about volunteering, something you should never do in the army. Ultimately, our ship assembled in a convoy so large you could not see it all. Since this was a converted luxury ship, the dining room still had all the fancy crystal, china & silver. The second day out the menu included fried chicken, something different for a Limy boat, even though it was a White Star liner. The next day it happened, we all had diarrhea. So seems this had been a turn around sail. The chicken was not fed to the Limys because it was not properly kept. Anyway, we all got well acquainted with “B" deck, where the paregoric was dispensed. Another problem, also aboard were a number of troops who got clapped up trying to avoid overseas duty. Whatever the reason, they were going through the short arm routine while we were all lined up for paregoric dispensed by the nice nurses. Some scene.

The seven day trip was uneventful other than the submarine drills conducted at a moments notice. The depth charges and 40mm explosions gave us a thrill. An aircraft carrier was just ahead of us in the convoy loaded with fighter aircraft, maybe for us? Arriving in the Irish sea, we were to dock in Liverpool, up the Mersey river. Whoops, a planning error, low tide. The list on entering the estuary was 45 degrees. Not safe for debarking so we waited for high tide, which forced troop train delays making the short trip across England a two day affair in lousy English chair cars. No food other than what we could buy from from the already depleted stores, at the many stops in route. Finally, arriving at Earl's Colne, we are met with a,pouring rain. None the less, we were instructed to march out with B-4 bags, shoulder bags and whatever else we intended to keep for about 3 miles, The air station we were introduced to was a dark, dank auditorium, but at least we were out of the rain.

Someone shouted ATTEN' HUT and being obedient, 2nd. Lts out of cadet training, pooped too! We were greeted this time by a very suave looking officer we learned was William R. Wood, C.O. of the 323rd. B.G. His opening statement, "I don't know what you are doing here, but we will find something for you to do." We were all dead tired, full of frustration and fear. The grumbling was detected and a very sharp, "find your quarters, DISMISSED!'

The quarters were very nice Nisson Huts with adequate space and good cots. My first acquaintance was Walt Foster, a bombardier who quickly became my friend. The thrill of flying the first mission. The co-pilot had no seat in half of the planes. Co-pilots were not used in the B-26s up to this time, somewhat explaining our greeting by the Col. The crews we joined looked upon us as a bad omen, and not needed. My first mission as a co-pilot, I sat on a wooden crate and was told to secure myself the best I could. Co-pilots were bad news to the 323rd's crews, but they had to put up with us as the AAF said that was the way it was going to be.

How do you get from B-26s to fighters? After the 323rd. moved from Earl's Colne to Beauliau on the south coast of England, then quickly across the channel to Lessay, France, and a small village on the Cherebourg peninsula, next to Omaha beach. You all remember the planking runways on the sandy slopes of France. My, how did we do it with so few loading problems as we did have? But, Patton soon broke out of the Falaise pocket, so it was called, and away he went. So the 323rd went right along with him to Chartres, about 50 miles S.E. of Paris where we shared the field with a P-38 group.

Now the adrenalin was really flowing. Phil Sechler, Jack Robershotte and Bob Smith were fed up with setting on the right side of a B-26. We got our bicycles, brought with us from England and peddled across the field to the P-38 area. We inquired, "whose in charge?" and were shown to Col. Chickering, "Col. Chick" as he was known. He turned out to be everything a C.O. should be, listening to our story of flying 3 missions a month, never any hope of becoming a 1st. pilot with the 323rd's attitude. Col. Chick told us if we could get released, he would immediately put us in P-38s. He felt anyone flying a 26 would find the 38 a piece of cake. We all three put our request, in writing, to SQ Commander Maj. McNally, who looked up upon reading the requests and said, "why didn't I think of this?" Permission was granted upon approval by the 9th A.F. HQ. Not too long later, the big black diagonal print, REQUEST REJECTED, must return to interior for transition. For the three of us, end of a dream.

Interestingly enough, very shortly thereafter all three of us were transferred out of the fabulous 323rd. B.G. I landed in the 397th. B.G. and this was a whole different show. I was assigned to Joe Hicks, a great personality and a very brave man. He let me do most of the flying, right seat of course. I flew more missions in 2 months in the 397th. than I did the whole time I was in the 323rd, Life became respectable.

By this time Paris had been liberated but was off limits to other than the legal troops. None the less, I wanted to see Paris. By this time I was near St. Quentin, about an hour north of the city lights. A buddy and I hopped the continual flowing Red Ball Express. The 6x6 drivers, loved officer hitchhikers, especially pilots, to go see Paree. We were smart enough, or so we thought, to drop off at the most congested place, Arc de Triomphe. We agreed to separate and meet back at sundown, then return to our base. Sundown was approaching. I returned to the Arc to find my buddy lurking in the shadows. Asking what's going on I was told he got picked up and was ordered back to base. A second citation would mean incarceration. For some reason I told him, Go! I was staying not having had his misfortune.

I had observed some time before what appeared to be a American Army chow line. I was hungry, why not investigate. Since eating in public, in Paris was at this time not too smart, too many collaborationist around, I fell in just as though I belonged there. Soon the guy behind me asking what rank I was, tapped me on the shoulder. Our flying jackets didn't carry insignia. It so turns out that the guy was Col. James B. J. Townsend A-4, 9th. A.F., a real big wig. He politely informed me that this was a field grade officers mess line, but since I looked so harmless, I would be his guest. Yes, that's how I got out of the B-26th. James B.J. as I later always addressed him took to heart my desire to fly the P-38s and asked if I still had my transfer request. I told him yes, it was back at my station, by this time near St. Quentin. He said for me to stay overnight, he could arrange it, and call the 397th, and advise them that he was detaining me. The overnight was in the best hotel on the Champs. The next morning I was fed like a king and put in a staff car with a driver to return for the rejected request. This having been accomplished, I returned to duty with my buddy Joe Hicks, the greatest, bravest pilot I ever knew. The days between my return and the next event were less than a week. Once again, a command car arrived to pick up Lt. Robert L. Smith to convey him to the 367th. F.G. I leaped with joy, so did my buddies who gave me an impromptu going away party, as usual with lots of champagne. By the time we got away, it was dark. Travel at night was not easy but we took off. I related earlier how we stumbled around several days trying to catch up with the 367th. F.G.

Oh, yes, shortly after becoming a member of the 367th., Col. Chickering called me in and said that I had been requested to fly Col. James Townsend back to England. Fortunately, Col. Chickering was doubly relieved to have a B-26 pilot to spare. His exec. and I were the only ones checked out. He had M/Sgt Phillips, one of his favorite enlisted men get with me and check out the B-26. Remember at this time co-pilots were just that. Now all of a sudden, I am in the left seat of a B26. I had beside me the greatest co-pilot in Sgt. Phillips. He knew the 26 from nose to toes. I never let on that I had not flown from the left side. We did our first job back to Paris, the 26 flew like an angel. All stripped down, just wooden seats in the bomb bay.

By the time I was to take James B.J. back to England, I felt like a hot rock having big wigs around. James B.J. was a Canadian having converted to the A.A.F., early in the fray. He, so it turned out, had aristocratic personal friends back in England he wished to see. Was this an experience! I stayed several nights at the friends request in a baronial estate in the outer suburbs of London, We loaded the 26 with more food, canned hams, poultry, so much English port wine. I felt guilty when we landed and took about a third of the loot back to Col. Chickering. I now knew how a B-26 pilot could enjoy the war. Mixing my regular schedule in the squadron of combat missions, I became a legend. I'd fly a combat mission in the AM and ferried guys on rest and recuperation (R&R) in the PM. I even had the pleasure of flying Jane Froman's USO troupe from Paris to the Riviera. Good ole Sgt. Phillips arranged a small mechanical problem with the B-26, forcing us to stay a little longer than was expected. The USO Troupe were delighted because they did not want to fly. Jane Froman's replacement was terrified to fly so I had Sgt. Phillips give up his co-pilots seat to our little friend. I told her everything verbally as we prepared for take off. Phillips was right behind her holding her shaking shoulders. Airborne, I trimmed up the 26 and said, "you fly it." I made a friend right there. The alps were more beautiful 10,000 ft. below.

Had a close call taking a group on R&R to Scotland. Got in a terrible typhoon over the North sea, blowing us so far off course that by the time I saw land, it was going in the wrong direction. We were lost. Finally figuring it out, this storm, of which I had been warned had taken us clear back over the mainland, Somewhere, I steered south and dropped down to visible contact, Finally, I recognized the low lands of Holland which at this time had not been cleared of the enemy. The next move was again a westward heading. Made the channel contact so we would he identified as friendly and proceeded to Scotland. The seven guys in the bomb bay were none the worse in spite of the confusion, the bomb bay was well provisioned.

The stripped down B26 of the 367th F.G. must have had lots of experiences other than those related here. One last flight that I know was made before we headed for the Philippines saw us stationed near Arles, FR. We had been moved out of Germany to near Marseilles, on the flat area, housed in tents again. Thousands of troops enroute to the Pacific. Sgt. Phillips by now was a fearless aviator and on the way back we could see ball games and all types of outside activities in the great summer weather of the Mediterranean. Since it had been a tradition for the B-26 to put on a show when returning to base, Sgt. Phillips said lets really give them a show, these are all strangers. So I said hang on, putting into a steep dive, then pulling up in a fighter plane maneuver from a very low altitude. I remember looking back and seeing troops scattering in all directions. I was slapped on the back, put. the wheels down from an almost inverted position, flaps down, a real hot rock landing. The next thing I saw was the usual follow-me truck was a command car with a red flashing light on top. Upon deplaning, we were met by MPs who escorted us to the temporary HQ where I was everything but arrested. These were war weary ground troops that has been full up of 'BUZZ" jobs. Before the tongue lashing was complete, Col. Chick arrived and advised the group that he would take over and issue the reprimand. "Wow!" He said, "Let's get out of here while we can." Outside of earshot he said, "I am going to have to reprehend you, you are confined to quarters. With sort of a smile, he said, "Umph, no place to go around here anyway. Incidentally, that was the best BUZZ job ever:" "Good show, wrong time."

So ends the saga of the co-pilot to a fighter pilot and a crack 26 pilot. The Sea Robin was loaded and sailed out of the Straights of Gibraltar heading to Panama and the Pacific. You know the rest, good ole Harry ended it all. Our second day out saw us en route to Boston, MA.


PA492.Robert L. Smith.