The thread “GUTS” about flak towers brought to mind an experience my father had;
The following account is as was told to me by my late father, then Lt. Charles F. Stuart Jr., a P-51 pilot with the 381st Fighter Squadron, 363rd Fighter Group, 9th AAF, during WWII. The following event took place May 24th, 1944 my father’s flight was returning to England after an escort mission to Berlin.
“We were down on the deck, looking for targets of opportunity to strafe. (Anything that looks like it needs shooting at) If you look at the back of your right hand, your first finger would be a fellow named Shea, the next would be Schmidt, and the third finger would be this new replacement pilot Kennedy, I was on the far right. We had passed over some trees and then all of a sudden there was a German airfield right in front of us. The darn thing was sort of pear-shaped. Shea was way over on the left side. He was nearly a quarter of a mile from me, we were spread well out. Schmidt was in there and he kept calling this new pilot (Kennedy) to ‘get off my wing’. The guy was flying right on his wing, close formation, just a few feet off the ground. I mean, it’s suicide to fly like that; you need to spread out so you have a little maneuvering room. I hit the field at the narrow end – the little end of the pear – and when I saw the thing there was a flak tower right square in my gunsight. They didn’t even see me coming. I recall it had three or four 20mm on it, maybe ten men manning the thing, and they were raring back and shooting like the devil at Schmidt and that wingman out in the middle of the airfield. Shea was a little bit out of their range. I am not sure if they actually hit the new man, or whether he got scared, but he flipped over to the left & into Schmidt. The two of them went across that German airfield in one great big hellish ball of flame. A split second later, I hit my trigger and cleaned that platform out like a bowling ball knocks a strike down the alley. I think I knocked every darn one of them off the platform, but just a hair too late. That was about enough for Shea, & I that day. We both revved back on the stick and got up to 15 or 20,000 feet. Without a word between us we closed back in a few yards or so apart, flying abreast. Finally, Shea comes in and says, ‘Did you see what I saw’? I said ‘Yes, I saw what you saw, too’. As well as I can remember, we didn’t say anything else until we got back to England.”
My father related several stories to me about his combat flying. This is one that really bothered him. Bill Schmidt, & dad were pretty good friends. Very sad loss that day for all involved.
Lt. Stuart and "STINKY"
Robbie
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