Warbird Information Exchange

Oh..I can get in one. Just not behind the pilot.

Mudge el alto

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Land of the free because of the brave

Here you go Mudge.

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I was gratified to answer promptly, I said "I don't know". - Mark Twain

This one's on my wall too.

Mudge the Ilfrey fan

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Land of the free because of the brave

Do you have one of his P-51D?

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I was gratified to answer promptly, I said "I don't know". - Mark Twain

The P-47 has always been my alltime favorite of WW II fighters, with the F4F, F6F and F4U all tied in second place. When it comes to performance the Jug was no slouch. With the addition of "paddle bladed props" it also had a decent climb rate. If I was to choose a land based airplane, I would go with the P-47M or the P-51D. For ship based it would be an F4U-4, or F6F. I realize with those choices that I am leaving out a number of good choices from other countries, but those are mine. With the P-47 as number one.

I kind of view the F4U as a USN equivelant of the P-47. In most respects the Thunderbolt was faster, but the performance was similar. If the war in the Pacific had dragged on the F4U-5 might have entered service sooner and it would have been the top of the line. However under those conditions developement of the P-47J and P-72 might have also continued...

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Had God intended for man to fly behind inline engines, Pratt & Whitney would have made them.

CB

http://www.angelfire.com/dc/jinxx1/Desrt_Wings.html

actually, the f4u was faster. The f4u-4 was considered the ultimate corsair in 1945. It saw limited combat during the end of ww2 but it's performance was better than the p-47. I'm not knocking the jug because it is a awesome plane, but that corsair has it beat.

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" I am a nobody in aviation, but somebody to my family."

Not the P-47M... 446mph for -4 Corsair vs 473 mph for the M.

Actually not.

If you want to compare the "B" series powered airframes, then using the Army Air Forces Material Center tests from 1944 show the P-47D top speed of 435 mph (all stats I have found are in mph) at 32,000 ft. Finding data on the Hose Nose was more challenging, but what is usually quoted for the F4U-1D is 425 mph at 20,000. Still a respectable performance.

The real interesting stuff is comparing "C" series R-2800 powered aircraft. The -4 Corsair 446 at 26,200 ft. Again pretty impressive. But... P-47N 457 mph at 32,000 ft and the P-47M 473 mph at 32,000. The -5 Corsair is on par with the P-47M showing 470.

Rate of climb is interestiong too. Both the -1D Corsair and P-47D are generally given approx 3,200 fpm. (And just for fun: the FM-2 was capable of 3,670 fpm in tests) The F4U-4 3,340 fpm and the -5 3,780 fpm. The P-47N 3,580 fpm and the P-47M 3,960.

I would like to find all of the original charts. They would be interesting to look at, but I think we are comparing apples to apples (Or in this case bad a$$ airplanes to bad a$$ airplanes.)

The Jug was was tough customer. As was the Corsair.

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Had God intended for man to fly behind inline engines, Pratt & Whitney would have made them.

CB

http://www.angelfire.com/dc/jinxx1/Desrt_Wings.html

Ok ,while discussing which plane is faster,etc,etc. when you flew a P-47 and got into a situation,there was nothing on the planet that could outdive a Thunderbolt.Firewall the throttle, push the nose down and leave everybody in the dust.And if you did take a bad hit.you could survive the crash landing.and I believe the later Models also had water injection.The plane was a brute,could take a bad hit and get you home and had 8 50 calibers that chewed up lotsa enemy goodies.Comparing Navy types is irrelevant to this discussion.they had their plusses as did USAAF types.Love the inline,water cooled types ,but would plant my behind in a P-47 in my opinion.As I Said before,just my opinion.If I was Navy or Marine corps,I'm thinking a Corsair or Hellcat would both be ok.I'm obviously discussing USAAF types here,cause Neither the Navy nor Marines flew P-47's

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"WHAT ME WORRY?"

ADI is more a P&W issue than aircraft matter. As soon as P&W made ADI operational it was used on the P-47 engines too with retrofit possibility as most of Jug modifications.

It is a bit surrealistic to compare Navy fighter which goes for completly different goals in design including the engine performance. High altitude flying was less important for the deck fighters, as it was a clue for AAF escorts. The shortages of P-47 in operational radius could have been a pain in the neck for the HQ with whole P-47 program beeing close to termination in 1944, but surely had nothing to do with pilot's chance of survival.
The rate of climb could have disqualify the plane in Battle of Brittain but was less important with a lot of time to climb over the friendly area for the escort mission, or for low level ground attack. A plane has it's purpose and should be prised for the way she fulfills it in my opinion.
As said here many times, for saving the pilot she should be a prise winner (well, when you look at some rather unorthodox Hellcat landings on the deck and learn the pilots walked away from them you may start to wonder )

And let's not forget P-47J, the over 500MPH fighter. The type would have entered the service about P-47M time, having not been terminated for the benefit of P-72 program. A speed record unbeaten by any piston engined plane of the era and many years after. And the beaters were fully tuned racers, not specialised army fighters.

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Agreed. I'd be happy to have either one!

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" I am a nobody in aviation, but somebody to my family."

I dont know the difference between the supercharger set ups between various marks of the R2800,but the P-47 also had a very large Turbo charger.I dont believe any of these others had this.what difference,this might have made,I dont know but it is a difference that sets the p-47 apart.

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"WHAT ME WORRY?"

Just look at the post above. 12000 feet differance for top performance for B- series and 6000 for C-series compared to F4U.

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The supercharger might be part of the reason. The "sidewinder" supercharger in the F4U-5 sure added a good deal to performance. Another thing is that Alexander Kartveli liked the idea of high altitude interceptors. He wanted to go there with the P-35, tried with the P-43 and achieved that with the P-47.

The supercharger for the P-72 would have been a monster.

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Had God intended for man to fly behind inline engines, Pratt & Whitney would have made them.

CB

http://www.angelfire.com/dc/jinxx1/Desrt_Wings.html

Jug takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’
When I read the first part of this thread about the P-47 Thunderbolt and its’ ability to withstand shocking battle damage yet bring her pilot home I instantly thought about the account of Maj. Robert S. Johnson of the 56th Fighter Group, Eighth Air Force. A date was not mentioned in the piece that I read but no doubt a WIX reader would be familiar with this mission that saw Maj. Johnson as part of a flight of 48 Jugs crossing the Channel and clawing their way to 20,000 feet where they were to provide top-cover to bombers. About 15 miles inland of the French coast and in the vicinity of Rouen the large flight of Thunderbolts was bounced by at least 16 Focke-Wulfs.

The account of what happened next appeared in a book called “Fighter Pilot,” Prentice Hall Press, 1986 and in the interests of space I will attempt to condense the story:

“… My finger goes down on the button and I call: ‘Sixteen bandits, six-o’clock, coming in fast.’ A terrific explosion! A split-second later, another. And yet another! Crashing, thundering sounds. Wham! Wham! Wham! One after the other, an avalanche smashing into my fighter, heavy boulders hurtling out of nowhere and plunging with devastating force into the airplane. A blinding flash. Before my eyes the canopy glass erupts in an explosion, dissolves in a gleaming shower. Tiny particles of glass rip through the air. The Thunderbolt shudders through her length, bucks wildly as explosions, each roaring, each terrifying. My first instinct is to bail out; I have a frantic urge to leave the airplane.

“Concussion smashes my ears, loud, pounding; the blasts dig into my brain. A new sound now, barely noticed over the crashing explosions. A sound of hail, rapid, light, unceasing. Thirty-caliber bullets, pouring in a stream against and into the Thunderbolt. Barely noticed as they tear through the metal, flash brilliantly as tracers. The Thunderbolt goes berserk, jarring heavily every time a 20-mm cannon shell shears metal, tears open the skin, races inside and explodes with steel-ripping force.

“…This is it! I’m absolutely helpless, at the mercy of the fighters pouring fire and steel into the Thunderbolt. Squeezed back in my seat against the armor plating—my head snaps right and left as I see the disintegration of my ’47. A blow spins my head to the left as a bullet creases my nose. Behind me I can feel the steel being flayed apart by the unending rain of cannon shells.

“I am not frightened; I am beyond any such gentle emotion. I am terrified…without conscious volition my finger stabs down the radio button and I hear a voice, loud and piercing, screaming, ‘Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!’ …not until I have shrieked for help six times or more do I recognize my own voice.

“Another explosion. A hand smashes me against the side of the cockpit; for a moment acceleration pins me helplessly. The Thunderbolt breaks away completely from my control. Earth and sky whirl crazily… The smashing explosions, the staccato beating of bullets, blur into a continuous din. A sudden lunge, the fighter snaps to the right, nose almost vertical. The Thunderbolt’s wild motions flip me back and forth in the cockpit…

“Fire! A gleaming tongue of flame licks my forehead. It flickers, disappears. Instantly it is here again, this time a searing sheet, erupting into the cockpit. The fire dances and swirls, disappears within a thick, choking cloud of smoke. Intense, blinding, sucked through the shattered canopy… The terror is eternity. Burn to death! GET OUT!
“I grab the canopy bar, gasping for breath, jerk it back with maniacal strength. The canopy jerks open, slides back 6 inches and jams. Trapped! The fire blossoms, roars ominously. Frantic, I reach up with both hands, pulling with every bit of strength I can command. The canopy won’t budge…. The fighter burning… out of control, plunging. Fighters behind. Helpless.

“New sounds. Grinding, rumbling noises. In front of me, the engine. Thumping, banging. Bullets, cannon shells to the engine; maybe it’s on fire! I can hardly see. I rub my eyes. No good. Then I notice oil, spraying out from the damaged engine…covering the front windscreen, cutting off my vision.
“GET OUT! I try, Oh God, how I try! Both feet against the instrument panel, brace myself, grasp the canopy bar with both hands. Pull—pull harder! Useless it won’t budge.

“Still falling. Got to pull out of the dive. I drop my hands to the stick and my feet to the rudder pedals. Left rudder to level the wings, back pressure on the stick to bring her out of the dive… wind bursting with explosive force through the shattered canopy…level, less speed…still the flames.

“…A miracle. Somehow, incredibly, flames disappear. The fires out! Smoke boils in the cockpit, swirls around before it answers the shrieking call of wind through the shattered glass… Settle down! Think! I’m still alive!

“…The terror ebbs, then vanishes… I no longer think of other aircraft—enemy or friendly. My mind races over my predicament; what I must do. I begin to relax…Cannon shells have burst against the canopy, twisted and curled the metal…The canopy, the canopy. Life or death imbedded within that blackened, twisted metal…The steel mocks me, unyielding, triumphant. I sit back for a moment, level the P-47 and wonder.

“There is another way out. The canopy is shattered, atop me, to both sides. I stand up on the seat, poke my head and shoulders through the broken canopy. I hardly notice the heavy force of wind and cold…my shoulders are through, I stand to my waist—I can’t get out! Despair floods my mind. The parachute snags against the ripped canopy. It can’t clear... I’m not going without it! I settle back into my seat and right the spiraling airplane, and think.

“My head is clearing… All this time I have been convinced that the fighter is incapable of flight, that it can only glide, descending gently, losing altitude, at 160 miles per hour. Go for the Channel. Fly over the water… as close as possible to England, ditch the ship in the water and crawl through the hole. Air-Sea- Rescue will pick me up… and bring me back to England.

“Stick and rudder, still descending gently. The fighter wheels around in a graceful turn, almost ludicrous for a smoking, badly shot-up machine. But the Thunderbolt is still true, still responsive. She obeys my commands. I head for England, a goal, a place to fly, a home to return to.

My mask seems to choke me. Strapped to my face…useless, unable to supply oxygen from a source shot away. At a height I estimate to be ten thousand feet I unhook my mask from one side of my face, suck deeply the good clean air, air now richer with oxygen, oxygen to clear my head, to return to my full senses… with the newly returned clarity comes soberness, a critical evaluation of my predicament. I am in trouble, in serious, dangerous difficulty…

“In the opening moments of the attack a 20-mm cannon shell had ripped through the left side of the cockpit, exploded…near my left hand, and wreaked havoc with hydraulic lines. The blast sheared the flap handle and sheared hydraulic lines…whipping the fluid into a fine, stinging spray… I pull a handkerchief from my pocket, wipe at my burning eyes…

“Each time I open my eyes…I scan the entire sky. My head swivels, I stare through burning eyes all about me. I am over enemy territory, heavily defended country, alone, in a crippled, smoking airplane, half-blind. I have no company… I wish only to be left alone, to continue my slow, plodding pace through the air. I’ve got to get as far out over the Channel as possible.

“Again I look around. My head freezes, I stare. My heart is again in my throat. A fighter, alone. I am close to the Channel, so close, as I stare at the approaching machine. Slightly behind my Thunderbolt, closing from four o’clock at about 8,000 feet, the fighter closes in. I squint my eyes trying to make out details… The cowling is a brilliant, gleaming yellow… A Focke-Wulf 190, one of Goering’s Boys on the prowl…

“What can I do? I think of waving my handkerchief at him, then realize the absurdity of such a move… I’ll rock my wings. But what good will this do? I’m at a loss as to my next move—for I don’t dare to fight in the disabled Thunderbolt. I’ve got to get out over the Channel…

“I simply stare at the Focke-Wulf. My eyes follow the yellow nose as it closes the distance. The moment the nose swings on a line that points ahead to my Thunderbolt—all hell will break loose… Closer and closer he slides the sleek fighter. I begin to fidget, waiting for the yellow flashes to appear from his guns and cannon. Nothing. The guns remain silent, dark. The Focke-Wulf nose is glued on a line to my Thunderbolt. darn—I’ll bet he’s taking pictures of me! Rare photographs of a crippled American fighter completely at his mercy.

“The Focke-Wulf comes to barely 50 yards away… He’s too close. I shove the stick forward and to the right, swerving the Thunderbolt beneath the Focke-Wulf… I glance up as the Focke-Wulf passes over me to my left, swings beautifully in an easy curve and slides on my tail… I know he’s going to work me over… I can’t stop him, I can’t fight in a crippled Thunderbolt; I don’t even know if the airplane will stay together through my maneuvers… I can’t slug it out with this Focke-Wulf… my P-47 is a flying wreck, a sieve. Let the bastard shoot! He can’t hurt me any more than I’ve already been hurt!

“I push back in the seat, hunching my shoulders, bringing my arms in close to my body. I pull the seat adjustor, dropping the seat to the full protection of the armor plate. And here I wait… The German takes his time… The solid metal behind me is my only chance for life.

“Pellets stinging against the wings, the fuselage, thudding into armor plate. A steady, pelting rain of hailstones. And he’s not missing! The .30-caliber bullets pour out in a stream, a rain of lead splashing all over the Thunderbolt. All I can do is sit there, crouched behind the armor plating, helpless, taking everything the Kraut has to dish out… How the Thunderbolt stays together is a mystery, for the bullets continue to pour into it… I don’t move an inch. I sit, anger building up. The bullets tear metal, rip into spars, grinding away, chopping the Thunderbolt… Sharp jolts against my back. Less than an inch away, bullets crash against the armor.

“To hell with this! My feet kick right and left rudder pedals, yawing the P-47 from side to side. The sudden movement slows the fighter and the Focke-Wulf overruns me and bursts ahead… I may be almost helpless but there are bullets in my guns! Damn-him—I can’t see the Focke-Wulf [oily windscreen]. I kick right rudder, skid the Thunderbolt, squeeze the trigger in anguish… my ship shudders as steel splits through the air. The moment of firing is more gesture than battle, for I cannot use my sights, I can barely see…

“The sleek fighter circles lazily to the right, out of range. I watch him closely… the Focke-Wulf swoops up, sweeps down in a wide turn…I simply fly straight and level as the German slides into perfect, tight formation with me! This is ridiculous, but I’m happier with Jerry playing tag off my wing than sitting behind me and blazing away ay my Thunderbolt… I stare across the scant feet separating our two planes. Our eyes lock, then his gaze travels over the Thunderbolt, studying the fighter from nose to tail. No need to wonder what he’s thinking. He’s amazed that my airplane still flies…Each time his gaze scans the Thunderbolt he shakes his head, mystified. For at such close range he can see the tears and holes, the blackened and scorched metal from the fire, the oily film covering the nose and windscreen, the shattered canopy…. The Kraut stares directly at me and lifts his left hand. He waves, his eyes expressionless. A wing lifts, the Focke-Wulf slides away. A long-held breath explodes from my lunges, and relief floods my mind...

“The German plane keeps turning…he’s on my tail again! ‘That son of a bitch!’ …I cower again behind the armor plate. The Focke-Wulf is directly behind me, .30-caliber guns hammering. …He does not miss, not a single bullet misses… I kick rudder, jerk the heavy Thunderbolt from side to side, cutting my speed. The German waits for the maneuver; this time he’s not sucked in. He holds back as the P-47 skids from side to side, and then … he pulls alongside tight to my P-47. Perfect formation, one battered, shot-up Thunderbolt and a gleaming new Focke-Wulf… we are down to 4,000 feet, passing directly over Dieppe, our speed is still 160 miles per hour. Over Dieppe! The realization makes me shudder, for below my wings lie the most intense antiaircraft concentrations along the entire coast.

“They don’t fire! Of course! The Focke-Wulf pilot is saving my life! He doesn’t see Dieppe as a horror of flack…Unknowingly, he gives me another lease on life, is the unwitting party to the succession of miracles which, through one cumulative disaster after the other, are keeping me alive… it is only the smile of fortune that he found me after his four heavy cannon had expended their explosive shells.

“Water below… the Channel beneath my wings! Still in perfect formation, the dappled blue F.W.-190 glides slowly down with me…we are at 3,000 feet. I stare at the German pilot. His left hand raises slowly to his forehead in an informal salute; he waves and his fighter lifts a wing as he slides off to the right…. Here he comes again! Nothing to do but to crouch within the armor plating… A series of sharp bursts ripple from his guns. Again the hailstones pelting the tin roof, the P-47 takes the punishment, absorbs the terrible beating. I have long given up hope of understanding why this machine stays in the air. The firing stops.

“Here he comes again. The gleaming Focke-Wulf slides into formation, the pilot staring at the wreck I am flying. He shakes his head in wonder. Below my wings the Channel is only a thousand feet away. A blue wing lifts, snaps down. I watch the salute, the rocking of wings. The sleek fighter accelerates suddenly and turns, flying away in a long climbing turn back to the coast.

“Free! England ahead, the Channel lifting to meet the crippled P-47. How far, how far can I drag the Thunderbolt with this smashed and laboring engine before she drops into the waves?... I release the throttle knob and begin my preparations for ditching… Finally I discover that the battered and crippled Thunderbolt really can fly! I have been in a steady glide, convinced all this time the fighter is on the verge of falling out of control and now—I discover that she’ll fly… I ease back on the stick. The Thunderbolt answers at once, nose lifting, and hauls upward in a zoom climb. I hold her nose high until the speed drops to just above stalling… level out…hold it…increase speed, at least 160 miles per hour… back on the stick…climb…repeat.

“…Directly below me, the white cliffs of Dover! I switch radio control and call Manston… ‘Hello Manston. Blue 4 here. I’m shot-up. I will have to make a belly landing. I do not know the condition of my landing gear. I have no hydraulics for flaps or brakes. Over’ ‘Blue 4 from Manston. Make a wheels- down landing if you possibly can. We are crowded and have other crippled airplanes coming in. Over.’ …I move the landing-gear control to ‘down’position. Fate still smiles on me. The wheels drop down, lock into position. With all the holes and gaping tears in the Thunderbolt, the wheels and tires have come through unscathed.

“… I fly every inch toward the runway, nursing the Thunderbolt down. Over the end of the field, just above stalling speed, I chop the throttle, drop the heavy fighter to the grass. It is one of the best landings I have ever made!... Without flaps or brakes the big fighter rolls freely, barely losing speed. …Ahead of me is a line of Spitfires and Typhoons; if I don’t stop I’m going to slam into them! At the last moment I kick left rudder, letting the ship turn freely with the wind. The wing tilts, the heavy machine slews violently about, slides backward into a slot between two Typhoons almost as if I’d planned it that way.

“The Thunderbolt has brought me home…. Engine off, switches off… Chute harness undone, straps free. I crawl out through the hole in the canopy…a grin stretches from ear to ear as I stand on the wing, stretch gratefully…. A .30-calibre bullet has nicked my nose. Splinters from 20-mm cannon shells are imbedded in both hands. A bullet has shot away my wrist watch…Burns streak the skin on my forehead. My eyes are swollen, burning, and the flesh starting to blister and on my right thigh are two flesh wounds from .30-caliber bullets.

“I want to look over the Jug [before going to the hospital]. The airplane is not a pretty sight. My awe and respect for the fighter increases as I walk around the battered machine. There are twenty-one gaping holes and jagged tears in the metal from exploding 20-mm cannon shells. I give up counting bullet holes when I reach over a hundred… There are 5 holes in the propeller… Three 20-mm cannon shells burst against the armor plate, a scant inch from my head. Five cannon shell holes in the right wing, four in the left wing. Two cannon shells blasted away the lower half of the rudder… Behind the cockpit the metal is twisted and curled; this had jammed the canopy, trapping me inside. The airplane had done her best. Needless to say she would not fly again.
End