Lt. Col. John T. Nelson
Blood Soaked Skies: The Battle for Anzio
Blood Soaked Skies: The Battle for Anzio
We lieutenant fighter pilots were on a troopship. Through a porthole, I was viewing the disappearing
lights as we departed the Hampton Roads Port in Virginia. My dad had on a troopship in 1917 departed
this same port. We both were heading for separate world wars as machine gunners. He on the ground
and me in the air. With some nostalgia, I thought of my feelings and what his were as we must have both
viewed the same fading U.S. coastline. I was single, he was leaving mom expecting their first child, my
older sister.
After 14 days traveling alone doing a zig-zagging course to avoid the German submarine wolf packs, we
50 or so new pilots reached North Africa. Then, another two weeks in the desert sand we sat very bored,
awaiting transportation and learning the many uses of the Army's steel helmet, like for bathing, shaving,
eating, and some other things.
Our camp was only about 5 miles from Bogart and Bacall's Casablanca, and the confinement to camp was
beginning to fester. After all, we elite officer core, brand new lieutenants had cruised first-class in
staterooms on the Empress of Scotland (changed from Empress of Japan after the Pearl Harbor attack).
In these staterooms designed for two people, eight of us lived and slept in canvas hammocks hung floor
to ceiling on both sides of the room. I recall relating this to my father who said, "Son, in our cramped,
way below, deck quarters for more than 14 days the seasickness vomit on the floor would sometimes get
near an inch thick."
Finally, with word we were moving out, the Commander briefed us for a visit to Casablanca. He
cautioned us about spies, cutthroat thugs and all sorts of dangers we should be aware of in a city only
recently taken from the Germans. We were firmly told to be off the streets and back in the camp by
eleven. I recall liquor bars were set up in the streets. Most of us drank at the first bar and proceeded
drinking our way into town.
Eventually, my buddy, Mac and I boarded a taxi promising all sorts of entertainment and excitement.
We were guided into a small dilapetated building. Once inside, a downward spiraling stairway led us
seemingly many feet below ground. Suddenly, our world changed into a large beautifully decorated
room.
Soft music was playing and we were surrounded by dozens of the most beautiful young ladies I had ever
seen. All were neatly dressed in gorgeous evening gowns and their aggressive actions clearly showed us
we were the objects of their affections.
I remember choosing a partner and moving onto the dance floor. Later, I remember Mac and me with our
pretty escorts arriving by taxi at a dungeon like place with a heavy iron gate. A crusty looking old Arab
heavily chained and locked the gate behind us. The eleven o'clock curfew had come and gone and Mac
and I, as ordered, were off the streets. Getting back to camp would have to wait. After all, as new
military officers we had been taught to make decisions where rules and regulations were in conflict with
urgencies of the immediate situation.
About ten, the next morning, after a nice breakfast in our rooms, we were getting out through the iron
gate, plenty worried about missing the eleven o'clock deadline to be back in camp. Disobeying orders in
war time could be plenty serious. We had only walked a short distance when a military police patrol
arrived and took us back to camp. I suspect the experienced camp commander knew some would miss
the curfew and had the military police in position to see that none missed the troop train waiting to take
us east toward the Allied and German battle lines.
We boarded onto 40 x 8 boxcars on skinny rails, about 3 feet apart. A small coal burning steam engine
chugged, chugged, and smoked us across North Africa for eight more days. My Dad had years earlier
mentioned the 40 men or 8 horse boxcars. (Thus named 40 x 8.) The cars were enclosed by 4-inch wood
planks spaced 4 inches apart. Some field straw covered the wood floors which we left only for a waterless
pass through to the train tracks-below toilet, with an opening so large I don't think it received or even
needed a cleaning.
We lived, ate and slept on the few inches of that ever blackening straw while moving slowly through
frequent and long coal smoke filled tunnels. Faces buried in that welcome straw from the wheat fields
provided some air filtering. Though the smoke filled lungs was near unbearable.
Our only water was from a large canvas bag in the toilet car. We had no hot water, no hot food, and no
bathing. From a small hurried fire, built while the train stopped for fuel and water, I heated and exploded
a can of stew. Still no hot food and now a much more needed but unavailable bath.
We arrived at a dirt desert airstrip near Algiers, North Africa. We lived in tents and the airstrip was just a
barren strip of desert. Aircraft consisted of a few P-40 Warhawks, P-38 Lightnings, P-39 Cobras, and some
British Spitfires. My fighter experience consisted of about 15 hours in a P-40 Warhawk, which was
becoming pretty much obsolete.
My closest buddy, Mac, and I were given a choice of switching to the American P-38 Lightning or the
British Spitfire. We both chose the Spitfire. Half a dozen or so Free French fighter pilots were there
training in the Cobras. (France was occupied by Germany at the time.) I recall four Frenchmen took off
on a training mission in the Cobras and only two returned. The leader was crying and saying that he had
killed the others by flying them into a mountain on a low-level combat training mission.
One morning, as I arrived at my plane, a 12 year old Arab boy was sitting in the cockpit. A member of the
Free French Pilot Group took the boy behind the building and shot him. I thought it was inhuman,
thinking the boy was just curious. However, I had not yet witnessed war situations first-hand. Planes
and pilots had recently been lost to sabotage by such persons.
Mac and I were given some very brief pointers on flying the Spitfire and told to give them a try. I recall
we were having fun on a low-level, hedge hopping flight when suddenly, Arab tents were in front of us
and our air wash blew many tents in all directions. We circled back, rocking our wings, trying to
apologize. I don't think they accepted or understood our apology. The incident wasn't without humor to
us, although certainly not intentional.
It was indeed a cold snowy North African winter. In our tents at the airstrip we lived mostly in our heavy
much used sleeping bags. To enjoy a warm tent, we would toss a match into an open center placed 5
gallon can of 130 octane aviation fuel. Seems it could burn for near an hour. It was not uncommon ,
especially at night, to hear shouts of "Fire!" as a tent would go up in flames. I don't recall anyone ever
getting a severe burn.
Mac and I got a pass into Algiers and repeated in part the night in Casablanca. We had again missed the
only truck back to camp. At about three in the morning, we were out on the street (slightly inebriated)
looking for a place to sleep. This was a war-torn area as Rommel had only recently been defeated and
driven from the area. Damaged and destroyed tanks and other battle equipment were strewn everywhere.
Mac and I finally came upon a British outfit and asked for shelter. Snow had been falling for some time
and we were freezing. The old British sergeant led us to where a lone, snow covered bed was placed in
an open field.
Going back to that same evening, in this war-torn town, Mac and I and a group of about ten, I believe pilot
buddies, and a local guide, just hired off the street, went in search of some excitement. There were no
bars or nightclubs and the search quickly degenerated into knocking on family doors. I recall an
interpreter saying that our guide was asking for women. Mac and I, and perhaps others, immediately
departed the group. Later in the morning, Mac and I wearing our shoes and heavy ended up in the single
snow covered bed the British sergeant had led us to in the open field. We were most grateful, but never
got warm that night.
I've often wondered what fright we most likely caused those families, as in the late, dark night our
drinking group came asking and most likely demanding their women. To me, that incident brought home
the true meaning of "mobism", and though tempted, I've not since knowingly remained a member of such
mob or gang actions.
After I had flown almost six hours in an old model British Spitfire, it was time for combat.
Just before dark, a B-17 bomber came into our dirt airstrip near Algiers to pick up us new fighter pilots.
At age 22, I was about average age for our group although some were younger. I rode in the nose gunner
position and had a birds eye view as we entered the active war area around and just north of Naples, Italy.
It was night and distant gun flashes, searchlights, and bomb blasts were very visible.
We landed in Naples and went immediately into an army truck. Battle actions continued as we drove
northwest to a steel mesh constructed airstrip at the mouth of the Volterno River. The battle action,
though very visible, was not a direct threat to us at this time. We arrived at about two-thirty in the
morning. I was strapped into one of the few remaining old Spit 5's and at first daylight, about thirty of
us took off for the Anzio Beachhead.
Our mission briefing before my first combat mission was very short. I would be flying wingman position
on the lead plane of a flight of four. We would definitely be engaged in aerial combat with 109
Messerschmitts providing fighter cover against us for 190 Focke-Wulfe fighter dive-bombers attacking the
beachhead. The F-190's, after dropping their bombs, would join the 109's as Germany's best fighters.
They would attack from high altitude at high diving speed.
We were the closest fighters to the beachhead and our 30 Spitfires could encounter a hundred or more
German fighters as indeed we did. My main job was to stay with my leader in the fight; the point being to
keep at least two planes together for mutual protection.
We climbed out over the Mediterranean Sea and headed north to the beachhead where the Allies had
landed two days before and were being pushed back into the Mediterranean. In approximately
twenty-five minutes, the battle scene came into view. The Germans were dive bombing and strafing our
forces on the beach and the supporting ships in the harbor. The airspace was filled with airplanes and
bursting shells from the Germans, our ships, and land batteries. I had never seen so many planes in the
air, and they were all German fighters.
We were still climbing hard at low airspeed against the German fighters, which had come in form high
altitude and with high airspeed. Our group leader, a 23-year-old Captain Fields, led us directly into the
fight above our forces. Etched in my brain forever are the bursting black shells and red tracer bullets
coming up from the Germans, our ships, and our shore batteries. It seemed as though they were etching
an outline around my ship. The Germans, our Allied ships, and beach gunners could not, of course,
distinguish friend or foe between the battling aircraft.
It seemed a nightmare as the German fighters would dive, firing past us and we could do little more than
try to dodge their bullets. I would squeeze off an occasional burst of my four machine guns and two
20mm cannons, but had no chance of a good shot or to engage in a meaningful dogfight. We were still
climbing at full power at near stall speed of about 150 mph. The Germans would dive past at about 400
mph and keep going. My leader and I finally ended up above the battle. However, by this time, the air
battle was over for that raid.
After calming down and realizing my leader and I had climbed up through the fight to a safer altitude, I
was a little disappointed that we had not tried to chase the Germans. However, I came to realize that to
do so would have been near suicidal - besides, the Spitfire could not catch a Messerschmitt or Focke-Wulfe
in a dive. In a climb or a one on one same altitude and airspeed dogfight, the Spitfire was best. The
Germans almost never got caught in those conditions.
Special Note: Years later, I came upon fellow pilot Ron Brown's diary. I quote: "Ran into about 100
Fw's and Me's on the morning mission. Probably got one and a damaged. Others claimed damage on the
enemy. Graham was shot up and bellied into landing strip at Nettuno or Anzio, whatever one wants to
call it. Fields and Dodd were shot up but managed to make it back. Haberle was last seen chasing an
Me-109 and is "missing in action". 309th also had a couple of boys shot down. On the second mission, I
was leading Gunna Blue top cover for Fields in Gunna Red. We sighted eight Fw's and started to attack.
About that time, we spotted Me's above us and my flight went into them - breaking them up and allowing
the bottom flight of Guano to go unmolested. Fields got his sixth and others got a few damaged."
The Germans continued to push the Allies back to the sea at Anzio, and we Spitfire pilots were being
pushed had to help stop them. At day five, after the Allied landing, my squadron of fourteen pilots was
ordered to land on the beachhead and provide fighter protection early morning and late evening when
more distant fighter cover was not available.
Our dirt landing strip, which reportedly the Army built in 4 days, required a difficult turn between two
buildings which cost us a couple of Spitfires that landed too fast and couldn't make the turn. Also, we
had to dodge the Navy's balloon barrage and their guy wires there to protect them from low flying
enemy fighters.
For the few days we were on the beachhead, the German big gun shelling never stopped. The guns were
called, "Big Berthas." They were hidden in caves behind the German lines. You would first hear the eerie
sound of their approach and then the explosion. After a while, you could somewhat predict that a shell
had passed you buy.
Again from Ron's diary: "Fields is now a Major. Our field is now ready for use, and we will move up
there tomorrow weather prevailing. Took off in morning leading flight of four and landed on new field
on Anzio beach and escorted transports back to Castel Volterno. In taxing out to take off, I damaged the
wing tip of my ship when I hit a parked truck. Flew a patrol over the field in the afternoon giving me
three sorties for the day. New field is very short and narrow - have to use a right hand traffic pattern, as
there is a bolloon barrage to our left when landing to the north. The font lines in one direction are about
six miles. To the north, they are a little further away. Yesterday, the field was shelled putting holes in
our runway. Shellfire is very loud and distinct."
Continued...
lights as we departed the Hampton Roads Port in Virginia. My dad had on a troopship in 1917 departed
this same port. We both were heading for separate world wars as machine gunners. He on the ground
and me in the air. With some nostalgia, I thought of my feelings and what his were as we must have both
viewed the same fading U.S. coastline. I was single, he was leaving mom expecting their first child, my
older sister.
After 14 days traveling alone doing a zig-zagging course to avoid the German submarine wolf packs, we
50 or so new pilots reached North Africa. Then, another two weeks in the desert sand we sat very bored,
awaiting transportation and learning the many uses of the Army's steel helmet, like for bathing, shaving,
eating, and some other things.
Our camp was only about 5 miles from Bogart and Bacall's Casablanca, and the confinement to camp was
beginning to fester. After all, we elite officer core, brand new lieutenants had cruised first-class in
staterooms on the Empress of Scotland (changed from Empress of Japan after the Pearl Harbor attack).
In these staterooms designed for two people, eight of us lived and slept in canvas hammocks hung floor
to ceiling on both sides of the room. I recall relating this to my father who said, "Son, in our cramped,
way below, deck quarters for more than 14 days the seasickness vomit on the floor would sometimes get
near an inch thick."
Finally, with word we were moving out, the Commander briefed us for a visit to Casablanca. He
cautioned us about spies, cutthroat thugs and all sorts of dangers we should be aware of in a city only
recently taken from the Germans. We were firmly told to be off the streets and back in the camp by
eleven. I recall liquor bars were set up in the streets. Most of us drank at the first bar and proceeded
drinking our way into town.
Eventually, my buddy, Mac and I boarded a taxi promising all sorts of entertainment and excitement.
We were guided into a small dilapetated building. Once inside, a downward spiraling stairway led us
seemingly many feet below ground. Suddenly, our world changed into a large beautifully decorated
room.
Soft music was playing and we were surrounded by dozens of the most beautiful young ladies I had ever
seen. All were neatly dressed in gorgeous evening gowns and their aggressive actions clearly showed us
we were the objects of their affections.
I remember choosing a partner and moving onto the dance floor. Later, I remember Mac and me with our
pretty escorts arriving by taxi at a dungeon like place with a heavy iron gate. A crusty looking old Arab
heavily chained and locked the gate behind us. The eleven o'clock curfew had come and gone and Mac
and I, as ordered, were off the streets. Getting back to camp would have to wait. After all, as new
military officers we had been taught to make decisions where rules and regulations were in conflict with
urgencies of the immediate situation.
About ten, the next morning, after a nice breakfast in our rooms, we were getting out through the iron
gate, plenty worried about missing the eleven o'clock deadline to be back in camp. Disobeying orders in
war time could be plenty serious. We had only walked a short distance when a military police patrol
arrived and took us back to camp. I suspect the experienced camp commander knew some would miss
the curfew and had the military police in position to see that none missed the troop train waiting to take
us east toward the Allied and German battle lines.
We boarded onto 40 x 8 boxcars on skinny rails, about 3 feet apart. A small coal burning steam engine
chugged, chugged, and smoked us across North Africa for eight more days. My Dad had years earlier
mentioned the 40 men or 8 horse boxcars. (Thus named 40 x 8.) The cars were enclosed by 4-inch wood
planks spaced 4 inches apart. Some field straw covered the wood floors which we left only for a waterless
pass through to the train tracks-below toilet, with an opening so large I don't think it received or even
needed a cleaning.
We lived, ate and slept on the few inches of that ever blackening straw while moving slowly through
frequent and long coal smoke filled tunnels. Faces buried in that welcome straw from the wheat fields
provided some air filtering. Though the smoke filled lungs was near unbearable.
Our only water was from a large canvas bag in the toilet car. We had no hot water, no hot food, and no
bathing. From a small hurried fire, built while the train stopped for fuel and water, I heated and exploded
a can of stew. Still no hot food and now a much more needed but unavailable bath.
We arrived at a dirt desert airstrip near Algiers, North Africa. We lived in tents and the airstrip was just a
barren strip of desert. Aircraft consisted of a few P-40 Warhawks, P-38 Lightnings, P-39 Cobras, and some
British Spitfires. My fighter experience consisted of about 15 hours in a P-40 Warhawk, which was
becoming pretty much obsolete.
My closest buddy, Mac, and I were given a choice of switching to the American P-38 Lightning or the
British Spitfire. We both chose the Spitfire. Half a dozen or so Free French fighter pilots were there
training in the Cobras. (France was occupied by Germany at the time.) I recall four Frenchmen took off
on a training mission in the Cobras and only two returned. The leader was crying and saying that he had
killed the others by flying them into a mountain on a low-level combat training mission.
One morning, as I arrived at my plane, a 12 year old Arab boy was sitting in the cockpit. A member of the
Free French Pilot Group took the boy behind the building and shot him. I thought it was inhuman,
thinking the boy was just curious. However, I had not yet witnessed war situations first-hand. Planes
and pilots had recently been lost to sabotage by such persons.
Mac and I were given some very brief pointers on flying the Spitfire and told to give them a try. I recall
we were having fun on a low-level, hedge hopping flight when suddenly, Arab tents were in front of us
and our air wash blew many tents in all directions. We circled back, rocking our wings, trying to
apologize. I don't think they accepted or understood our apology. The incident wasn't without humor to
us, although certainly not intentional.
It was indeed a cold snowy North African winter. In our tents at the airstrip we lived mostly in our heavy
much used sleeping bags. To enjoy a warm tent, we would toss a match into an open center placed 5
gallon can of 130 octane aviation fuel. Seems it could burn for near an hour. It was not uncommon ,
especially at night, to hear shouts of "Fire!" as a tent would go up in flames. I don't recall anyone ever
getting a severe burn.
Mac and I got a pass into Algiers and repeated in part the night in Casablanca. We had again missed the
only truck back to camp. At about three in the morning, we were out on the street (slightly inebriated)
looking for a place to sleep. This was a war-torn area as Rommel had only recently been defeated and
driven from the area. Damaged and destroyed tanks and other battle equipment were strewn everywhere.
Mac and I finally came upon a British outfit and asked for shelter. Snow had been falling for some time
and we were freezing. The old British sergeant led us to where a lone, snow covered bed was placed in
an open field.
Going back to that same evening, in this war-torn town, Mac and I and a group of about ten, I believe pilot
buddies, and a local guide, just hired off the street, went in search of some excitement. There were no
bars or nightclubs and the search quickly degenerated into knocking on family doors. I recall an
interpreter saying that our guide was asking for women. Mac and I, and perhaps others, immediately
departed the group. Later in the morning, Mac and I wearing our shoes and heavy ended up in the single
snow covered bed the British sergeant had led us to in the open field. We were most grateful, but never
got warm that night.
I've often wondered what fright we most likely caused those families, as in the late, dark night our
drinking group came asking and most likely demanding their women. To me, that incident brought home
the true meaning of "mobism", and though tempted, I've not since knowingly remained a member of such
mob or gang actions.
After I had flown almost six hours in an old model British Spitfire, it was time for combat.
Just before dark, a B-17 bomber came into our dirt airstrip near Algiers to pick up us new fighter pilots.
At age 22, I was about average age for our group although some were younger. I rode in the nose gunner
position and had a birds eye view as we entered the active war area around and just north of Naples, Italy.
It was night and distant gun flashes, searchlights, and bomb blasts were very visible.
We landed in Naples and went immediately into an army truck. Battle actions continued as we drove
northwest to a steel mesh constructed airstrip at the mouth of the Volterno River. The battle action,
though very visible, was not a direct threat to us at this time. We arrived at about two-thirty in the
morning. I was strapped into one of the few remaining old Spit 5's and at first daylight, about thirty of
us took off for the Anzio Beachhead.
Our mission briefing before my first combat mission was very short. I would be flying wingman position
on the lead plane of a flight of four. We would definitely be engaged in aerial combat with 109
Messerschmitts providing fighter cover against us for 190 Focke-Wulfe fighter dive-bombers attacking the
beachhead. The F-190's, after dropping their bombs, would join the 109's as Germany's best fighters.
They would attack from high altitude at high diving speed.
We were the closest fighters to the beachhead and our 30 Spitfires could encounter a hundred or more
German fighters as indeed we did. My main job was to stay with my leader in the fight; the point being to
keep at least two planes together for mutual protection.
We climbed out over the Mediterranean Sea and headed north to the beachhead where the Allies had
landed two days before and were being pushed back into the Mediterranean. In approximately
twenty-five minutes, the battle scene came into view. The Germans were dive bombing and strafing our
forces on the beach and the supporting ships in the harbor. The airspace was filled with airplanes and
bursting shells from the Germans, our ships, and land batteries. I had never seen so many planes in the
air, and they were all German fighters.
We were still climbing hard at low airspeed against the German fighters, which had come in form high
altitude and with high airspeed. Our group leader, a 23-year-old Captain Fields, led us directly into the
fight above our forces. Etched in my brain forever are the bursting black shells and red tracer bullets
coming up from the Germans, our ships, and our shore batteries. It seemed as though they were etching
an outline around my ship. The Germans, our Allied ships, and beach gunners could not, of course,
distinguish friend or foe between the battling aircraft.
It seemed a nightmare as the German fighters would dive, firing past us and we could do little more than
try to dodge their bullets. I would squeeze off an occasional burst of my four machine guns and two
20mm cannons, but had no chance of a good shot or to engage in a meaningful dogfight. We were still
climbing at full power at near stall speed of about 150 mph. The Germans would dive past at about 400
mph and keep going. My leader and I finally ended up above the battle. However, by this time, the air
battle was over for that raid.
After calming down and realizing my leader and I had climbed up through the fight to a safer altitude, I
was a little disappointed that we had not tried to chase the Germans. However, I came to realize that to
do so would have been near suicidal - besides, the Spitfire could not catch a Messerschmitt or Focke-Wulfe
in a dive. In a climb or a one on one same altitude and airspeed dogfight, the Spitfire was best. The
Germans almost never got caught in those conditions.
Special Note: Years later, I came upon fellow pilot Ron Brown's diary. I quote: "Ran into about 100
Fw's and Me's on the morning mission. Probably got one and a damaged. Others claimed damage on the
enemy. Graham was shot up and bellied into landing strip at Nettuno or Anzio, whatever one wants to
call it. Fields and Dodd were shot up but managed to make it back. Haberle was last seen chasing an
Me-109 and is "missing in action". 309th also had a couple of boys shot down. On the second mission, I
was leading Gunna Blue top cover for Fields in Gunna Red. We sighted eight Fw's and started to attack.
About that time, we spotted Me's above us and my flight went into them - breaking them up and allowing
the bottom flight of Guano to go unmolested. Fields got his sixth and others got a few damaged."
The Germans continued to push the Allies back to the sea at Anzio, and we Spitfire pilots were being
pushed had to help stop them. At day five, after the Allied landing, my squadron of fourteen pilots was
ordered to land on the beachhead and provide fighter protection early morning and late evening when
more distant fighter cover was not available.
Our dirt landing strip, which reportedly the Army built in 4 days, required a difficult turn between two
buildings which cost us a couple of Spitfires that landed too fast and couldn't make the turn. Also, we
had to dodge the Navy's balloon barrage and their guy wires there to protect them from low flying
enemy fighters.
For the few days we were on the beachhead, the German big gun shelling never stopped. The guns were
called, "Big Berthas." They were hidden in caves behind the German lines. You would first hear the eerie
sound of their approach and then the explosion. After a while, you could somewhat predict that a shell
had passed you buy.
Again from Ron's diary: "Fields is now a Major. Our field is now ready for use, and we will move up
there tomorrow weather prevailing. Took off in morning leading flight of four and landed on new field
on Anzio beach and escorted transports back to Castel Volterno. In taxing out to take off, I damaged the
wing tip of my ship when I hit a parked truck. Flew a patrol over the field in the afternoon giving me
three sorties for the day. New field is very short and narrow - have to use a right hand traffic pattern, as
there is a bolloon barrage to our left when landing to the north. The font lines in one direction are about
six miles. To the north, they are a little further away. Yesterday, the field was shelled putting holes in
our runway. Shellfire is very loud and distinct."
Continued...
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