Lt. Col. John T. Nelson
Anzio 1943 - Page 2
Anzio 1943 - Page 2
One day, as I sat strapped in my Spitfire awaiting an air attack, a German shell, over a foot long, almost
buried itself about six feet from me. It was explosive, but did not explode or I would not be writing this.
Another such shell did explode in an abandoned German ammo dump near where a buddy and I were
preparing to takeoff. The resulting explosions tossed a large cement chunk of about seventy pounds
through the canopy and into the cockpit of one or our planes. So help me, I don't remember if it was his
plane or mine. Fortunately, we were only near the planes. However, a lot of th exploding material fell
around us.
Again from Ron's diary: "Stood readiness all afternoon and to no avail. Graham, Johnston, and Clark
made Captain. Sort of hurts to see underclassmen get promotions ahead of you. Haberle was found
today. After shooting down 2 Me-109s he collided with a British Spit killing both of them.
Tough way to die.
Shellfire is pretty rough - they keep coming our way and the whine and then the explosion is enough to
unnerve a man. The gun that is doing the shelling is supposed to be a railroad gun of 240mm bore or
more.
Jerries shelled all last night. Half of the pilots, including myself, are down with the flu. So far today,
we've had five dive-bombings and strafings. Just my luck to be in bed. Livingston and Caid each shot
one down with Elmer getting his elevators shot off. He made it back to the field all right. Sure luck, that
boy. Gilbert and Bell each got a probable. Things have really been happening. Huns started shelling our
field early this afternoon - so far they've hit eight of our planes. Our front lines are falling back and the
shellfire is incessant. Ammunition dump on the field was blown but none of the pilots were hurt."
In another incident, while standing alert there, the attack siren sounded too late for us to get into the air. I
looked up and saw dive-bombers coming straight down. I leaped out of my plane and crawled back into a
small culvert. A bomb hit near enough for the dirt to half cover the culvert entrance I had barely squeezed
into. I've had many nightmares about suffocating in that culvert.
Another bomb in this same raid destroyed our headquarters tent, which was only fifty yards distant from
where I had squeezed into the culvert. For reasons I'm not sure of, I've kept some of my service records,
which were half destroyed by that bomb.
Again from Ron's diary: "Shell fire kept up all last night. I didn't sleep a wink and, to top it off, I've got a
case of the GI's. Jerries did some bombing about four this morning. Some of the bombs hit within 200
yards of our tent. Flew a damaged ship back to Castel Volterno to get it repaired. Everything here seems
so quiet. Staying with Stone and Ainlay of the 309th. Ten of the 309th ran into 40 huns, knocking down a
few and loosing a few of their own men - one of which was supposed to come into our own squadron as a
replacement - that was his first mission.
Johnson flew down from the beachhead and told me that Fields (good friend of WC) had been shot down
yesterday about dusk. Four of our fellows were bounced by 30 huns. The Me-109 that got Fields hit him
in the cockpit and gas tanks. Field's ship blew up immediately. He was one swell person and everyone
misses him greatly. He was a perfect example of a good pilot and officer. Moore and Tyus each got a
victory yesterday."
A vivid air battle and dogfight on Anzio occurred about a day or two after our arrival there. Word cae of
an approaching large German raid. We were down to eight Spitfires, all were the newer Spit 8's and 9's,
all got airborne for the raid. Major Fields was leading the first flight of four, and I was in the second flight
climbing hard just below and behind them. We were at approximately 15,000 feet when it seemed the sky
above opened up with German fighters diving straight at us.
As they reached the first flight, I saw my commander's aircraft explode and the wings fold around him as
he went down. Another of he four Spitfires exploded and a third went spinning down. The third plane
may have just kicked into a spin as a most desperate defensive maneuver.
My mind is forever closed to any further recording of this flight. I could have continued climbing or did
the uncontrolled spin maneuver to help avoid the bullets, which I know the German pilots threw at us,
perhaps ten seconds after they destroyed those in the first flight.
With us at low speed, maximum climb mode, aiming our guns straight up was not possible. They would
have dived on through a firing pass and kept going because our Spitfires could not have turned and caught
them in their high speed dives.
We were all sleeping in foxholes. The German's big gun shelling continued day and night. I best
remember some times a shell every five minutes and other times perhaps five each hour. Usually, the
shells were meant for the ships in the harbor and would pass over us. At night, the German bombers
would stay overhead and do some bombing. We would place any available protection over our foxholes
at night. I recall finding a silver dollar sized piece of shrapnel on top of the old wooden table I had placed
over my body sized foxhole. I expect it came from the JU-88 bombers that night which had dropped
personnel bombs to burst in the air to kill, injure, and demoralize us.
Mac and I had worked hell bent on our personal bomb shelter. We dug a small cave and fashioned a very
heavy entrance cover. I seem to recall a bomb or shell explosion causing a concussion problem on our
eardrums that led us to vent the place for equalization of such pressure. It also occurs to me that we could
have had a lack of oxygen problem in that air tight cave.
On the beachhead, we walked only in areas previously cleared of land mines. Many areas were roped off
with narrow pathways to follow. I recall crates of land mines, hand grenades, and such that had been
abandoned by the Germans. I remember a very young lanky fellow pilot began carrying the grenades in
his Spitfire to toss out while in flight. He, of course, was ordered to cease this foolish practice. It just may
be that I dreamed this memory in a nightmare during my introduction to combat at such a battle active
time.
On those nights, we had our own movies - an open air theatre with a big screen as big as the whole sky, as
indeed it was. We could relax on our backs in our foxholes and watch as the German JU-88 bombers
would crisscross above, doing their part to disrupt and demoralize those of us on the beachhead being
pushed ever closer into the Mediterranean Sea. My guess, at this time, was that our front lines had been
pushed back to within three or four miles of the waters edge. We could hear the roaring engines and
gunfire of the British Bofighters and American Black Widow night fighters doing battle with the German
planes. Often, we could see glowing tracer bullets across the night sky, and the explosion or fire from a
damaged or destroyed plane.
Again from Ron's diary: "We're getting a new CO - Major Gillen. Also, four new pilots are coming up to
Anzio. Flew up to Anzio with the Major, and he seems to be a good sort of person. We've had almost a
complete turnover in aircraft since our arrival here. Got a letter from Bill O'Brien saying he was a captain
and that he was in England flying P-51's. Strum cracked up on landing and is in the hospital and will
probably go home soon. John Moore and Bell have been taken off ops. Jerries shelled the field again last
night with more than one gun knocking down three buildings at the north end. Our Army gave a little
last night."
Our tactical position was always the same at Anzio. The Germans would catch us in a fighter pilot's
nightmarish, impossible position - in a slow hard climb at low altitude. The answer would have been
enough aircraft and pilots to keep an air cap over the Allied beachhead. That was hardly possible for us
eight pilots in an aircraft that could burn all its fuel in less than a thirty minute all out dogfight. I should
comment here that America was still very lacking in good competitive fighter planes. We Americans, here
flying British Spitfires against overwhelming odds seems a reminder that our World War I pilots flew only
foreign aircraft in that war because we had none, raising the question why America must place its earliest
warriors in such peril.
I think it was that evening or the next day we went to the Allied cemetery to bury our Commander. The
cemetery was just an area selected for the Allied dead. The area was being shelled more heavily than
where are planes were parked - perhaps because of the nearness to the fighting infantry soldiers. German
prisoners were digging the large pits for burial and Army pickup trucks were continuously arriving with
our dead. I recall thinking those bloody bodies are stacked in the open trucks just like logs of timber.
We didn't spend much time there, partly because of the heavy shelling and, of course, we had to get back
to our planes. They brought my Commander's remains out in what I remember as a half-filled bloody
pillowcase. I think we stood at his grave site for a few words and departed. To me, this was the truth of
war at a most vivid state. We pilots would all be awarded Special Air Medals for service at Anzio. I don't
know if those medals were too much or too little or even the reasons for such, but I do know those
soldiers trying to hold back the advancing enemy were paying an awful price under the most difficult
conditions. No medals or such could compensate for their losses. However, I suppose that it was as it has
always been, when man finds himself in a kill or be killed situation.
The next day, we were told the beachhead was being lost. We pilots had been ordered to strafe the
advancing Germans that were within a mile or so from where our planes were parked near the water's
edge.
We were told the Germans were in deep foxholes and the only way our cannon and machine guns could
reach them was for our planes to be pointed nearly straight down. We would have to go in at low altitude
to avoid the German anti-aircraft fire, which was heavy and deadly accurate in the area. This was a very
bad and last ditch mission for us. The Spitfire engine was liquid cooled. A small gunshot in the radiator
or cooling system could bring it down. The large, four-blade propeller was made of wood, which could
splinter easily, and the whole plane was made of light materials. To keep the plane light and
maneuverable, there was little armor plate to protect the pilot and vital parts of the plane.
I don't remember how many flew the strafing mission. With our heavy losses, we obviously had been
getting replacement Spitfires and pilots from our outfit down near Naples. I remember the difficult
maneuvers at trying to get our bullets into the deep foxholes. The fighter plane must, of course, be
pointed where the bullets go. I would nose near straight down with guns firing, then pullout just before
ground contact, climb briefly, and repeat the maneuver.
I doubt we were very successful, however, I don't recall that we lost a plane or pilot except for one plane
that had half a wheel shot off. Another had a two foot hole blown in the wing, and we all had some small
gunfire damage. We were not asked to repeat the mission.
While sitting in my plane awaiting a scramble order, my radio picked up a rather frantic request for
location of our landing strip. A P-40 Warhawk pilot was in trouble and had to land. I did direct him
across our area, and he crashed his smoking aircraft a few yards from our strip. He was a black pilot and
had been strafing the German foxholes.
Our Spitfires were parked near the beach, next inland was an army hospital housed in tents. Then next
inland were our foxholes, and I think we had a tent there for our food. On this day, a heavy wind came
up causing the German big gun shells to land short of the Navy ships in the harbor and on our Spitfires.
The hospital was taking a beating from the shelling, and I ran there to be helpful. The scene there was
even worse than at the cemetery. Wounded and dying soldiers were everywhere on the ground and
there just didn't seem anything I could do. I soon returned to my foxhole.
Again from Ron's diary: "Got up four times last night and ran to my foxhole - that's how many air-raids
we had plus the continuous whistle of the shells as they passed overhead on their way to our field. About
six this evening, the huns let loose with there railroad guns even though it was raining. They couldn't
observe where the shells landed, and as a result, six shells landed in the 95th hospital 400 yards from
where we are killing about 50 persons and wounded others. I sure won't sleep tonight. Words somehow
sent to front and to Germans - shelling stopped for rest of the night.
Jerries shelled all last night coming too close for comfort. At nine this morning 12 FW-190's strafed and
dive bombed. We watched them form our foxholes. At this field, we fly the dawn mission and the dusk
mission standing readiness the rest of the day and never getting scrambled - we just watch from the
ground. Already, tonight we've had four bombing raids - Jerries dropping flares and bombs over our area
apparently trying to knock out the 155mm guns about a quarter and a mile away from us. Moore and Bell
left for home today."
Our food on Anzio was the canned K-rations. We did almost get some fresh meat. The Spitfire could
carry one external fuel tank under its belly. A tank had been hastily converted to carry supplies and some
meat had been obtained from a Navy ship down near Naples. However, we lost the meat when
Messerschmitts attacked the Spitfire and the pilot had to drop the tank to engage in the dogfight. I've
wondered if someone got to enjoy that meat or perhaps thought it human remains and gave it a proper
burial.
As the infantry continued to be pushed back into the sea, we pilots were constantly aware that our last
flight out could occur at any time. We would, of course, pull out to save ourselves and our Spitfires to
continue the fight from another location. We did leave after about six days, returning to the main group
at the mouth of the Volterno River.
We may have been pulled out because the beachhead was being lost or more likely because of the
impossible odds we faced against the German pilots, with them having all the tactical advantages. Our
losses in pilots and planes were very heavy and climbing; our accomplishment in the war effort was almost
nil. We continued to fly missions to Anzio, and I did get some dog fighting with a German Focke-Wulfe
but almost always hanging onto my leader to keep the two-fighter element together.
My buddy, Mack, left his leader one day and shot up a Focke-Wulfe. He caught hell and was threatened
with court marshal if he did it again. He and I were still new as pilots, and I suppose we, properly, had to
fly our support missions, which also meant a chance to learn the ropes and not die from a stupid
maneuver. Also, the pilot attrition would very soon make us so-called old pilots, if we survived that long.
On a mission to a German airfield near Anzio, my leader and I were almost in formation with two
Focke-Wulfe at low altitude. We were flying new Spit -9's, and I think I could have taken the Germans
quite easily. However, my leader just applied full power and broke away in the other direction. He was
an older pilot with a family and may have been scared or he may have seen another target. Anyway, I've
regretted failure to break away and go for those Focke-Wulfe. Mac and I continued to follow as ordered,
and I'm sure at this time of heavy air combat we missed our chances for the air victories that make a
fighter pilot a fighter pilot.
Eventually, the beachhead at Anzio became secure and we Spitfire pilots were given other missions. I
remember flying fighter cover for General Mark Clark, the Allied Commander, into the Anzio area. We
flew fighter cover for the American B-25 Mitchell light bombers. They had been flying without such cover
and were taking a terrible beating form the German fighters. On one such mission, a small dogfight began
and I was jockeying my engine throttle rather heftily when it suddenly stuck in a low power position. I
immediately headed for home base alone, slowly losing altitude with seemingly little chance of
reaching our airstrip. I soon was reminded of my situation in the burning P-40 Warhawk over the Gulf of
Mexico. I wasn't as bad off here since my engine wasn't on fire, but the decision to bail out or crash land
was fast approaching.
I was flying over mountainous country, which made the bailout decision most critical. Parachuting at 4000
feet was ideal. Anything below 2000 could be too late. I had jumped from the P-40 at less than a thousand
feet, but much luck was with me. Like good forward motion, a quick opening parachute, and the deep
Gulf water saved my life.
I can't remember if the bad landing back at the strip was caused by battle damage or a bad piece of that
beat up steel mesh airstrip material or, maybe, I just made a bad landing. The Spitfire had air brakes, if
you could say it had any brakes at all; they were hand-operated and totally different from any American
aircraft. On takeoff and landing, one had to keep the tail down level with the two front wheels or the
huge wooden propeller would be chopped up on the runway. With the huge nose housing the large Rolls
Royce engine in front of you, both takeoff and landing on a narrow runway was a guessing game. I think
the British designed the plane for use only on the large open airfields in England.
Our missions were very much changed from the Anzio beachhead to the Army's battle for the famed
abbey at Monte Cassino, Italy. During straight down unsuccessful dives trying to catch German
dive-bombers, I watched the abbey turn to rubble.
We were suddenly flown to a sandy, dust covered farm field near Casablanca to pick up the new P-51
Mustangs. Our first flight to the Ploesti oil fields brought my first 109 Messerschmitt destroyed and
another probable before I ran out of ammunition. We had switched from front line tactical support to long
range missions into Germnay, France, and the many Balkan occupied countries. I would soon be shot
down in Yugoslavia. After a month evading the Germans, I would be flying again with my 307th
Squadron, 31st Fighter Group unit.
buried itself about six feet from me. It was explosive, but did not explode or I would not be writing this.
Another such shell did explode in an abandoned German ammo dump near where a buddy and I were
preparing to takeoff. The resulting explosions tossed a large cement chunk of about seventy pounds
through the canopy and into the cockpit of one or our planes. So help me, I don't remember if it was his
plane or mine. Fortunately, we were only near the planes. However, a lot of th exploding material fell
around us.
Again from Ron's diary: "Stood readiness all afternoon and to no avail. Graham, Johnston, and Clark
made Captain. Sort of hurts to see underclassmen get promotions ahead of you. Haberle was found
today. After shooting down 2 Me-109s he collided with a British Spit killing both of them.
Tough way to die.
Shellfire is pretty rough - they keep coming our way and the whine and then the explosion is enough to
unnerve a man. The gun that is doing the shelling is supposed to be a railroad gun of 240mm bore or
more.
Jerries shelled all last night. Half of the pilots, including myself, are down with the flu. So far today,
we've had five dive-bombings and strafings. Just my luck to be in bed. Livingston and Caid each shot
one down with Elmer getting his elevators shot off. He made it back to the field all right. Sure luck, that
boy. Gilbert and Bell each got a probable. Things have really been happening. Huns started shelling our
field early this afternoon - so far they've hit eight of our planes. Our front lines are falling back and the
shellfire is incessant. Ammunition dump on the field was blown but none of the pilots were hurt."
In another incident, while standing alert there, the attack siren sounded too late for us to get into the air. I
looked up and saw dive-bombers coming straight down. I leaped out of my plane and crawled back into a
small culvert. A bomb hit near enough for the dirt to half cover the culvert entrance I had barely squeezed
into. I've had many nightmares about suffocating in that culvert.
Another bomb in this same raid destroyed our headquarters tent, which was only fifty yards distant from
where I had squeezed into the culvert. For reasons I'm not sure of, I've kept some of my service records,
which were half destroyed by that bomb.
Again from Ron's diary: "Shell fire kept up all last night. I didn't sleep a wink and, to top it off, I've got a
case of the GI's. Jerries did some bombing about four this morning. Some of the bombs hit within 200
yards of our tent. Flew a damaged ship back to Castel Volterno to get it repaired. Everything here seems
so quiet. Staying with Stone and Ainlay of the 309th. Ten of the 309th ran into 40 huns, knocking down a
few and loosing a few of their own men - one of which was supposed to come into our own squadron as a
replacement - that was his first mission.
Johnson flew down from the beachhead and told me that Fields (good friend of WC) had been shot down
yesterday about dusk. Four of our fellows were bounced by 30 huns. The Me-109 that got Fields hit him
in the cockpit and gas tanks. Field's ship blew up immediately. He was one swell person and everyone
misses him greatly. He was a perfect example of a good pilot and officer. Moore and Tyus each got a
victory yesterday."
A vivid air battle and dogfight on Anzio occurred about a day or two after our arrival there. Word cae of
an approaching large German raid. We were down to eight Spitfires, all were the newer Spit 8's and 9's,
all got airborne for the raid. Major Fields was leading the first flight of four, and I was in the second flight
climbing hard just below and behind them. We were at approximately 15,000 feet when it seemed the sky
above opened up with German fighters diving straight at us.
As they reached the first flight, I saw my commander's aircraft explode and the wings fold around him as
he went down. Another of he four Spitfires exploded and a third went spinning down. The third plane
may have just kicked into a spin as a most desperate defensive maneuver.
My mind is forever closed to any further recording of this flight. I could have continued climbing or did
the uncontrolled spin maneuver to help avoid the bullets, which I know the German pilots threw at us,
perhaps ten seconds after they destroyed those in the first flight.
With us at low speed, maximum climb mode, aiming our guns straight up was not possible. They would
have dived on through a firing pass and kept going because our Spitfires could not have turned and caught
them in their high speed dives.
We were all sleeping in foxholes. The German's big gun shelling continued day and night. I best
remember some times a shell every five minutes and other times perhaps five each hour. Usually, the
shells were meant for the ships in the harbor and would pass over us. At night, the German bombers
would stay overhead and do some bombing. We would place any available protection over our foxholes
at night. I recall finding a silver dollar sized piece of shrapnel on top of the old wooden table I had placed
over my body sized foxhole. I expect it came from the JU-88 bombers that night which had dropped
personnel bombs to burst in the air to kill, injure, and demoralize us.
Mac and I had worked hell bent on our personal bomb shelter. We dug a small cave and fashioned a very
heavy entrance cover. I seem to recall a bomb or shell explosion causing a concussion problem on our
eardrums that led us to vent the place for equalization of such pressure. It also occurs to me that we could
have had a lack of oxygen problem in that air tight cave.
On the beachhead, we walked only in areas previously cleared of land mines. Many areas were roped off
with narrow pathways to follow. I recall crates of land mines, hand grenades, and such that had been
abandoned by the Germans. I remember a very young lanky fellow pilot began carrying the grenades in
his Spitfire to toss out while in flight. He, of course, was ordered to cease this foolish practice. It just may
be that I dreamed this memory in a nightmare during my introduction to combat at such a battle active
time.
On those nights, we had our own movies - an open air theatre with a big screen as big as the whole sky, as
indeed it was. We could relax on our backs in our foxholes and watch as the German JU-88 bombers
would crisscross above, doing their part to disrupt and demoralize those of us on the beachhead being
pushed ever closer into the Mediterranean Sea. My guess, at this time, was that our front lines had been
pushed back to within three or four miles of the waters edge. We could hear the roaring engines and
gunfire of the British Bofighters and American Black Widow night fighters doing battle with the German
planes. Often, we could see glowing tracer bullets across the night sky, and the explosion or fire from a
damaged or destroyed plane.
Again from Ron's diary: "We're getting a new CO - Major Gillen. Also, four new pilots are coming up to
Anzio. Flew up to Anzio with the Major, and he seems to be a good sort of person. We've had almost a
complete turnover in aircraft since our arrival here. Got a letter from Bill O'Brien saying he was a captain
and that he was in England flying P-51's. Strum cracked up on landing and is in the hospital and will
probably go home soon. John Moore and Bell have been taken off ops. Jerries shelled the field again last
night with more than one gun knocking down three buildings at the north end. Our Army gave a little
last night."
Our tactical position was always the same at Anzio. The Germans would catch us in a fighter pilot's
nightmarish, impossible position - in a slow hard climb at low altitude. The answer would have been
enough aircraft and pilots to keep an air cap over the Allied beachhead. That was hardly possible for us
eight pilots in an aircraft that could burn all its fuel in less than a thirty minute all out dogfight. I should
comment here that America was still very lacking in good competitive fighter planes. We Americans, here
flying British Spitfires against overwhelming odds seems a reminder that our World War I pilots flew only
foreign aircraft in that war because we had none, raising the question why America must place its earliest
warriors in such peril.
I think it was that evening or the next day we went to the Allied cemetery to bury our Commander. The
cemetery was just an area selected for the Allied dead. The area was being shelled more heavily than
where are planes were parked - perhaps because of the nearness to the fighting infantry soldiers. German
prisoners were digging the large pits for burial and Army pickup trucks were continuously arriving with
our dead. I recall thinking those bloody bodies are stacked in the open trucks just like logs of timber.
We didn't spend much time there, partly because of the heavy shelling and, of course, we had to get back
to our planes. They brought my Commander's remains out in what I remember as a half-filled bloody
pillowcase. I think we stood at his grave site for a few words and departed. To me, this was the truth of
war at a most vivid state. We pilots would all be awarded Special Air Medals for service at Anzio. I don't
know if those medals were too much or too little or even the reasons for such, but I do know those
soldiers trying to hold back the advancing enemy were paying an awful price under the most difficult
conditions. No medals or such could compensate for their losses. However, I suppose that it was as it has
always been, when man finds himself in a kill or be killed situation.
The next day, we were told the beachhead was being lost. We pilots had been ordered to strafe the
advancing Germans that were within a mile or so from where our planes were parked near the water's
edge.
We were told the Germans were in deep foxholes and the only way our cannon and machine guns could
reach them was for our planes to be pointed nearly straight down. We would have to go in at low altitude
to avoid the German anti-aircraft fire, which was heavy and deadly accurate in the area. This was a very
bad and last ditch mission for us. The Spitfire engine was liquid cooled. A small gunshot in the radiator
or cooling system could bring it down. The large, four-blade propeller was made of wood, which could
splinter easily, and the whole plane was made of light materials. To keep the plane light and
maneuverable, there was little armor plate to protect the pilot and vital parts of the plane.
I don't remember how many flew the strafing mission. With our heavy losses, we obviously had been
getting replacement Spitfires and pilots from our outfit down near Naples. I remember the difficult
maneuvers at trying to get our bullets into the deep foxholes. The fighter plane must, of course, be
pointed where the bullets go. I would nose near straight down with guns firing, then pullout just before
ground contact, climb briefly, and repeat the maneuver.
I doubt we were very successful, however, I don't recall that we lost a plane or pilot except for one plane
that had half a wheel shot off. Another had a two foot hole blown in the wing, and we all had some small
gunfire damage. We were not asked to repeat the mission.
While sitting in my plane awaiting a scramble order, my radio picked up a rather frantic request for
location of our landing strip. A P-40 Warhawk pilot was in trouble and had to land. I did direct him
across our area, and he crashed his smoking aircraft a few yards from our strip. He was a black pilot and
had been strafing the German foxholes.
Our Spitfires were parked near the beach, next inland was an army hospital housed in tents. Then next
inland were our foxholes, and I think we had a tent there for our food. On this day, a heavy wind came
up causing the German big gun shells to land short of the Navy ships in the harbor and on our Spitfires.
The hospital was taking a beating from the shelling, and I ran there to be helpful. The scene there was
even worse than at the cemetery. Wounded and dying soldiers were everywhere on the ground and
there just didn't seem anything I could do. I soon returned to my foxhole.
Again from Ron's diary: "Got up four times last night and ran to my foxhole - that's how many air-raids
we had plus the continuous whistle of the shells as they passed overhead on their way to our field. About
six this evening, the huns let loose with there railroad guns even though it was raining. They couldn't
observe where the shells landed, and as a result, six shells landed in the 95th hospital 400 yards from
where we are killing about 50 persons and wounded others. I sure won't sleep tonight. Words somehow
sent to front and to Germans - shelling stopped for rest of the night.
Jerries shelled all last night coming too close for comfort. At nine this morning 12 FW-190's strafed and
dive bombed. We watched them form our foxholes. At this field, we fly the dawn mission and the dusk
mission standing readiness the rest of the day and never getting scrambled - we just watch from the
ground. Already, tonight we've had four bombing raids - Jerries dropping flares and bombs over our area
apparently trying to knock out the 155mm guns about a quarter and a mile away from us. Moore and Bell
left for home today."
Our food on Anzio was the canned K-rations. We did almost get some fresh meat. The Spitfire could
carry one external fuel tank under its belly. A tank had been hastily converted to carry supplies and some
meat had been obtained from a Navy ship down near Naples. However, we lost the meat when
Messerschmitts attacked the Spitfire and the pilot had to drop the tank to engage in the dogfight. I've
wondered if someone got to enjoy that meat or perhaps thought it human remains and gave it a proper
burial.
As the infantry continued to be pushed back into the sea, we pilots were constantly aware that our last
flight out could occur at any time. We would, of course, pull out to save ourselves and our Spitfires to
continue the fight from another location. We did leave after about six days, returning to the main group
at the mouth of the Volterno River.
We may have been pulled out because the beachhead was being lost or more likely because of the
impossible odds we faced against the German pilots, with them having all the tactical advantages. Our
losses in pilots and planes were very heavy and climbing; our accomplishment in the war effort was almost
nil. We continued to fly missions to Anzio, and I did get some dog fighting with a German Focke-Wulfe
but almost always hanging onto my leader to keep the two-fighter element together.
My buddy, Mack, left his leader one day and shot up a Focke-Wulfe. He caught hell and was threatened
with court marshal if he did it again. He and I were still new as pilots, and I suppose we, properly, had to
fly our support missions, which also meant a chance to learn the ropes and not die from a stupid
maneuver. Also, the pilot attrition would very soon make us so-called old pilots, if we survived that long.
On a mission to a German airfield near Anzio, my leader and I were almost in formation with two
Focke-Wulfe at low altitude. We were flying new Spit -9's, and I think I could have taken the Germans
quite easily. However, my leader just applied full power and broke away in the other direction. He was
an older pilot with a family and may have been scared or he may have seen another target. Anyway, I've
regretted failure to break away and go for those Focke-Wulfe. Mac and I continued to follow as ordered,
and I'm sure at this time of heavy air combat we missed our chances for the air victories that make a
fighter pilot a fighter pilot.
Eventually, the beachhead at Anzio became secure and we Spitfire pilots were given other missions. I
remember flying fighter cover for General Mark Clark, the Allied Commander, into the Anzio area. We
flew fighter cover for the American B-25 Mitchell light bombers. They had been flying without such cover
and were taking a terrible beating form the German fighters. On one such mission, a small dogfight began
and I was jockeying my engine throttle rather heftily when it suddenly stuck in a low power position. I
immediately headed for home base alone, slowly losing altitude with seemingly little chance of
reaching our airstrip. I soon was reminded of my situation in the burning P-40 Warhawk over the Gulf of
Mexico. I wasn't as bad off here since my engine wasn't on fire, but the decision to bail out or crash land
was fast approaching.
I was flying over mountainous country, which made the bailout decision most critical. Parachuting at 4000
feet was ideal. Anything below 2000 could be too late. I had jumped from the P-40 at less than a thousand
feet, but much luck was with me. Like good forward motion, a quick opening parachute, and the deep
Gulf water saved my life.
I can't remember if the bad landing back at the strip was caused by battle damage or a bad piece of that
beat up steel mesh airstrip material or, maybe, I just made a bad landing. The Spitfire had air brakes, if
you could say it had any brakes at all; they were hand-operated and totally different from any American
aircraft. On takeoff and landing, one had to keep the tail down level with the two front wheels or the
huge wooden propeller would be chopped up on the runway. With the huge nose housing the large Rolls
Royce engine in front of you, both takeoff and landing on a narrow runway was a guessing game. I think
the British designed the plane for use only on the large open airfields in England.
Our missions were very much changed from the Anzio beachhead to the Army's battle for the famed
abbey at Monte Cassino, Italy. During straight down unsuccessful dives trying to catch German
dive-bombers, I watched the abbey turn to rubble.
We were suddenly flown to a sandy, dust covered farm field near Casablanca to pick up the new P-51
Mustangs. Our first flight to the Ploesti oil fields brought my first 109 Messerschmitt destroyed and
another probable before I ran out of ammunition. We had switched from front line tactical support to long
range missions into Germnay, France, and the many Balkan occupied countries. I would soon be shot
down in Yugoslavia. After a month evading the Germans, I would be flying again with my 307th
Squadron, 31st Fighter Group unit.
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