Vanished Hero: The Life, War and Mysterious Disappearance of America’s WWII Strafing King Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  Introduction: “I’ll See You When I Get Back”

  “I Now Have Cancer”

  “He Loved Flying More than Anything”

  “My Flying Has Been Pretty Good Lately”

  “I’d Rather Fly than Eat”

  “I’m Really Enjoying This All”

  “The Chance of a Skunk Picking on a Lion”

  “I’m Going off to War Now, Mom”

  “Have My Own Squadron Now”

  “Everyone Looks So Well”

  “We Try Not to Hit the Crew”

  Photo Gallery

  “Tonite This Lad is a Tired Guy”

  “It All Happened Pretty Fast”

  “Jerry Went Out of Control”

  “Seems Like an Excellent Break for Me”

  “I Hit the Deck”

  “I’m Pretty Much Tired”

  “Don’t Be a Fool”

  “One More Pass”

  “Your Little Daughter is Sure Getting Cuter”

  “I Felt Bad”

  Epilogue

  Author’s Comments

  Acknowledgements

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Guide

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  Introduction: “I’ll See You When I Get Back”

  “I Now Have Cancer”

  “He Loved Flying More than Anything”

  “My Flying Has Been Pretty Good Lately”

  “I’d Rather Fly than Eat”

  “I’m Really Enjoying This All”

  “The Chance of a Skunk Picking on a Lion”

  “I’m Going off to War Now, Mom”

  “Have My Own Squadron Now”

  “Everyone Looks So Well”

  “We Try Not to Hit the Crew”

  Photo Gallery

  “Tonite This Lad is a Tired Guy”

  “It All Happened Pretty Fast”

  “Jerry Went Out of Control”

  “Seems Like an Excellent Break for Me”

  “I Hit the Deck”

  “I’m Pretty Much Tired”

  “Don’t Be a Fool”

  “One More Pass”

  “Your Little Daughter is Sure Getting Cuter”

  “I Felt Bad”

  Epilogue

  Author’s Comments

  Acknowledgements

  Notes

  Bibliography

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  Published in the United States of America and Great Britain in 2016 by

  CASEMATE PUBLISHERS

  1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083, USA

  and

  10 Hythe Bridge Street, Oxford OX1 2EW, UK

  © Jay Stout 2016

  Hardcover Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-395-5

  Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-396-2 (epub)

  A CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  For a complete list of Casemate titles, please contact:

  CASEMATE PUBLISHERS (US)

  Telephone (610) 853-9131

  Fax (610) 853-9146

  Email: [email protected]

  www.casematepublishers.com

  CASEMATE PUBLISHERS (UK)

  Telephone (01865) 241249

  Fax (01865) 794449

  Email: [email protected]

  www.casematepublishers.co.uk

  Especially for the fiercest of our fighting men—those who actively seek out our enemies, find them and kill them.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: “I’ll See You When I Get Back”

  “I Now Have Cancer”

  “He Loved Flying More than Anything”

  “My Flying Has Been Pretty Good Lately”

  “I’d Rather Fly than Eat”

  “I’m Really Enjoying This All”

  “The Chance of a Skunk Picking on a Lion”

  “I’m Going off to War Now, Mom”

  “Have My Own Squadron Now”

  “Everyone Looks So Well”

  “We Try Not to Hit the Crew”

  Photo Gallery

  “Tonite This Lad is a Tired Guy”

  “It All Happened Pretty Fast”

  “Jerry Went Out of Control”

  “Seems Like an Excellent Break for Me”

  “I Hit the Deck”

  “I’m Pretty Much Tired”

  “Don’t Be a Fool”

  “One More Pass”

  “Your Little Daughter is Sure Getting Cuter”

  “I Felt Bad”

  Epilogue

  Author’s Comments

  Acknowledgements

  Notes

  Bibliography

  INTRODUCTION: “I’LL SEE YOU WHEN I GET BACK”

  The jeep squeaked to a stop. The pilot sat motionless in the passenger’s seat and stared straight ahead, drawing slow, weary breaths. All at once he grunted, sat upright, grabbed his flying gear and stepped onto the damp ground. The jeep immediately crunched into gear and scooted away as he started toward his aircraft.

  Block letters across the sleek fighter’s nose marked it as Katydid. It was named after his wife, Cathryn. Next to the name, a voluptuous, green caricature of a winged katydid struck a pose. Bare-breasted, long-legged, and high-heeled, the implausible but undeniably sexy figure conveyed a distinctly flirtatious look.

  A crew chief fussed with a balky set of fasteners on the P-51’s underside. The pilot watched him for a moment before moving unhurriedly around the aircraft to confirm that everything was as it should be. Satisfied, he leaned over and checked once more on the enlisted man.

  A brisk English breeze chilled the morning and the pilot stood upright and zipped his jacket against it. He reached for his leather helmet and pulled it on. After so many months of combat it was stiff with dried sweat and it stank, but the snugness of it was nevertheless familiar and comforting. He pulled the goggles that were fastened to the helmet over his eyes to make certain they were clean. Through them, across the airfield, he saw dozens of other pilots and ground crews readying for the day’s mission.

  He lifted the goggles back onto his helmet, stepped onto the fighter’s left wing and up to the cockpit. There, he grabbed the top of the windscreen, stepped over the canopy sill and eased his athletic frame down into the seat. A quick glance at the myriad gauges, switches, knobs and levers confirmed to him that the aircraft was ready to start.

  He waited a moment for the crew chief to come out from under the airplane to help him with the buckles and straps of his parachute. The man didn’t appear and the pilot tired of waiting. He sighed and called out, “Sergeant! Sergeant, come help me with my parachute.”1

  The crew chief, Don Downes, was still busy with the fasteners. “If you can’t put on the goddamned chute, you can’t fly the plane,” he shouted.

  The pilot’s request changed to a demand. “Sergeant! Come up here and help me with my parachute!”

  Exasperated, Downes scrabbled out from under the P-51. His eyes widened when he looked up to the cockpit. Rather than a fresh-faced, shavetail lieutenant, he discovered that the pilot wore “oak leaves as big as basketballs,” and packed a .45 caliber pistol in a shoulder harness. The man to whom he had just mouthed off was the 55th Fighter Group’s commander, Lieutenant Colonel Elwyn G. Righetti. Righetti, a celebrated ace, was in charge of not only the 55th and its airfield at Wormingford, but virtually everything and everyone on it, including Downes.

  Downes leapt onto the wing and apologized as he bent over and helped his commander settle into the cockpit. Finished, he stood upright. Righetti fixed him with a look that left no doubt that his displeasure had not passed. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  The deep-throated thrum of the P-51’s engine vibrated the airframe with a gentle tremble that made it feel as if it were a living thing. Righetti loved the Mustang and especially liked how it seemed to wrap itself around him as if it were a bespoke suit, custom tailored by artisans. No other aircraft had cradled him so perfectly and there was no other fighter in the world he wanted to fly. Aside from the feel of it, the gas and oil and metal reek of the muscular little fighter comprised a unique perfume. And no flying machine could match its sleek good looks—a striking balance of purposeful power and aerodynamic efficiency.

  Righetti looked across the airfield where dozens of other P-51s also sat idling. They waited for his lead. Some of the fighters, like his own silvery aircr
aft, wore scarcely any paint at all. Their propeller spinners were circled with green and yellow stripes and the fronts of their engine cowlings wore similarly colored, checkered bands. These were identification markings specific to the 55th. But a few of the aircraft were partially painted with a sweeping olive drab pattern that covered the wings and ran back from the engine cowling, and then stretched down the top of the fuselage to the empennage. The unsanctioned scheme accented the aircraft’s trim lines and was unique to the 55th. The tails of a few of the Mustangs wore the profile of a rearing stallion on their rudders.

  Righetti checked his wristwatch against the slip of paper strapped to his knee. It was marked with important particulars about the day’s mission such as the takeoff and rendezvous times, the route, the markings of the bomber units that were to be escorted and the expected weather—among other important information. The slip was marked with the date, April 17, 1945. It was his thirtieth birthday and he reflected for a moment on his wife and young daughter. They would be asleep now, at home near San Luis Obispo on the ranch where he had been born and raised.

  The 55th was assigned to escort B-17s of the Eighth Air Force’s 3d Air Division across targets in Dresden, not far from Germany’s border with Czechoslovakia. In fact, the war was nearly over and there was little promise of air combat as the Allies had beaten the German Air Force—the Luftwaffe—nearly out of existence. Indeed, the Nazis were expected to surrender, or be completely overrun, during the next few weeks. It was a timeframe that neatly corresponded with the end of Righetti’s combat tour as he had to fly only a few more missions before reaching the three hundred combat hours required to rotate back to the States. Regardless, he had been growing increasingly exhausted and was ready for it all to be over.

  Righetti nodded at Downes who, careful to stay away from the spinning propeller, ran under the aircraft and dragged the wheel chocks clear. Checking ahead and behind him, Righetti released the fighter’s brakes, added power and rolled from the hardstand onto the airfield’s perimeter track. He returned the salute that Downes threw at him and started for the runway.

  The P-51’s nose blocked his view forward and Righetti stepped on one rudder pedal, then the other, fishtailing the little fighter back and forth across the track so that he could better see what was in front of him. Other aircraft left their hardstands, likewise weaving, as they fell into a long, snaking line behind him. Crew chiefs, armorers and other support personnel held tightly to their hats and shielded their eyes against the blast of propeller-blown dust and debris.

  Nearing the runway, Righetti finished his takeoff checks and cranked the canopy closed. The growl of his engine changed timbre to a muted rumble. Behind him he saw the three squadrons that made up the 55th—the 38th, the 338th, and the 343rd—readying for takeoff. He checked his wristwatch once more and watched Paul Reeves and his wingman pull past him and onto the runway. Reeves was flying his last mission. “At the briefing, Righetti called me aside,” said Reeves, “and told me that I would lead the group, form it and take it to enemy territory, and at that point he would assume the lead and I was to return to base. He pointed out that we had lost too many guys on their last scheduled mission and that we were not going to lose any more … it seemed like a very thoughtful and considerate thing.”2