On the Deck

Flight Journal, Jun 2004 by Busha, James P

P-51Bs OVER NORMANDY

JUNE 5, 1944: ALLIED HEAVY BOMBERS and fighters had been hammering away at "fortress Europe." Around-the-clock strategic bombardment coupled with low-level bombing and strafing missions helped to soften intended targets.

Hitting railways, airfields and German emplacements, while knocking the Luftwaffe out of the sky, were the main objectives. Among the Allied fighters were the Army Air Force's "battle tested" P-38s and P-47s. In the late winter/early spring of 1944, they were joined by a newcomer: the P-51B Mustang.

With its long range, it could stay with the bombers all the way to the target. Once released from escort duty, these Mustangs were free to roam to search and destroy targets of opportunity.

Fighting on two fronts put Hitler's Germany in a stranglehold. It was also the eve of the most massive invasion operation the world has ever known: Operation Overlord, the invasion of Normandy. The final knot in the noose was about to be tightened, and four "hangmen" flying P-51Bs who had a front row were ready to tighten it. Here are their stories.

Death of a Princess

1st Lt. Robert K. Butler, 352nd FG 487th FS

With one D-Day mission under my belt, I was about to depart on the last flight out of Bodney for that day. In the first mission, I was in the Group behind the 486th Fighter Squadron when one of their guys crashed into the control tower. It was a tragic loss, but the blaze allowed the rest of the flights to take off safely.

This time, however, there was still daylight as we climbed aboard our P-51B Mustangs. Because so many Mustangs were flying that day, we were assigned what was available. I drew Lt. Bill Whisner's Princess Elizabeth. Already a proven "fighter," it carried a handful of German crosses on its side. I hoped to add a few of my own as we prepared to go hunting.

Originally, 16 P-51Bs from our squadron were to escort nine P-38s on a dive-bombing mission south of Paris. I was to fly wing on my element leader in the last flight of four Mustangs. He had to abort owing to mechanical problems, so I became the element leader with a P-51B on either side of me. The P-38s were worried that the Luftwaffe would try to jump them on their way in and force them to dump their bombs prematurely, but it didn't happen.

We were now cleared to leave the P-38s and drop to the deck for a little "house cleaning" of our own. German vehicles were all over the place and heading toward the coast. We strafed and chewed up trunks, tanks and convoys and cut a swath through the French countryside. Anything that moved outside the line established from the beachhead was fair game. The Germans threw a lot of flak and small-arms fire at us as we screamed overhead.

As our flight climbed back to altitude and headed for home with three of us in the tail-end-Charlie position, I spotted a train with a bunch of boxcars sitting in a valley on a track turnaround. It looked like easy pickings! I called the "boss man" who led the squadron, and he gave the OK for the three of us to shoot it up.

We flew onward about a mile past the train and then dropped to the deck. Then we "cut grass" through the valley to the train, which was at the end of the valley. On the hills on one side were a church and cemetery; trees lined the other side. As we neared the church on the deck, flak opened up on both sides of us-20mm, 40mm and small-arms fire erupted from the trees, the church and the headstones! We had flown into a trap-the valley of death!

Because we were so low, the gunners misjudged our height, and tracers streaked over my canopy. Things went from bad to worse as we neared the train. The boxcars soon turned into "flat flak cars": their canvas sides dropped and their guns swung in our direction. We were still lower than the train's guns, and the shells rocketed over our heads.

I had two options: fly over the top of the train and get "chewed up" or fly through the train and die! I may have been young and foolish, but I wasn't stupid. Both wingmen were able to pull up and away, and the train's guns seemed to focus on me. As I pulled the stick back, my plane took one helluva hit in the belly. Hot oil streamed into the cockpit through the ventilators. In pain, I pulled back on the stick to gain as much altitude as I could, all while taking a scalding-hot oil shower.

One of my "observant" wingmen pulled up next to me and said, "You've got oil leaking all over the place." If he had been any closer, I would have reached out and wrung his neck! I was trying to make the beach, which was about nine miles away. I was at 1,500 feet, and I could see all the carnage there. That's when my propeller stopped. I opened the canopy and kicked the Mustang around a little. I got sucked out, pulled my ripcord, and as I floated under the billowing canopy, I watched my Princess Elizabeth arch downward trailing black smoke. It slammed right into the train tracks. How ironic; I got shot down by a damn train, and in its last dying act, my Princess hits the tracks. You take what you can get!