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Jumping Into Trouble Attachment # 1 The Clay Pigeon Page 1 of 2 Pages |
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The shattering explosion, as a cannon shell smacked into the middle of the fuselage, jolted our C-47 aircraft. The Clay Pigeon staggered and floundered. She settled down slowly, and I felt the life go out of her. The middle of the fuselage was blazing with a roaring fire. The paratroopers shoved and elbowed toward the open door in wild disorder, like a panicked herd of sheep. I froze and my blood seemed to stand still. One by one, I saw them jump. The static lines swiftly opened their chutes. But the plane's trailing flames reached them, like a giant, fiery hand. I watched in pure horror as their chutes were ignited like a torch.
The shock of seeing those poor boys in flames stunned me. Suddenly a crisp voice screamed: “What'll we do, Joe?” Turning around I saw that it was Harry, our radio operator. I didn't know how he got through the fire. The inferno prevented us from reaching the flight deck, and our intercom was out; so we had no way of contacting the pilot or copilot. Fearing that the doomed aircraft might explode at any moment, I shouted, “Jump!” Harry didn't waver one second; he jumped and disappeared into space. I was sorry that he had left me. Fear now took a grip on me. I had never jumped in my life. The planned altitude from which we were to drop the troops was 750 feet. But by that time we must have been at 450 feet. We were losing altitude rapidly, and I knew I couldn't wait any longer. Through a sheet of fire, I jumped. I felt myself plunging like a bullet into space. Making sure not to suffer the same fate as the paratroopers, I waited to pull the cord. I must have hit the ground just a moment after the chute opened, because all I remember is the tremendous jerk of the blossoming chute. I jumped at 400 feet and lived. I lost no time in shedding my chute and half-ran, half-stumbled to the shelter of a nearby wooded area. My heart thumping, I dropped to the ground in an exhausted heap. I cleared the sweat from my eyes; and as my breathing eased, I began to look around. Then through the trees I saw a plane crash. It exploded with numerous small blasts that sent billows of smoke into the air, informing the Germans in the area that another American plane had crashed. “They'll be after me soon,” I thought. I knew it must have been the Clay Pigeon and I gave up hope for the pilot and copilot. The Clay Pigeon, carrying 18 paratroopers and a crew of four had taken off that morning — September 17, 1944 — from an airdrome in Southern England. We were part of the 82nd Troop Carrier Squadron, 436th Troop Carrier Group, and we were to fly behind the German lines in the ill-starred invasion of Holland. This was going to be the biggest airborne operation in history, even bigger than that of D-Day. One thousands planes were to participate and were to drop more than 11,000 airborne troops. |
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| Our pilot was First Lieutenant Brasses, an intense, taut-nerved man. To my eyes, he was the greatest pilot in the world. As a man, he was much more.
Second Lieutenant Andrews was our copilot. I didn't know much about him; he always maintained a line between officer and enlisted man. Staff Sergeant Harry Tinkcom, mild mannered and scholarly, was our radio operator. He didn't look like a soldier. He was a man of 30, the oldest of our crew. In civilian life he was a genuine college professor. |
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Clay Pigeon Preparing for battle! |
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| And I was the flight engineer. We were a smooth-working crew, and we had great pride in our ship. We named her “Clay Pigeon,” as if by thus publishing her indifference to catastrophe and her willingness to surmount it, we were defying our enemies. The Clay Pigeon already had distinguished herself on D-Day, June 6, 1944. |
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| But now she had fallen under a terrific German barrage. I found myself on the ground, as helpless as a frightened bird that had lost its wings. Then I discovered that I had no gun. In my haste to jump, I had neglected to grab it. “Now I have nothing,” I muttered. There I was, all alone, unarmed, and in enemy-held territory. I asked God to help me.
I was only a flyboy, and I knew nothing of infantry tactics; but I knew that I couldn't stay in the area. I was desperate. After aimlessly moving about in the strange surroundings, I came upon a large clearing. |
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| Peering through the brush, I spotted a shabby white farmhouse. I noticed no Germans. I waited in tense silence, like a dog. Suddenly a boyish-looking civilian came out and looked up into the sky. He appeared to be a Dutchman. Should I ask him for help? Taking a gamble on his being friendly, I cried out in my high school French. I walked toward him. Eyeing me cautiously, he motioned me into the house. He directed me to remove my uniform and get into a farmer's outfit. Then he led me outside to his bicycle, seated me on the handlebars, and we rode off. I was like a young child in his hands.
I kept trying to guess where he was taking me. To friend or foe? I had to trust him, there was no other choice. Soon we entered a small village. As we cycled past some Germans who glared coldly at us, I tried hard to act the part of a dumb farmer. Stopping at a red brick house, my friend, or captor, spoke to a brisk, decisive civilian who seemed to be a leader. He quickly led me into the backyard, toward a haystack. Uncovering a hidden opening, he beckoned me to get in. It was a camouflaged air-raid shelter, cleverly made to resemble a haystack. For hours I lay in the darkness of the shelter. “These people must be informers,” I thought. “No one risks his neck for others, I've found that out.” I sat there contemplating my fate. Suddenly I heard footsteps and voices. German and Dutch sounded alike to me. Which was it? My heart beat out the seconds. The door swung open and I crawled to the furthest corner. “Come out, my friend. There are no Germans here.” Beautiful English, and the most welcome words I'd ever heard. I came out and gazed upon a priest. “Father,” I gasped as I broke down. “I can understand your fear, my son,” he consoled me. “You are among friends, and we will help you. Our people are very happy to see the Americans. We will defeat the Germans. God is with us.” He introduced himself as Father Gyspers; and his friend, who had hidden me in the haystack, as Adrian. “Come with me,” Father Gyspers said, “and I'll reunite you with some of your friends.” As the three of us headed into the woods, Father Gyspers told me that an American plane has crashed nearby. He led me to where the plane had cut a swath through the forest. The only recognisable part of the plane was the tail section. The numbers, 2100672, on the fin hit me. “That's my plane!” I cried. The Clay Pigeon was a smoldering wreck. Its torn, charred, and broken body littered the area. Tears filled my eyes. I bit my lips and choked up. Then I saw two bodies, burned and mangled beyond recognition — my pilot and copilot. Dispirited, my tongue paralyzed by what I had seen, I tearfully left the scene. Father Gyspers promised a Christian burial for the two men. After having gone a little further into the woods, we came upon a clearing. There, to my happy surprise, was Harry. We grasped each other in ecsstatic joy. “Joe, you son of a gun!” he exclaimed. “I knew you'd make it.” Then he led me to two men who were lying on the ground, and I received the shock of my life. There, alive, were our pilot and copilot. “No! it can't be!” I mumbled. But Lieutenant Brassesco spoke, and it was definitely his voice. He shook my hand, and his grasp was real. I blinked a few times and after I rallied from the shock, I looked at him in awe. “B-B-But I thought you —” Brassesco gave his story. Unable to bail out, he and Lieutenant Andrews had no choice but to ride the plane down. Andrews, thrown clear of the plane when it crashed, blacked out. Brassesco, suffering two broken legs and cuts and burns, was dragged out of the flaming cockpit by members of the Dutch underground. The two bodies at the plane must have been two unfortunate paratroopers who had been unable to jump in time. We now pondered over what we shoud do. “We're here,? I said “but what is the next move?” The pilot and copilot each had a caliber .45 pistol. Harry and I had only trench knives. With wounded pilots and only two guns, we couldn't possibly get back to Allied lines. We were told that the British were on the offensive and that the Germans were retreating and we were right in their paths. We decided to stay hidden and wait for the British to reach us. Adrian said that he would scout the area and warn us if any Germans came near. Then he and Father Gyspers disappeared silently. The crew of the Clay Pigeon was now alone, and each of us tried hard to preserve the illusion of calm. |
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Or, you may go to Cover Page — Editor's Introduction — Table of Contents Chapter — 1 — 2 — 3 — 4 — 5 — 6 — 7 — 8 — 9 — 10 Atch. #1, The Clay Pigeon — Atch. #2, Escape From III-C Or, you may Home - Contact Us - Cold War Hist. - 91st SRS Hist. - Stardust 40 Mission Story |
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