458th Bombardment Group (H)

We settled down to formation flying and presently the aircraft started to lose speed; once again the flight engineer said that the faulty wheel and strut had come down. We had to go through the same procedure as before and once more had to use extra throttle to keep up during the lowering and raising of the gear. At this point, my co-pilot and I discussed the problem, and the possibility that we should abort the mission and return to the base. It was decided that we should go on with the mission as everything else mechanically was operating in good order. We continued lowering and raising the wheels, increasing the throttle setting during each procedure. We completed the bombing run with the group and headed for home. As we neared the island of Corsica, I requested a fuel reading. The flight engineer told me that we had over a thousand gallons of fuel, so I felt secure that we could continue without refueling at Corsica. From Corsica the group flew parallel to the coast about ten miles out over the water and at approximately 8,000 feet. It was about 45 minutes away from Corsica, and flying in formation, that I noticed once again we were losing air speed; but this time the group was pulling away from us very rapidly. I pushed the throttles forward and was about to reach down for the landing gear lever when the flight engineer told me, "We're out of fuel!" I immediately realized that I had lost engines on both wings as there wasn't any yaw to the aircraft. It was determined that we had lost power on the two outboard engines due to fuel starvation. We promptly feathered the outboard engines and headed for shore. I throttled back on the two inboard engines to conserve what was left of the fuel, and started to let down gradually keeping our air speed, hopeful that we could gain as much distance as possible.

I asked the navigator, Bob Wohl, for an exact position and told the crew to prepare for possible ditching. I then told the radio operator to send the distress signal. The navigator told me we were opposite Anzio beach but couldn't tell me if it were in Allied hands as it had been constantly contested over the past weeks. He also said that there was a short fighter plane landing strip there. I told him to come up on the flight deck and fire off the identification color code for the day with the Very Pistol. We anxiously awaited the response from the landing strip. Presently, we received their welcome answer and continued to head for shore. We had been losing altitude, and at about two or so miles from shore and at about 5,000 feet, I told the crew I was going to lower the gear, but I wasn't at all sure whether it would lock or not, and hastened to add that they were free to bail out and assured them that those at Anzio beach would pick them up. They said they would take their chances with me. As soon as the gear was lowered, we lost altitude rapidly, but I felt that we could get lined up with the runway and still be at 1,200 feet to 1,500 feet. It turned out the landing strip was a short, temporary, perforated steel mat, Royal Air Force fighter strip with a strafing abutment at the end of the runway. On our final approach, we lost all power. The inboard engines were windmilling, and we were dropping like a stone. I put down full flaps taking advantage of the inboard windmilling #3 engine to give me hydraulic pressure. It was by the Grace of God that we touched down at the very beginning of the landing strip; the undercarriage was down and locked. I applied the brakes and somehow brought the aircraft to a stop before we ran into the strafing wall at the end of the runway.

After collecting my thoughts and aplomb, I looked over at the co-pilot; we both laughed nervously and shook hands. My legs were a bit wobbly as I got out of the aircraft and walked over to the tower shack. The landing strip was in British hands; and of course, they were in complete charge of the base and its fuel facilities. I asked about the possibility of refueling; the two pilot officers at the desk looked at one another, and one said to me with a chuckle, "Did we hear you correctly, that you wanted fuel?" I asked him to let me in on the joke. Their immediate answer was in unison, "We don't have any to spare, chum."

They must have taken pity on my pathetic appearance as I pled for fuel, because one of them decided to call the area commander and see what he could do. After a long conversation on the field telephone, the pilot officer turned to me and said that they could give up 500 gallons. I told him that I appreciated their generosity, but I needed much more than that if I were to reach Naples for refueling. I explained that a short field take off from a locked brake position would use up a tremendous amount of fuel; also, I might not be able to land at Naples. After more haggling, it was decided that they could let me have 800 gallons of fuel - take it or leave it. I said I would take it, and they hastened to add that we would have to load it ourselves. They didn't say anything about the fuel being in five gallon Jerry cans, however.

While the crew loaded the fuel, I decided to pace off the runway as the British pilot officers were not quite sure whether the strip was 1,000 feet or 1,200 feet long; but they were sure of the height of the strafing abutment which they said was 25 feet high, and as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar.

The next day I turned in my report, but failed to get in touch with the co-pilot to adequately thank him for his cooperation in the blind trust that he had placed in my ability. Here was a man who had taken my word on face value - from a total stranger. That took courage. I shortly afterwards tried to get in touch with him, but he had gone off on rest and recuperation (R&R) to the Isle of Capri. I envied him; as I was not due to go until July. The trick was now to stay alive until July. Some years ago I lost all my records and books in a robbery, and with that theft went much of my past identity. Over the years I have frequently thought of this mission and after considering all the ponderables, I can only come to one conclusion - that the Good Lord was lending a hand:

1. We could have run out of fuel in any number of places other than Anzio would have had to ditch... we didn't!
2. Anzio was in allied hands and had a landing strip, however small... we used it!
3. The British could have given us more fuel, and we might not have been able to clear the strafing abutment... the balance was right!
4. The unprecedented early evening headwind sprang up at the propitious moment before takeoff... a premium gift!
5. The fact that this takeoff was successful... was another pair of hands on the controls?
6. We arrived back at our Castelluccia base with just enough fuel... another bit of irony?

All of the above we're just too pat; the pieces of the puzzle fit together too well for me to say it was just luck. I am convinced that God had a hand in it. He must have had big plans for someone a board that aircraft, and I was merely the steward to bring those plans to fruition. I was later awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for accomplishing this mission, and to this day I still feel surrogate to the Real Pilot.

Members of the May 26, 1944 crew were:

Pilot – Jonathan S. Martin, “Jack”

Co-pilot - ?

Navigator – Robert Wohl, “Bob”

Bombardier – Felix Ascenio, “Ace”

Flight Engineer – Charles Jackson, “Charley”

Radio Operator – Marion Moorehead, “Buzz”

Nose Gunner – Meron Landon, “Shorty”

Top Gunner – Robert Martin, “Dilly”

Waist Gunner – Andrew McGowan, “Red”

Tail Gunner – Paul McMillen, “Mack”

I am now in the twilight of life and in looking back down those years, the most gratifying period was the time I spent with the 451st. I do not believe any pilot could have asked for a better flying crew than the one I had. We received no dollars for the bombs dropped, nor did we throw our arms around each other when a special feat was accomplished. It was expected of each of us to do his best and hang in there together. I might add, that feeling epitomized the whole 451st, as the records show.

If any of you readers have been told of this fight by someone - perhaps by the co-pilot, by his daughters, or by someone who heard the story from him; would they please write to  Jonathan S. Martin, Care of: 451st Bomb Group (H), Ltd.  1032 S. State Street, Marengo, IL 60152

Above story, published in 1986, was very kindly supplied by Robert Karstensen, editor of 451BG newsletter “Ad-Lib”