Host: Our year long series remembering our veterans sponsored by UPMC Health Plan
continues tonight and the story of Army Veteran Weido Chipoletti

Weido passed away just six years ago just shy of his 94th birthday but his story lives on through his children Sons Jay and Neal
Chipoletti

at the age of 20 Weido Chipoletti went on over 30 bombing missions during World War II for the 515th bomb Squadron

Neal: to ask that of somebody who's not even a legal age to go have a beer in a bar and you're putting your life in on in sacrificing uh time with your family and friends to for our freedom

Host: some of those missions lasted over seven hours and those long range strategic missions had Targets in Italy France Germany Austria Hungary and the Balkans

Jay: he was the nose Gunner so he would go up in the turret and uh defend against uh other planes that would be trying trying to shoot him down

Host: born in New Kensington Pennsylvania about a 20 mile ride to the city of Pittsburgh Weido put Family First and it took a special event with his granddaughter to finally open up about his Tour of Duty

Jay ; he went to Westlake School one time and put a presentation on for the social studies teacher in my in his granddaughter's
class and that's when we started getting out you know it's like oh you got this purple heart and cluster and all these photos

Host: and he recorded those logs on the back of $1 bills he picked up in Italy and survived a number of close calls

Jay: they were flying uh back from a mission and they were shot up they lost the motor uh but they're they're making their way back the pilot said no don't don't go um what we're going to do is
I'm gonna I'm going to try and ditch it and land it and we'll try and get out and he did a remarkable job

Host: Neal Chipoletti honors his father by participating in motorcycle rides that benefit local
veterans

Neal: we donate that back several ways through organizations like
the Liberty house um The Humane
Society's service or shelter to service dogs where our donation helps pay to train those dogs

Host: Eva he had five brothers who also served in World War II and his brother Neal was killed during his Tour of Duty and for 10 years following retirement Weido volunteered for gifts for kids
along with another brother and they repaired toys so Weido Chipoletti we thank you for your service.

S-SGT Weido Chipoletti 515th James P. Bishop Crew

Weido's son, Jay Chipoletti, photo taken in the 1990s ??

See or download the original PDF describing this mission of

Weido Chipoletti and his crew during World War Two

when their plane was shot down:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1jN1bkiC-brw2tQT3iOQgz1WAHMV2rWF-/view?usp=sharing

[Written by First Lieutenant William R. Davis, bombardier]

https://www.armyaircorps-376bg.com/davis-william-r-capt.html

Crew page for the ten members:

https://www.armyaircorps-376bg.com/bishop_james_crew.html

Terminology: '...Crabbing involves turning the nose into the wind so that some component of the aircraft's thrust is counteracting the crosswind, allowing the aircraft's ground track to align with the runway. Slipping involves banking the aircraft so that some portion of the wing's lift is counteracting the crosswind...'

https://www.thrustflight.com/crosswind-landing

VIENNA CITY OF FLAK

The air offensive against Europe was on and at it's full

intensity. The 15th Air Force from it's bases in Italy was

carrying the war into the heart of the German Empire not to the

frontiers but completely inside of the fortress and dropping it's

block busters right in the big bozo's lap. As winter began to

set in and October pulled around we could look back on our past

achievements with pride. We had plastered Jerry in the heart of

his industries, his aircraft, and his lines of communication from

the bomb soaked targets of Ploesti, Sofia, Athens, Budapest,

Belgrade and Bologna to the far off bomb line of Beaux Linz

Steyr, Regensberg and Vienna. We had turned our maximum

strength against targets in Germany and Austria.

Every day was precious then and still is.

If there was the thinnest chance of getting through to the target,

we were off. As the weather began to hamper operations

and the black days of October slid in, oil wherever it might be

was top priority, with war industries and communication next in

line of total destruction. With Ploesti gone (I had made two hair

raising trips there including the final one late in August) we

turned to the next oil targets of Vienna and Bleckhammer. The

people of these areas soon felt the full weight of our bombers.

The land of the Strauss Waltzes, beauty, culture, and historical

landmarks was in for total war and would take a beating that they

would never forget "and we didn't want them to forget". We were

going to remind them which side was winning this war, the one

Adolph Hitler, their wallpaper hanger, had started. But on one

particular day we were bombing a secondary target while the other

part of the 15th Air Force took on the oil targets.

So as a cold windy October day mustered in we drew one of the

toughest targets in Europe, and we didn't care too much about the

way it looked. Just like the old Ploesti days back and back again

to the same targets until they were completely destroyed. The

Vienna South ordnance works was not oil that day but war industries!

We were given what we all called a "Death Trap" heading in an

Easterly direction onto the target and a bomb run of 61 miles with

no evasive action. The Air Force strategists had picked that

particular heading for some specific reason, probably to insure

maximum destruction of the target. Not even was there a sharp

rally at the end when bombs were away! Straight ahead up into

Czechoslovakia around Bratislava and then we could rally right and

come home, if there was anyone left to come home! Any crew

who has been to Vienna knows that on an easterly heading into the

southeastern part of the city nearly all of the anti aircraft guns

defending the area are brought to bear on the attacking formation.

As 75% of the anti aircraft guns are concentrated there. Next to

Berlin, Vienna is the most heavily defended area in the world and

covers a much smaller space, thus giving the guns a better

concentration of fire. Also with the unheard of long bomb run it was

a known certainty that we would be in flak for at least 15 minutes.

This is due to the fact that the attacking planes have to make a

straight course up "Flak Alley" miles before they reach the city

itself. I had been down that same run before and knew why the old

timers called it "Flak Alley". Jerry will shoot at the bombers with

deadly accuracy from the time they have turned on the initial point

until they have rallied well off the target.

The intense flak lasts from 10 to 15 minutes. Some bombers can't

stand the deadly pounding for such a length of time and many go

down in flames, in spins, or blow up in mid air before they even

reach their goal. Vienna has been fortunate (or unfortunate for

us) enough to pick up all the remaining gunners who fled, Ploesti,

Bucharest, and some from nearby Budapest. We were "off to the

races" so to speak, and we were sure that the best team of Flak

gunners in the war would be trying to fatten their batting averages.

The route out to the target was a nightmare in itself. We

flew through nearly ten tenths cloud cover all types included and

how we missed running into each other and thunderheads is still a

mystery. The "soup" was awful, at times the wing tips of the lead

plane disappeared and I held my breath until it came back into view.

Our plane was pretty mushy on the controls as we passed the 20,000

foot mark and the air began to thin out. Ice was forming in my

oxygen mask, and it began freezing to my face. Finally we reached

the top and broke into the clear. All of Europe seemed to be under

a blanket of clouds and I was almost sure we would bomb by Radar

through the undercast. We bounced on past Klagenfurt, and as the

cold got more intense (52° below). We were coming up on our

Initial Point and almost ready to turn down "Flak Alley".

The crew manned their stations.

1st Lt. James P. Bishop, pilot age 19, Detroit, Michigan;

1st Lt. Gregory T. Vanvakerides, Co-Pilot, age 20, Providence,

Rhode Island; 1st Lt. James R. Gill, navigator, age 21, Chicago,

Illinois, myself, 1st Lt. William R. Davis, bombardier, age 22,

Richmond, Virginia. Tech Sgt James D. Holmes, engineer, age 23,

Birmingham, Alabama; Tech Sgt. John H. Norris, radio operator,

age 24, Dallas, Texas; Staff Sgt. Robert T. Mynatt, Assistant

Engineer, age 19, Knoxville, Tennessee; Staff Sgt. Weido

Chipoletti, Assistant Radio operator, age 20, Arnold Pennsylvania;

Staff Sgt. Thomas D. Boothby, Armorer gunner age 21, Cherokee,

Iowa; Staff Sgt. Troy Pennington,- tail gunner, age 21, Dew Drop,

Kentucky.

The worst was about to come and no one said a word. Gill was

busy working on his log and I was busy making the last few

computations for my bombsight in case I had to take over the lead.

I asked Gill to put my Flak suit on for me, they weigh a ton it

seems but he said he was too busy so I didn't get it on and neither

did he.

I pulled it up in front of me as best I could and made myself small

trying to hide behind it. Only my head was sticking out but I could

see everything in the area out of the front windshield. In fact I

could see too much - flak I mean. I felt the slight bank to the

right and I knew we were turning in for the big show; tickets were

already sold out and the aerial theater would be jammed with flak

and planes. I opened the bomb bay doors; we started on the long

run - 61 miles - every second seemed like a lifetime. I guess I was

plenty scared; Gill was too because he crouched down behind me.

He has an idea that if flak ever hits us in the nose that my body, plus

the flak suit, will slow it up quite a bit before it hits him.

Nice pal - I love him. He always gets cute ideas on the bomb run

to cheer me up. He pushed his mike button, showed me his watch

and said, "Look, Davis, 15 minutes to live, old buddy."

Lovely characters - these navigators.

At last the worst came closer. Down the bomb run we ploughed,

still an undercast beneath us. But there was something radically

wrong - we both sensed it. We hadn't gotten a bit of flak, the

usual killer-diller puff puff! Gill looked at me and I looked at

him; something was amiss - or was it? Our puzzle was soon solved.

About two minutes from bombs away we broke into the clear, right

over the heart of the city; the whole area was clear as a bell;

we were just so many clay pigeons for target practice. I knew

immediately why we had not met the usual barrage. They had been

quietly and very cunningly tracking us through the undercast; we

were their prey. They were coming in for the kill; the break in the

clouds was the slaughter house. Here it comes I thought.

It did come, the whole damn works. The first thing I saw

was the target dead ahead right in town. I looked to the right a

split second later, and below me I saw the guns as Vosendorf oil

refinery start shooting. Yipe! yelled Gill, "Did you see what I

saw?" I did much to my sorrow. They had rocket guns mixed in

with the ack-ack something new there. I saw four of them fire,

watched the white trail of smoke they left behind. Counted a slow

fifteen or sixteen and puff, puff; they broke right outside our

window. I stood up to look out the left window and see how the

lead ship was coming along. Our wing tips were almost interlocked.

Then the Flak came in. Not a shot was wasted; they had our altitude

course and speed to the foot, and our bombs were hanging in the

open bomb bays waiting to be hit. The first and last shots of each

battery were in there for perfect strikes. I had never seen such

a heavy concentration of Flak in all my previous missions like that

which was tracking us at the moment.

There was a close one right under my front window. We could

hear the shrapnel tinkling off the metal fuselage. The Flak was

so thick you could walk on it. It was all over the sky like a wet

blanket, gave me the impression of flying through a snow storm only

this was a black snowstorm. Over the intercom I could hear the other

pilots in the area who had gone ahead of us yelling that they were

hit, some badly, some already going down, some with half a wing

shot away, some with fires in the bomb bays, some with engines out

or on fire, some with wounded on board, some with rudders,

ailerons, elevators, or all controls shot away, some in uncontrollable

spins, all yelling for help or telling us goodbye and we were helpless

to give them any aid. That was combat at it's best or should I say

worst. Just then I saw the lead ship in our formation get a direct hit in

Number 3 engine. It knocked the engine cold. He wobbled a little

and then settled down, feathered the prop and continued on the

bomb run. Finally "Bombs away" a sort of relief to me but it was

short lived. The next hit was scheduled for us. We got it! I jumped!

It hit us directly between Number 1 and Number 2 engines. I was

sure both engines were out, but we didn't wobble.

Fear gripped us all! Two engines on the same side

"Dead" over the center of Vienna.

What makes us so lucky.

Just then a whole four-gun-battery must have gotten us. Four

almost direct hits came in rapidly right up under our bomb bays -

we counted them as they hit. The navigator tapped me on my head

with each hit one, two, three, four. I waited for something more

to happen. Number 1 engine was out and I was sure it couldn't be

feathered and it was wind milling creating a drag on the side of

the airplane.

We went on, straight ahead, instead of the usual rally there

was still more to come. I thought for a moment we had gotten out

of the Flak, but no - wham bang! Right back in there again it came.

One of the gunners who had priority on us probably stopped for a

half a second to change a hot barrel! Another hit went into our

right wing near the Number 4 engine but the engine seemed not to be

affected. Then about three more were called out by the men in

the waist [center area of the fuselage of the plane]

very close, they had torn up

the rudders and air conditioned the rear fuselage.

Another one come up through the nose wheel doors with a loud

crash that caused a draft around my rear anatomy.

They were still trying desperately to knock us down, but that old

B-24 was still in there fighting and was taking their all. The

gunners accuracy was uncanny; every shot was counting.

Every second pulled us farther away from them, but they were

determined not to let us go.

I think they were really mad at us! Seemed as though

they had their batteries lined up right along our course - out of

the range of one - another one took up just where it left off. Some

more hits again in the rear; then one came through the nose, right

above our heads - Wow! A piece of the shrapnel ricocheted off of

something, missed both of us by a hair, then broke through the

bombardiers windshield, and went back down to the ground from

which it had come!

By now we were pulling out of the flak. I looked around; it

was losing us; but one lone eagle eye got in his last shot, and the

rudders took it again. That was all. We were clear of the puff-puff

at last. I had almost forgotten that we were still in serious

trouble - we had a badly crippled plane. It was going to take all

the skill the pilot and co-pilot could muster to get us any distance

from the target much less home. Home - I wondered at that moment -

I could see it fading!

I soon learned how badly we were hit, and it didn't take a college

course to convince me that flak was a deadly weapon when in the

hands of skilled gunners. Attaching a walk-around bottle to my

oxygen mask I squeezed out of the nose and slid along the hatch way

toward the flight deck. It didn't take me a second to realize that

we had run into an old trouble again. I smelled the hydraulic

fluid right away. I was hoping that the gasoline wasn't shot up too.

There was hydraulic fluid all over the bomb bays and the slipstream

was spraying it around with a weird hissing sound. There wasn't

a drop left in the reservoir and the lines were literally ripped to

pieces. The fluid was stretched from the pilot's pedestal all the

way back to the waist windows, soaking everything with its greasy

contents. The engineer was back in the bomb bays by now trying

frantically to plug up the lines so we could use the reserve supply;

but it was of no avail. He was soaked in the stuff and at the time

presented a light similar to an American Indian. I looked at him

as I scrambled up on the flight deck, his usual confident smile

had gone, I knew we were in bad shape.

I had to laugh when I looked at what was left of the bomb bay

doors. They were so full of holes that it was impossible to count

them - we might as well have left them open as they were so riddled

with holes they looked like a screen door. I sat down at the

radio table; got rid of the walk around bottle, and put on the

interphones. The radio operator was still in the waist at his gun

because we were slowly being left behind - alone - and, Lake

Balaton, fighter heaven, would come along soon. I guess he was

also checking the flak holes back there and seeing if we were

going to hold together. From him I learned that Boothby, our

ball turret gunner had lost his oxygen over the target and had

been unconscious some fifteen or twenty minutes. He had to be

pulled out of his turret by Norris and Pennington and was revived

by them.

Then I began finding out the rest of our trouble. I called

the pilot and asked if there was anything I could do, he said "No,"

as usual he never liked to alarm the rest of the crew, he always

carried the burden himself if he could. By this time we had gone

some 35 miles from the target and had turned right around a corner

of Czechoslovakia and started on heading south that would take us

across the Hungarian Plains and toward home. I then found out

that we had had Number 1 and 2 engines out all that time, and

Bishop had just now managed, by some miracle, to bring Number 2

back in.

How he had done it was beyond me. We had never felt the loss of

these two engines on the left side; had never lost any altitude; hadn't

gone out of control or even lurched; only the airspeed had dropped

off. He had mustered the situation and taken up the loss into the

controls and we knew nothing about it. He was only 19 years old

but he was always at his best in the tight spots, both he and

the co-pilot worked to perfection remaining amazingly calm, cool

and collected all the time. Number 1 engine was shot up so badly it

couldn't be feathered. It was windmilling at 2200 rpms and putting

a tremendous drag on the left side. I saw the airspeed rock back

and forth from 130 to 170 - up and down - back and forth. We were

losing a little altitude and the pilot was finding it harder and

harder to keep a straight course with the Number 1 prop windmilling.

They were wrestling with the controls; sometimes were stalling out

I could feel the plane flopping around in the air like a big wounded

bird. Thirty tons of metal is pretty hard to keep up on a straight

course when it is all shot up, crippled and flying on only part of

its normal power. The pilots were doing a swell job and I knew it.

If we went down I would know that every possible thing that could

be done to save us had been done by two kids with an unsurpassed

determination to live. We weren't going down - not yet anyhow.

Down the Hungarian Plains we started getting farther and farther

behind until at last we were alone. At least alone from any

formation- we had plenty of company - other cripples, I mean

Planes were scattered all over - engines feathered, fuselages shot

away, rudders gone, some with injured men aboard, some with dead

aboard, some minus a few members who had left the ship in the

excitement. But at least we were all still there and none of us hurt.

Then suddenly I saw one of our buddies slide directly under us and

turn off to the right with his Number 1 engine on fire - poor devil -

we all saw and were pulling for him to blow it out.

He soon got out of our sight and disappeared.

We tried to contact our remaining formation wherever it was.

We learned that only four ships were left.

Our leader had disappeared too. He had said over his radio that he

had Number 3 engine feathered, was full of flak holes and

had all of his controls shot away. He was last heard of heading home

flying by automatic pilot. Back in our ship Gill was directing us

home. Evidently he had looked out and seeing all the props going,

had figured we were okay. Bishop hadn't told him yet what all the

trouble was. So he called him up and began cussing him out because

he wasn't holding a compass heading and constant airspeed. So I

called him back and told him to take it easy that we were in trouble

and to do the best he could. Bishop was doing all he could to keep

us up. Gill just said "O.K.". "But why the hell don't you tell me

these things - and went back to work. By this time Bishop was

flying almost cross controls. The aileron wheel was cocked half

way around and almost full right rudder. Both the pilots ran out

of strength to hold in the right rudder against the tremendous

drag of Number 1 prop so they took the crash axe and propped it in

position. What a way to fly! Bishop tried to set up the autopilot so

they could be relieved of the strain. He tried at least a dozen times,

but it was no use - the system was shot out.

We were at 14,000 feet and holding our altitude. I asked Bishop

what he thought of the situation? He said it wasn't bad now if the

three engines keep running, the rudders didn't fall off, the plane

didn't break in half, we didn't run out of gasoline and didn't run

into any fighters. That was swell!

Practically nothing to worry about, I tried to tell myself.

We knew that all the engines had been hit but we were praying

that they would hold out. I watched the engines and instruments

like a doctor watches a very ill patient. Inside of me I was just

trying to nurse the engines along. "Good old engines," I said,

"You've taken a beating, but don't quit now.'' "Come on, come on,

babies, run smoothly, please keep running." And so they did,

for the time being anyhow. Far out to our right we saw a lone B-24

crippled. As we neared Lake Balaton we saw some dark

specs suddenly start diving on it. My heart jumped into my throat -

fighters. They were out as usual to get the stragglers and cripples.

Where were our escorts? I listened in on the command radio and the

pilot was yelling desperately for help. They were being attacked

by six ME 109's. We couldn't do a thing to help him - the fighters

were coming in for the slaughter. I only hoped they didn't start

on us next. Then suddenly out of nowhere I saw some P-38's cut

across the top of us and go over to him. They must have chased the

Jerries away - I hope so. I lost the B-24 in the sun then and the P-38's

came back over our way and covered us as we made our way home.

I felt much better now. There's not a better sight in this world than

to see good old American fighters hanging around you. They spell

exit for the Jerry!

We started making the plane light as we moved out of the fighter

territory. We had now come all the way down the Hungarian Plains,

passed Lake Balaton and were crossing the line into Yugoslavia. The

navigator had to be especially alert now. We had traveled that route

many times before, and both he and I knew where every gun in Yugo

and Hungary was placed. The enlisted men were busy in the waist

jettisoning anything that would reduce our load. Our engines

were still holding up and we were hobbling along toward the

Adriatic Sea - had to be careful of the coastal flak, though.

Maybe we could pull a sneak play in between two areas.

We made the coast in due time, slipped through the flak and

started across the water in the direction that would bring us to the

Italian mainland the quickest. We had let down to 13,000 feet and

our spirits brightened up, and it looked as though we might make it.

If we could only make land then we could bail out in safety if the

engines quit. I noticed the sea as I always do; it was rather calm

that day - only waves about two feet high. Of course if we had

to go into the water, we were in favor of ditching, rather than

bailing out, as the chance of saving the whole crew is much better.

A man who bails out alone in a Mae West is not likely to be found

and will die. But in ditching you have the dinghies and all the crew

together, a much better solution. Things were still going fairly well.

I wanted more than ever to get that plane home, so I could see for

myself just how much damage had been done. We must have had at

least 200 flak holes in it. I wanted to get a good look at those

engines too. Time passed; we had gone down to 10,000 feet now and

suddenly the coast line came in sight about 30 miles distant. I

felt much better; looked like we'd make it. But wait - then it

started - it was as if we had tossed a coin and lost.

We were not going to make it - the engines were tired. My

heart jumped into my mouth as I noticed the oil pressure gauge on

Number 2 engine. It was fluctuating. I saw that Bishop and Van were

really worried this time. The gauge got worse and began dropping

off. The other instruments for that engine were working okay and

I wondered if it was just the gauge that was going bad. I asked

Bishop about it and he said he was afraid we would lose the engine.

My heart was beating like mad as I came to the startling revelation

that we were going to have to get rid of the plane. So I set

about the task of getting ready to ditch. I was hoping that if we

lost Number 2 engine, Bishop could get us to the beach on the two

remaining engines by gliding in. hard thing to do in a B-24 with

two engines out on one side. We began losing altitude fast.

Number 2 cut out and Bishop feathered it.

I hoped the water was warm!

The final phase of the ditching started. Bishop was in absolute

command of the ship and crew at all times. He had given orders to

prepare for ditching in ample time, made his decision and stuck

to it. He told the crew which ones were to go to the waist, which

were to stay on the flight deck, the places they should take, how

to brace for the shock, and order in which they were to abandon

the plane after it had come to rest on the water. He gave the co-

pilot his instructions in contacting the air sea rescue aid, and

also what to do in assisting him to make a safe landing. They

worked to perfection. Gill gave Bishop the surface wind direction

and heading to take for the best up wind landing. The pilots were

still very calm, cool, and collected. At this time we were at

7,500 feet two engines on the left side were dead, one windmilling,

one feathered. Just then a gremlin got in to Number 4 engine. It

suddenly seemed to burst with energy and literally ran away! One

engine left - he cut this as it would help nothing then un-feathered

the Number 2 engine, let them all windmill, and cut the switches on

the four engines. He then set about the task of making a dead stick

landing from a steep glide, but all the time keeping enough airspeed

to have complete control of the plane. He seemed to be master of

the crippled plane. We neared the water; all of us braced for the

anticipated shock. Bishop had to make the best landing of his life

or we would all be trapped or torn to pieces in the plane. What

odd things passed through my mind those last few seconds. We were

almost down. I saw the pilot and co-pilot take their feet off the

rudders and brace them against the dashboard, so as not to be pinned

in by the rudder pedals. He was going to land with only ailerons

and elevators; the wheels were up, the flaps fully down, and we had

no drift or crabbing of the plane as we were heading directly into

the wind. Here it comes I told myself!

We hit with a loud crash. That was the bomb bay doors being

ripped off. I felt hardly no shock; a swell landing; and we had

slid in perfectly on our rear two bomb bay doors; the rear bulkhead

had absorbed all the shock. We came to a sudden but smooth stop.

Our air speed at landing was around 90 to 100 MPH. None of us

were pitched around on the flight deck, but the fellows in the

waist got tossed around a bit, and scratched slightly. The pilot

and co-pilot said later that they didn't feel any lurch against

their safety belts. It was a good landing. As soon as the plane

stopped the water rushed in from the bomb bays and nose and went

over our heads. The flight deck and pilots compartment were filled

with water; I thought for a moment the end had come; seemed as if

we were 100 feet under water. The next thing I saw was the

navigator, who was first to go out, scrambling through the top hatch.

Time was precious.

I was holding my breath, floating about half way into the pilot's

compartment under water, with one hand holding on to the

edge of the top hatch. As soon as I saw the navigator was out, I

pulled myself up and scrambled out into the lovely fresh air. I stood

on the wing, pulled my release and inflated my Mae West life

preserver. Then in an effort to get out of the way of the engineer

who was coming out, but fast. I pulled the prize boner of all time -

I slipped off the wing, fell into the water, and for the life of me I

couldn't get back onto the wing and help. So I just floated around in

the water, watching what was going on and trying to tell the crew

that had gotten out what to do. I guess they were griped at me, but

what the hell, the water was warm! Things happened fast. I saw the

enlisted men come out of the waist windows, that is all except the

assistant radio operator. [Weido Chipoletti] He got caught on some

wires inside and was trapped. The radio operator was back in like a

flash and in a few seconds he came out dragging the assistant radio

operator behind. He (the assistant radio operator) had been cut up a

little and thought his end had come when he found himself trapped.

But he's alive and kicking now.

The dinghy didn't release as they should have (something always

happens to add insult to injury) so the navigator and engineer got

busy getting them out and inflating them.

The top turret gunner followed the engineer out and then came the

co-pilot. A few seconds passed and everyone seemed to be out. Just

then the co-pilot yelled that Bishop hadn't come out! I don't

know why I yelled but I did. I kept yelling that the plane was

still well afloat, wasn't sinking and for them to start digging

inside the top escape hatch for him. By this time I had drifted

about 200 feet from the plane;

I could easily see now how a man alone in a Mae West was lost.

I couldn't do anything to stop the drifting and couldn't get back

to the plane; all I could do was lay in the water and twiddle my

thumbs.

The navigator and co-pilot were busily digging into the hatch

in a desperate effort to find Bishop. They pulled out junk, harnesses,

and chutes, but no Bishop. Finally, it seemed like ages, they caught

his harness strap and started pulling him out. He was plenty heavy;

his water soaked clothes were dead weight; and he was unconscious.

It took superhuman strength to pull him out, but at times such as

that a person finds himself the possessor of amazing strength.

Bishop was the only one who had kept his harness on and it had

saved his life. He had swallowed a lot of water and was not

breathing.

I was afraid he was dead! They went to put him into one of the

dinghies, but he slipped back into the water and went under the right

wing. The navigator was hot on his trail and hauled him out. This

time they put him in the dinghy. We were all sure he was gone and

impossible to give him artificial respiration in the dinghy.

Everyone was in one of the two dinghies now except yours truly; I

was still flat on my back in the water and by then I was about 1,500

feet from the plane, which was still afloat. A splendid aircraft

until the last; it seemed reluctant to go down. I yelled to my hot

buddy, Gill, to keep an eye on me so I wouldn't get lost, and to

paddle the darn dinghy over and pick me up. "Sure thing, Davis, old

Buddy," he said, and began paddling off in the other direction!

There's nothing to compare with a navigator's love for his

bombardier - absolutely nothing!

In less than 15 minutes an Italian fishing boat picked us up.

We got Bishop on the deck and got his bulky clothing off. The co-

pilot started artificial respiration and after a while he started

breathing. He came to and was okay. We patched up the men who

were scratched and began taking it easy. What a relief that we were

all well and alive. I could hardly believe it was true. I guess

we owed our lives to the pilot for such a swell landing, and he

had almost lost his own life in the attempt. All the crew had given

outstanding performances in the face of uncertain danger, and I was

glad to be part of their team. They were my buddies for life. As

we went ashore in the boat we all began to chatter and, laugh, every-

one had a story of his own; I guarantee that there are no atheists

on our crew; Someone from above had taken very good care of us.

Bishop then told us what had happened to him. He said he started to

get out of the compartment but was met by a barrage of feet

(belonging to us on the flight deck) kicking him in the face. So he

went back into the pilots compartment (all the time under water)

picked up the crash axe and started hacking away at the window

in a desperate effort to get out. In the process, he cut his hands

on the broken glass.

The last thing he remembered he was chopping at the window when

everything went black; I'm sure he was glad to wake up on the boat

and find he was safe and alive.

We reached shore, were fixed up, returned to our base, given a

short rest and now we are back on the job again. The B-24 had

stayed afloat for 26 long minutes instead of the usual 45 seconds;

we had come back to fight the enemy again, and that was what

the Air Force had hoped for. And where do you think our first

mission went after that episode?

Right back to the heart of Vienna again and a total of two more

times since then! And not to be outdone by anyone else, our

co-pilot has ditched again with another crew and come out alive.

The 15th Air Force is still in business and going strong. Still

after OIL -OIL - OIL - wherever it may be.