With Wings as Eagles: Ramrod to Munster

Photo By Ryan Campbell | 1st Lt. Stephen C Ananian, a fighter pilot assigned the 505th Fighter Squadron, 339th Fighter Group, wearing the runway control officers' uniform of striped pajama jacket and white baseball cap, on the runway at Fowlmere, England, 1944. (Photo courtesy of Stephen Ananian)  

NIAGARA FALLS, NY, UNITED STATES

02.28.2018

Story by Staff Sgt. Ryan Campbell  

107th Attack Wing

Ramrod was the code word used to describe a combat mission which fighter planes escorted the bombers. I guess the word comes from the days of the old west. Cowboys that herded the cattle were called “ramrods.” These cowboys rounded up the strays and brought the cattle home.

Ramrod, a perfect description! I often felt like I was riding herd on the bombers, protecting them from enemy fighters and bringing them home to safety!

Every fighter pilot remembers his first combat mission, but mine is one they will be talking about for quite some time!

October 5, 1944. We were awakened early. It was a cold and windy morning. Briefing was the usual quick and efficient session. Mission for the day, Ramrod, escorting two boxes of B-17s…a short hop, four hours…target, Munster, in the Ruhr Valley…lots of flak expected…probably no fighter opposition…perhaps a few ME-262s…altitude, 27,000 feet…freezing level at 2,000…violent updrafts…gale warnings over the English Channel and North Sea…that means Air Sea Rescue won’t be patrolling the flight path…”If you see any barracks in this area, don’t strafe them. It might be a prisoner of war camp, and we would not want to risk shooting our own men.”

I was flying Chet Malarz’s aircraft. It was a sleek P-51B. His crew chief told me it was a good airplane, the engine was practically new, only 10 hours of flying time since it was installed. I was in White Flight. Tom Rich was flight leader and I was flying his wing. Take off was at 0952.

We circled the field in formation while the group formed up. Land-fall-out (point at which one crosses coast going from land to water), was at 1026, and the group headed out over the North Sea. I could see the white caps on the water below us. It looked cold and inhospitable. Just before we hit the Dutch coast the fighters spread out in battle formation. Our group rendezvoused with the bombers as we made land-fall-in (point at which one crosses coast going from water to land).

The course was almost straight in across the Zuider Zee toward Hamburg, then a 90 degree turn toward the Ruhr Valley. We had nearly crossed the Zuider Zee, flying over some small islands. Denmark and Sweden were to the north and The Third Reich was straight ahead. All was serene…

It was difficult to believe that we were at war, and the enemy was far below.

Suddenly, bam! One puff of black smoke, with an angry looking orange center, flak! My engine quit cold and lost power. I called, “Upper White leader this is Upper White two here, my engine cut out! I’ve been hit!”

Tom’s calm voice replied, “Upper White two this is Upper White leader I’ll go back with you. Do you know what’s wrong?”

I knew I must have been hit but it didn’t make sense. One burst of flak at this altitude could never hit anyone…no smoke…no holes that I could see. I realized that the engine was running but it just didn’t have any power. I checked all the instruments…oil temperature OK. Coolant temperature OK…fuel pressure normal…oil pressure seemed a little low…had plenty of gas in my wing tanks but switched to fuselage tank just in case…no help there…supercharger high blower is engaged…or is it?

That’s it! Oil pressure if falling off and the supercharger has disengaged. Since the supercharger is engaged with engine oil pressure I must have been hit in an oil line or in the supercharger itself.

That was bad news. I can’t go far without oil, five minutes if I’m lucky.

I was now at 27,000 feet over the Zuider Zee, and descending. “Bail out here Steve, and you’re a dead duck!” If I’m really lucky I’ll be a prisoner of war…

Then again, there was a neutral Sweden nearby, but I didn’t come all this way to become a prisoner of war in Sweden!

Of course, I might be able to make it to the North Sea and bail out over the water!

Then I remembered the briefing! “Storm warnings over the North Sea. No Air Sea Rescue boats patrolling today!” No sense in worrying about that now. First things first.

I called Tom Rich over the radio, “Let’s go home!” Tom’s reassuring voice came back, “Good luck Steve, I’m staying right with you!”

That was the way it started. Two silver Mustangs, like knights of old, returning from the Crusades wounded, exhausted and heading back to England. We slowly descended. I, in a flat glide with no power, and Tom, flaps down, S-ing back and forth to keep from over shooting me. Protecting my rear from enemy aircraft.

Tom was on the radio alerting Air Sea Rescue about our predicament. My hands were full trying to get my plane back home to Fowlmere. I could not help thinking, “and this is Chet’s aircraft that I was supposed to take care of…”

My manifold pressure gauge was reading ten inches of mercury, the lowest reading on the dial. I had the trim tabs rolled back and the stick in my stomach in an effort to stretch my glide to the sea. I kept looking at my air speed and rate of descent. We hit the coast of Holland and I was over the North Sea! Altitude 7,000 feet. At this altitude, atmospheric pressure was enough to give the engine power to keep me aloft! I had hoped this would happen! As we hit the coast we were met by two P-47s from Air Sea Rescue. They were escorting me back. My rate of descent was now reading zero. Things were looking better!

Of course I had a few problems too. Oil pressure was now zero and oil temperature was 40 degrees centigrade. It was now obvious that my problem was in the lubrication system.

I looked back and saw Tom. What a comfort! Still with me. Down below the water was churning! I had to cool that engine somehow! If I could only get the oil in the bottom of the crankcase up on those cylinder walls!

That’s it! I started to rock the plane violently in uncoordinated movements.

It worked! The oil temperature started to go down!

Tom asked what I was doing. “Lubricating the engine!” I said. I kept looking ahead for the English coastline.

When Tom called, “White two, I see the coast. We’re going to make it!” Great news!

Then it happened! A runaway prop! While I tried to keep it from changing pitch, all hell broke loose! The coolant boiled out and smoke and oil filled the cockpit. The engine sounded like someone was pounding on it with a sledgehammer. The heat in the cockpit was becoming unbearable!

I looked at the altimeter, it read 3,000 feet! Minimum altitude for bailing out was 250 feet. As much as I disliked it, the time had come for this aircraft and me to part company!

I radioed, “This is it Tom, I’m bailing out!”

Then I lowered my seat, pulled my goggles over my eyes, lowered my head and released the canopy. I tore off my oxygen mask and detached everything that fastened me to the plane.

Just before I disconnected my earphones, I heard Archie Tower’s (505th Figher Squadron operations officer) voice on the radio. He must have been monitoring the whole thing back at Gas Pump (339th Fighter Group airfield control tower callsign).

Then Tom Answered him, “He said he’s bailing out!” For the first time there was a note of concern in his voice.

Archie didn’t answer. Then complete silence.

I raised myself to jump and the slipstream knocked me back into the cockpit. I then rolled the plane over and started to drop out.

Just as I left my seat, I looked back and saw the radio antenna and stabilizer just behind me. Was afraid of hitting the tail section so I eased back on the stick a little just as I fell and cleared the stabilizer.

I pulled the ripcord. My oxygen mask went floating past my face…falling…falling head first first spinning toward the water…pop! The chute opened…Whitey (he was our parachute man) once told me every chute packed at Fowlmere had opened…I was happy the record was still intact!

Then a strange thing happened. My dinghy floated in the air in front of me. This dinghy, if you remember, is stowed in a canvas pack that you sit on. It was secured to your Mae West (a pilot’s orange colored life preserver) by a line aptly called an umbilical cord.

The procedure for a water landing is to loosen your chute harness, and drop out of your chute ten feet above the water. The canvas bag is carried away by the chute. The dinghy is pulled out of the pack by the umbilical cord. You hit the water. Splash…inflate your Mae West…inflate your dinghy…climb in, sit back and wait for rescue. Simple right?

Not exactly! I hit the water almost as soon as the chute opened. No time to loosen it. Once the harness was wet it was impossible to unfasten all those buckles.

Fortunately for me, when the dinghy floated past my nose in midair I reached over and pulled the carbon-dioxide inflation cartridges and inflated the dinghy. This whole thing took place in a matter of seconds.

I hit the water and skipped from the top of one wave to the next. I was skimming off the top of the waves like a flat rock bounces off the surface of a lake. My chute, aided by the heavy winds, was pulling me for a rollercoaster ride!

I was flat on my back, struggling to dump the chute and swallowing the North Sea like a pint of Half and Half at The Checquers (local pub back at Fowlmere)!

I was in real trouble and I was on the verge of drowning.

Then this P-51 starts to buzz me. It was Tom! What was he doing? He made another pass and then I understood! Having seen my predicament he was trying to spill the chute with his prop wash! On his second or third pass he succeeded. I think he hit the chute, at any rate, it worked.

I don’t remember too much after that. I could not climb into the dinghy because the chute went down and started to pull me under. I just hung on to the raft for my life.

According to Tom, they lost me initially in all those whitecaps. It took 20 minutes till they finally found me again. Then the P-47s from Air Sea Rescue marked my spot with smoke bombs and dye. Tom said when they finally located me I looked like a drowning rat hanging onto a doughnut. I tried to wave once and let him know I was alive, but in the attempt. I nearly drowned.

Things were getting worse! The water was cold. I prayed, and I spoke to God. “It’s up to you God. I can’t think of anything else I can do.” God didn’t answer. He probably agreed with me.

I knew Tom would be running out of fuel soon. Besides, what more could he do? He must have been reading my mind. His plane passed overhead and wagged it’s wings. He was wishing me well and headed for home. The P-47s having more fuel were still there…but for how long?

I looked up at the circling Thunderbolts. They could not have had too much fuel left, and would have to go home too. Then I would be alone. What could they do anyway? What were they waiting for?

I became aware of a change. It was a sound, an airplane engine. Different! Then there it was! A Walrus! It was an Air Sea Rescue flying boat. A twin wing, “flying bathtub!” Now he started to circle about. There was one thing I knew. He could never land. With this wind or on this water with 10 foot waves, landing was out of the question! If this was Air Sea Rescue’s answer to my problems, I was in deep trouble!

God, its up to you!

I think I passed out then. I became aware of the sound of a plane taxiing on the water toward me and I came to. As I rose and fell on the wave crests I caught sight of the Walrus. God had answered my prayers. It had landed and was heading right at me! Standing up in the hatch was an R.A.F. airman (L/A B. Westbrook) with a big smile on his face. He yelled, “Here Yank, catch this.” He threw men a line. Don’t know how I managed to grab the line, but I did! He hauled me toward the plane and grabbed me with a boat hook.

A waterlogged pilot is heavy under normal conditions, with a parachute attached and the heavy seas I was an impossible load. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There are two ships on their way.”

A few minutes later, I saw the trawler HSM George Adgell with the Union Jack flying. Then I was being pulled into a lifeboat. Someone gave me rum to drink. It warmed my insides. I realized then how cold I had been. A seaman put a blanket around me and held me in his arms, just as my father would have.

I felt warm. How was that Walrus going to manage to get off? I passed out. Later I learned that the Walrus cracked a pontoon trying to lift off. They were picked up by the other boat that had come to my rescue, RML 547. The Rescue Launch unsuccessfully attempted to tow the Walrus. It sank in the rough seas.

That night I said at an R.A.F. hospital on the Thames Estuary. The next day I was back at Fowlmere. The day after, October 7, I flew my second mission…ramrod to Bremen.

I had it made! I knew that I was going to live through the war. I knew also that we were going to win! How could we lose with a team like this?

I don’t think I ever thanked Tom for all he did. He had called Air Sea Rescue and vectored two P-47s, the Walrus and two ships that finally rescued me.

When the Walrus arrived at the scene, I had been in the water over an hour. The pilot, W/O F. J. Bedford, FAA, must have realized I could not survive much longer and probably asked permission to land. He knew he would be lucky to make the landing, let alone the impossibility of a take off! I had bee in the cold water too long, and he must have felt he had to risk it.

Of course Tom’s quick thinking and expert flying key me from drowning on splashdown. All those people working to keep me alive! How could we have ever lost the war? I am very grateful!

All in all I was in the “drink” for about an hour and twenty minutes. That Mustang flew, losing oil, for over forty-five minutes. I still can’t believe I was hit by one shot from an antiaircraft gun. I’ll always be indebted to Tom Rich for his great flying and quick thinking! Flying low over the water and deflating a parachute is some sort of stunt! Why I was able to survive in that cold water, with high winds, and force four seas, I’ll never know.

To top it all, those naval airmen from Air Sea Rescue, attempting a landing under those conditions, and making it! The crew of the trawler HMS George Adgell, Rescue Motor Launch 547 and those P-47 pilots. Yes, someone up there loves me!

Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever paid back Chet for the loss of his plane. Chet, I owe you a beer. Tom, and the men of Air Sea Rescue, I owe you my life and my undying gratitude! Thanks! Thank you all.

Upper Five Four out!

• Date Taken: 02.28.2018
• Date Posted: 02.28.2018 11:02
• Story ID: 267513
• Location: NIAGARA FALLS, NY, US