58 FlightJournal.com
RIGHT PLACE, RIGHT TIME
the cemetery in a “missing man”
formation, leaving Trunk’s left
wing slot open.
On August 17, I flew my
eighth mission, my first in the left
seat. Bill Robinson, the original
copilot on our crew, flew in the
right seat and provided much
needed moral support. It was a
four-and-a-half hour mission,
and that night I celebrated by
drinking three bottles of beer,
my entire week’s allotment. On
mission number nine, two days
later, our new operations officer,
Capt. Cahan, had me back flying
copilot; but on August 22, Cahan
assigned me as a first pilot for the
second time. I would pilot “One
Four,” Miss Manchester, left wing position in
the third flight. As it turned out, Cahan had
put me in the right place at the right time—
again.
Our target was a road bridge at Vergato,
Italy. It was a 450-mile flight, just about the
limit of our range. We flew a now familiar
route, due north across Sardinia and then
along the coast of Corsica. Just before we made
landfall at Sestri Lavante, we were joined by
a fighter escort mix of Spitfires and P-47s.
When we got to our IP at Frigano, we were at
12,200 feet. Flying at 185mph meant we were
nine minutes from the bridge, and initially we
took lateral evasive action. With about three
minutes to target, the bomb-bay doors opened,
and now the only way we could confuse
the flak batteries below was to lose altitude
in random increments. At 11,000 feet, our
bomb-release altitude, no more evasive tactics
could be used. For the last 30 seconds, we flew
straight and level, sitting ducks for the 88mm
gunners below. This was “white knuckle” time.
Bombs away, and Capt. McConnell in the
lead ship wheeled us into a steep break, down
and right. We had just leveled off, when I
heard a familiar voice in my headset.
“Topnotch leader, this is Two Four. I got a
problem.”
“Go ahead, Two Four.”
“I took a pretty good hit, and oil pressure
is dropping on the right engine. I think I’m
going to lose it.”
There was a pause, and then, “Two Four, it’s
about 125 miles to Corsica. There’s a fighter
strip pretty near the north tip. Think you can
make it?”
Lt. Dinwiddie was flying Two Four, and Ihad flown three missions as his copilot. The
last one, the Southern France invasion, had
been in the aircraft he was flying now.
Dinwiddie couldn’t keep up with the
formation, and his two wingmen and two of
the Spitfires slowed down and stayed with
him. The rest of us could only “stay tuned.”
Two Four had additional flak damage,
and even though the crew tossed everything
out through the waist windows, the plane
wouldn’t hold altitude.
“Topnotch, we’re not going make it to the
fighter strip.”
“Read you, Two Four. Are you going to bail
out while you still have enough altitude?”
“No, can’t do that. Murray tells me he can’t
swim. I’m going put it down close to shore.”
And he did. Dinwiddie ditched just 50 meters
off the coast of Corsica at the northern tip.
He did a perfect job, and the six-man crew
made it into the life raft and was picked up by
air and sea rescue in 20 minutes. They were
back with the squadron the next day, and
for a short time, they were all celebrities. But
there was a war to fight, and I never had time
to dwell on the fact that I might well have
been Dinwiddie’s copilot on that mission,
too. There wasn’t time to wonder whether it
was the operations officer, Capt. Cahan, or
my guardian angel, who always put me in the
right place at the right time.
Two days later, on August 24, there was
a carbon-copy mission, but this one didn’t
have a happy ending. Lt. Junkins had an
engine shot out over Montpelier, France, while
flying One Six, the plane in which I flew my
first mission. They elected to bail out, and
none of the seven crewmen were ever found.
I had come into the 441st Squadron with
Harry Junkins, and his loss gave me pause for
thought.
There were just 10 missions in my log book,
and the 441st Squadron had lost five aircraft
and 22 crewmen. Two of the planes in which
I had flown missions were gone. But I was
always in the right place at the right time—
always at least a wingspan from disaster.
The right-place-right-time theory even
held true on the ground. If you were doing
something well when the right
person was looking, you moved ahead. And if
you were lucky when you screwed up, nobody
was looking. The Lord smiled down on me,
and I was one of the lucky ones. I survived my
short-timer days and 71 missions and ended
up as the commanding officer of the 441st. JAfter about 30 mis-
sions, I got a little older, a
little wiser—and a little dog.
Naturally, I named it “Short
Timer.”
Dr. Franz Reisdorf,
grandson of Lt.
Benjamin Reisdorf,
is the official
historian for the
320th BG. The
website contains
hundreds of rare
combat photos
(much in color),
personal histories
and vintage film
clips. There is a
detailed, official
record of every
mission the 320th
flew, all 582 of
them, from April
1943 to May 1945,
and most include
the actual bomb
strike photos. In
all, there are more
than 5,500 pages.
Professionally
indexed, the website
is easy to navigate.
For a real journey
back in time, visit
320thbg.org. You
will enjoy the trip.ONLINE EXTRA