WW II Air War 55copilot was a “newbie.” In the formation, we
were on the left wing of the group lead in an
18-plane formation. Each B-26 carried eight
500-pound demolition bombs to be dropped
on a railroad bridge south of Marzabotto, Italy.
The summer days were long, and we didn’t
launch for this five-hour mission until 1448
hours. Focused on my copilot duties, I didn’t
get to watch our lead ship in the formation
takeoff. The Decimo strip was so bumpy, I
had to plant my right foot on the vibrating
instrument panel to monitor the gauges,
while Hubbard never took his eyes off the lead
ship. We climbed out at 160mph, and with
one sweeping turn, completed the join-up.
We headed almost due north up the middle
of Sardinia and then along the east coast of
Corsica. When two six-ship flights of Spitfires
joined us as our fighter escort, I felt as though
I was part of a newsreel. Spitfires! They were
based on Corsica, and it was the first time I
had ever seen one in flight.
When we made landfall over the Italian
coast, Lt. Hubbard motioned for me to take
the controls. He struggled into a flak vest,
tightened his seatbelt and parachute straps and
buckled the chin strap of his flak helmet. Our
B-26s didn’t carry oxygen, and by the time he
finished, he was panting from the effort in the
thin air at 12,500 feet. Tension mounted as
we droned on, making shallow turns to avoid
known flak batteries. After a final turn, our
bombardier, Sgt. Hawkins, came on the radio.
“We’re at the IP”—the initial point, the start of
the bomb run.
The first bursts of flak appeared, sooty black
shamrocks in clusters of four. At first they were
ahead of us and low, but they quickly got close
enough to be heard, and then even the acrid
smell was in the cockpit. “Doors opening.” A
cold rush of air came in from the bomb bay,
and we moved in closer on the lead ship.
Shrapnel from the flak clattered over our plane
like rocks on a tin roof.
After what seemed an eternity, Hawkins
called “Bombs away!” and we followed our
lead ship in a steep break downward and to
the left. After the long dive, we rolled level
and slowed. Hubbard’s face was covered
with sweat, and he motioned for me to take
over. Hell, I thought, it wasn’t that bad. But
Hubbard was experiencing it for the 61st time,
and it was my first. And then the
mission commander’s voice came on. “We
lost Zero Six,” he announced in matter-of-fact
tones. “It took a direct hit.”
Later, Maj. William Cook, group intelligence
officer, wrote in the official mission report:
“Left wing of this aircraft was shot off by flak,
and it spun to the ground and crashed. No
chutes were seen.” And that was the epitaph
for 1st Lt. Murray B. Wiginton and his crew of
six. For me, one mission completed; 64 more
to go.
I was assigned as copilot four more times
in July, and the target was always a road or
rail bridge. But after mission number five, my
combat career was put on hold, and I got stuck
with squadron “errands” for a while. I flew a
Marauder to Naples for jeep engines, ferried a
three-star general to Corsica and made a flight
to Algiers to replenish our squadron’s beer
supply—an 800-mile roundtrip over water
to another continent for beer.
On August 13, I got back into combat and
flew over France for the first time. In a pre-
invasion strike, we were assigned to take outFACT
The B-26 Marauder
was initially
thought to be an
operating risk, but
it eventually had
the lowest combat
loss rate of any U.S.
airplane.Lt. Murray Wiginton’s
plane took a direct hit over
Marzabotto, Italy, on July 10,- This happened on my
first mission. There were no
survivors.
A six-ship formation takeoff
on Decimo. Formation take-
offs reduced join-up time
and extended our range.