WW II Air War 57and then taxied them alongside the runway
in the sequence in which they would take off.
There was a line of 90 planes almost wingtip
to wingtip that stretched for over a mile.
Across the field, the 319th had done the
same thing, and now 180 Marauders faced
one another from opposite sides of the
field. Searchlights were beamed down the
runway, and their light glistened off Plexiglas
and metal, giving the two rows the look of
armored knights preparing to joust. It was an
awesome sight.
I was flying as Lt. Dinwiddie’s copilot for the
third time. He briefed me on what he wanted
for this takeoff. “I’m gonna be watching the
artificial horizon to keep the wings level,
and I want to maintain 160mph to give our
wingmen a little cushion. After we’re airborne,
you watch the airspeed, and if it goes up
too fast, it means we’re headed back to the
ground. If you don’t like what you see, holler.”
At 0415, we started engines, but we didn’t
taxi out for quite a while. Twice the launch
was delayed when a plane crashed on takeoff.
In both cases, they became disoriented and
flew back into the ground. Miraculously, no
one was seriously injured, but until they were
sure that the bombs or the planes were not
going to explode, we couldn’t risk flying low
over the wreckages. Finally, at 0442, our flight
was lined up for takeoff, and the searchlights
behind us cast long, eerie shadows halfway
down the runway. “Two Four, cleared to go.”
Halfway through the transmission, Dinwiddie
was off the brakes, and we were rolling. I
watched the airspeed closely after we broke
ground, but he had it glued on 160mph.
We had not been airborne long when a
bright-red glare filled the cockpit. Another
crash? I looked at Dinwiddie, but he just
shrugged. We climbed to our rendezvous point
on the north tip of Sardinia, and in the plum-
blue light of dawn, our flights of three joined
up into squadrons of nine, but one plane was
missing off the left wing of our squadron lead
ship: Lt. Paul Trunk’s position. Not a good
sign. A spare aircraft, flying abreast of the
formation, eased in above us and filled the
slot.
Our target was the beach at Baie de
Cavaliere, just east of Toulon—a posh beach
resort in peacetime, today an invasion landing
site for Allied troops. Each B-26 carried 30,
100-pound demolition bombs, and we were
carpet-bombing the coastline to create a
mine- and infantry-free area for the assault
troops. As we approached the target area,
we saw the massive invasion fleet two miles
below us chalking parallel lines across a
leaden sea. There was 7⁄10 cloud coverage, and
fighters were streaking past the breaks in the
clouds too fast to be identified. It was hard to
believe we were an integral part of this grand
maneuver.
There weren’t any fighters or flak in the
target area, so the lead bombardier made a
second run to ensure we had delivered the
bombs spot on. We clobbered the target area,
and the mood was upbeat as we started the
long glide home. But back at Decimo, after we
had parked and shut down, Sgt. Lowther, the
crew chief, came over to us and said “Trunk
bought the farm.”
After a long pause, Dinwiddie asked. “How
many on board?”
“Eight.”
“Anybody make it?” Dinwiddie asked.
“Afraid not, lieutenant. They’re finito.”
Lt. Paul Trunk, our operations officer, was
flying his 62nd mission. Three more, and
he would have rotated home to his wife and
daughter. With him on Zero Two was our
squadron executive officer Capt. Wallace
Bouchard, who had stowed away to see the
big show. Three days later, eight flag-draped
caskets were lined up at a burial service in
the Allied cemetery. Two Marauders buzzedComing home late across
the Mediterranean, we
headed for the base in
Sardinia (two flights of three
ships in formation).