Heroes
of WWII
By Karen
S. Lynch
Richard DeBaugh is a retired
English teacher from Knoxville High but also a Veteran of WWII. DeBaugh flew a
P-47 fighter plane over New Guinea and the Philippines during WWII as a member
of the 41st Fighter Squadron, 35th Fighter group, called
the ÒFlying Buzz-Saw.Ó His fighter group flew cover for B-24s from the 307th
on a few missions.
The 41st fighter
squadron earned three Presidential Unit Citations during the war, given for
Òextraordinary heroism in action against an armed enemy.Ó The award is the
equivalent of the Distinguished Service Cross given to an individual. The first
award given to the 41st Squadron was for the Papuan New Guinea
Campaign, the second for successfully repelling an enemy bomber force, which attacked
the new airdrome at Tsili-Tsili, and the third for destroying enemy air forces
in the Borneo area. The unit still holds annual reunions. This past year the 41st
veterans met at the WWII memorial in Washington, D.C.
Following, is the story of the final mission of fighter pilot
Richard DeBaugh, written in his own words. Of special note, the Òwing tanksÓ (also
called Òdrop tanksÓ) referenced in his story were produced at Midwest
Manufacturing (the former Maytag plant) during WWII. These fuel tanks allowed
the fighter planes to perform long missions by using the extra tanks to reach
their destination, reserving the fuel in their on-board tanks to return to
base. This is a riveting story, best told by the brave pilot himself.
Final
Mission
By Richard
DeBaugh
Talking about it, writing about
it, and most of all, thinking about it uncountable times have given it
permanence in my mind. My final mission as a 41st Fighter Squadron
pilot has haunted my thoughts and imprinted my being since that memorable day,
April 2, 1945.
The 41st was flying
out of Mangalden, Lingayan Gulf, Luzon, in the spring of 1945. We had been
flying support missions for the Army ground forces, strafing and dive-bombing.
Also, we would take on those more distant flights that took us out on fighter
sweeps, bomber cover, and dive-bombing missions north to Formosa. My final
mission was a dive-bombing flight to Formosa, to where there was a railroad hub
that continued as a useful adjunct to enemy operations. The assignment to hit
this target devolved upon the 41st; I was to lead a twelve-ship
flight to reach the target, bomb it, and return to Mangalden. Simple enough.
Some of us who were old hands had some initial misgivings about the mission.
Considering all that went into a mission, taking off with two wing tanks and a
280-pound fragmentation belly bomb seemed barely worth the effort. But no
matter, a mission was a mission, straight down from Fighter Command.
We took off. A 41st Fighter
Squadron flight of twelve ships, proud pilots airborne in planes adorned with
blazonry and insignia, was engaged in another mission in the progression of the
war. The trip north was smooth; weather CAVU, all aircraft functioning, 10,000
feet of altitude. One hour and forty-five minutes into the flight, Formosa rose
up like a ship on the horizon. With a small course adjustment to effect a
flyover of a small island of the Pescadores group off the west coast of
Formosa, we headed for this key point, reached it, and then flew due east to
our target. Within minutes we were over Formosa and nearly to the railroad
center. Antiaircraft fire was visible ahead but not tracking us effectively.
Then, over the target and first in line, tanks dropped, armament switches on, I
began my dive. Things looked good as I bore down on those tracks while hurling
bursts of my fifties to repress Japanese ground fire. Suddenly, things became
squeamishly uncomfortable as tracer fire came at me – close, over my
wings, past my canopy. I was flying down into a maelstrom, a concentration of
enemy fury. I sensed that I had taken some hits. Although I had felt nothing
distinct enough to be sure, there was that evocation of the special
relationship which exists between a pilot and his plane that made me sense the
taking of hits.
Even so, I safely cleared the
area and looked back with satisfaction that all twelve ships had cleared and,
importantly, that the bombing had been effective. We formed up quickly for the
ride home; my plane seemed to respond normally, and instrumentation readings were
on the mark as we gained altitude to 10,000 feet. The Weather continued to be
favorable, and the homeward leg of the mission was underway. I should have been
comfortable with the situation. Pilots should not be concerned with
forebodings; premonitions were lunacies to be avoided. But these persisted,
lurked in my mind. Even though my twelve-ship flight eventually reached
Lingayen Gulf, ten minutes from touch-down, now at 1,000 feet of altitude, a
safe conclusion to the mission at last seemed assured. And then it happened!
My cockpit suddenly filled with
smoke along with a choking, eye-watering, gagging stench which was quickly
alleviated when I put on my oxygen mask. The engine still appeared to be
running smoothly, but nothing electrical functioned. My radio was dead. Just
minutes from landing, my wingman was able to get my hand-signaled message to
clear us for touchdown; he called the tower and then gave me the Roger sign to
take the squadron on in. Perhaps my worry about premonitions had been baseless.
Just another ÒJugÓ landing and all would be well.
This time, however, instead of
the usual tight 360 pattern I made a gentle thing of it, a broader, shallower
turn. Lining up my approach at about 100 feet, near the end of the runway,
flaps set, wheels down, this would be a grease job, simply smooth it in. But it
was not to be. A C-47 had pulled out on the runway, a red light and a
flare from the tower! The message was clear; pull Ôer up and go around, try it
a second time. Full throttle, reset the prop pitch, up with the wheels, try
again.
Damn! The reality of a certain
crash immediately hit me when there was no surge of power. Even so, my training
kicked in – the most important being that which was self-imposed,
training wherein I had pictured myself in every possible direful emergency and
then mentally reacting in response. This was just such an emergency, and throughout
the next few seconds, I did what I could in response to my situation. I was able
to maintain altitude over the length of the runway, barely above stalling
speed, wheels supposedly coming up, trying to Òshift gearsÓ by using the manual
prop pitch control for the Curtiss electric propeller, attempting to ÒthinkÓ my
way to safety. Nothing worked. The inevitable crash was at hand. Then I hit.
I woke up in the hospital, a
nearby Army medical installation. First, I remember being apprised of my
physical condition. I had been amazingly fortunate: nothing broken, no cuts,
many bruises and abrasions, a slight concussion. One of the ironies of the
crash is that while I was in the crucible of it, I heard none of its sound and
fury – I was unconscious after one of my shoulder straps broke and I had
been wrenched forward striking my head on the gun sight. Then I learned of the
accident itself, an incredible thing to live through.
As I lost altitude, a turn at
stalling speed would have been a certain death warrant so I continued straight
ahead, straight toward the town of Mangalden, which was a mile away and
directly in line with the airstrip. I had crashed through a schoolhouse (no pupils
present,) which was on one side of the town square. Momentum had taken me on
into the middle of the square stopping in front of a statue of some famous
Philippine figure. A wing had been left in the schoolhouse, the engine has been
wrenched loose, and the plane caught fire. I was told that some heroic GIs had
pulled me from the wreckage. As it later developed, I realized that faithful
old #172 and I had called it quits together.
To this day, my sense is that it was
the ÒJugÓ that saved me. The outfit was in its transition period to the
Mustangs at the time. There is no doubt that the P-51 would not have seen me
through the crash. How lucky can a guy be?
Old 172
A Tribute to Richard
DeBaugh
By Karen S. Lynch
©2006
On silver-lit wings,
the sunlight shone.
So proudly she flew
while taking me home.
Wings soaring
gracefully, like Eagles flying high.
The weather we hoped
was always Òblue sky.Ó
Just one more flight,
that day fate not her thing,
Through the schoolhouse,
losing a wing.
Her death came that
day in battle too soon,
With a smoking
cockpit from her battle wounds.
She served her
country and the pilot she flew,
Accomplished her
mission, protecting twelve ships too.
Saving this young
pilot from a certain death,
That day in the town
square, where she came to rest.
What a brave old
soldier she was when she flew.
She served me well,
that faithful old one-seventy-two.
1/25/07