American Airmen at War

War can tear friendships apart, or it can lead to bonds that last a lifetime. In war, from the depths of despair, heroes may emerge. This is a true story of American airmen over Europe during World War II. Eighty-two years ago, on October 8, 1943, a quick decision by a tall, lanky American B-24 pilot saved the lives of the crew on a crippled U.S. bomber that was under fire by Nazi fighter aircraft.

This narrative begins on Sunday August 1, 1943, the day the U.S. Army Air Force (which became the U.S. Air Force in 1947) launched a 2400-mile roundtrip bombing raid from airbases in North Africa. The target was a group of oil refineries and cracking plants near the Romanian city of Ploesti. The air assault on Ploesti rates as the most complex mission in the history of the U.S. Air Force.

Petroleum

Germany’s crude oil reserves have always been insufficient to meet the country’s economic and industrial needs. Before WWII, the Germans imported petroleum from Russia and Romania. After the Fuhrer invaded Russia in June 1941, Marshal Joseph Stalin turned off the tap: Deprived of Russia’s black gold, and with key shipping routes and Atlantic ports blockaded by the British Royal Navy, Hitler responded by ordering the creation of a national synthetic fuel industry.

The German plants created synthetic fuel from coal and water, two natural resources the country had in abundance. Synthetic fuel was costly to produce, difficult to refine and an inferior product when compared to fossil fuel by-products. Military vehicles would run on synthetic fuel, as would tanks, ships, airplanes and U-boats, but there were limitations. As examples, the Luftwaffe’s fighter planes wouldn’t fly as high on low octane synthetic fuel and the performance of U-boats was much improved when they were fed real diesel. If Hitler hoped to win the war, even with synthetic fuels available, he required a reliable supply of lubricants and fuels that were derived from natural petroleum. Engine oil, gear grease and simple gun grease all came from fossil fuels.

Romanian Oil

Romania was a German satellite nation and a top petroleum producer. Under the umbrella of protecting Romania’s natural resources, the German military occupied the country. The Nazi’s were most interested in guarding the 19 square miles of oil rich refineries that ringed the city of Ploesti. Nine oil producing facilities around Ploesti supplied 35% or more of the petroleum that fueled Hitler’s sophisticated war machines.

Casablanca Conference

British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was adamant that the refineries at Ploesti were the “taproot of German mechanized power.” At the Casablanca Conference in January 1943, Churchill and President Roosevelt agreed that curbing the flow of Romanian oil to the Axis would relieve pressure on the embattled Soviets. Russia was under siege: Millions of Red Army soldiers had been killed by the Germans. The dangerous job of disabling the Ploesti oil fields would fall to the Yanks — the American Eighth Army Air Force in Europe.

 Flying into Hell

In the weeks prior to the bombing run on Ploesti, American aircrews were quarantined at Allied controlled air bases in North Africa. It was miserably hot in the desert and the sand, blown around by the continuous winds, left the airmen’s eyes raw and irritated.

The mission was planned as a low-altitude attack at 200 feet and less. The intent of the low-level flying was to avoid detection by radar: Pilots practiced by maneuvering the heavy bombers around telephone poles that had been dug into the desert sand. Bombardiers dropped wooden bombs on mock targets. It was all top-secret, even the men who would be flying the mission could only guess as to their ultimate destination. However, in final preparations, when the B-24s were equipped with extra fuel tanks that expanded their capacity to 3,100 gallons, a look at a map and simple math by the airmen led to the rumor they’d soon be leaving on a long hop to the Romanian oil fields.

The evening before takeoff, the crews learned they were being sent to Ploesti. Officers conducting the briefing warned of heavy casualties, predicting losses as high as 50%. Commanding General Uzal G. Ent, who would fly the mission with his men, stated that “even if nobody returned” the effort would be worth the cost if it would shorten the war. The airmen understood that their odds for survival weren’t good: Ploesti might be their last mission.

Ploesti: Operation Tidal Wave

At daybreak on August 1, 1943, a Sunday, 176 B-24 Liberators and 1700 airmen took off from airstrips near Benghazi, Libya on the infamous low-altitude daylight bombing raid. The bombers were responsible for their own defense: Fighters at the time couldn’t serve as protective escorts on this mission, because their limited fuel capacity wouldn’t support long flights deep inside hostile territory. Each B-24 Liberator had its own firepower — 10 strategically placed .50 caliber turret machine guns. The lead planes were equipped with a dozen .50 caliber machine guns.

After takeoff, on the first leg of the mission, the five heavy bombardment groups cruised at 11,000 feet. They flew north over the Mediterranean Sea, over the island of Corfu, over the Pindus Mountains in Albania and across Macedonia and Bulgaria into Romania. The B-24 Liberators wouldn’t drop to low-altitudes until shortly before they reached the oil fields on the outskirts of Ploesti.

When they descended, the bombers were so close to the ground that some planes sheared off the tops of sunflowers and corn stalks that were growing in fields. To keep the low-flying Liberators from being blown out of the sky by shock waves from the cargo they would be unloading, the bombs had delayed action fuses. Another precautionary measure: Radio silence was in effect throughout the long flight – until the navigator in the lead plane erred and the ship turned away from the target. At that moment, radio silence was broken momentarily to keep the other bombardment groups on course. Then all hell broke loose on the ground and in the skies over Ploesti.

American Radio News Reports

The air strike on “Hitler’s gas station” took place in the era preceding television. In the hours, days and weeks after the bombing raid, American newspapers, radio stations and radio networks reported the mission as an overwhelming success.

On August 2, 1943, CBS World News Today, a weekly Sunday program anchored by Douglas Edwards in NYC, opened with war news from Ploesti. A week later, on August 8, Edwards referred to the Ploesti raid in a report that the Allies were considering similar operations against other German satellite nations. Edwards’ two broadcasts, complete with the original sponsorship ads for Admiral brand radios, can be heard below.

Doug Edwards CBS World News Today. First news clip dates to Aug. 2, 1943. The second clip (beginning with the ad at :37) dates to Aug. 8, 1943. Run time 1:55

Newsreels

Before television, most of the timely moving pictures from the war were shown in the newsreels that played at local movie theaters. Five companies – 20th Century Fox, Hearst Corporation, Paramount Pictures, RKO Radio Pictures and Universal Studios – produced the American newsreels. Those same five companies co-produced newsreels with United News, an arm of the U.S. Office of War Information. Within weeks of the U.S. attack on Ploesti, United News released a newsreel highlighting the daring mission. Watch it below.

Brave Young Men

The courage displayed by the young airmen lifted the spirits of war-weary Americans. But the outcome was not as rosy as had been reported. In the first 30 minutes of the raid, the Ploesti refineries lost 40% of their production capabilities. In that same half hour, 53 of the 176 American B-24 Liberators were downed by the Luftwaffe’s fighter aircraft, the Wehrmacht’s flak (anti-aircraft artillery shells) and barrage balloons floating in the sky.

Fifty-five other Liberators sustained serious damage. And both ways, coming and going, mechanical and engine problems plagued the aircrews. Seventeen hundred men flew the August 1, 1943 mission. Casualties were extreme: 310 killed or missing in action, 130 wounded, 108 captured by the Reich and 78 bailed out or crashed in neutral Turkey — where they were interned. Five Americans, three of whom died at Ploesti and two Ploesti survivors, were awarded the military’s highest award – the Medal of Honor. All airmen who survived the mission received promotions, various medals and commendations. [1]

Underestimating the Enemy

In hindsight, the Allied planners underestimated the resolve of the defenders and the fortifications at the refineries. The Fuhrer, realizing that petrol was vital to his future, had turned Ploesti into one of the most heavily fortified sites in all of Europe (second only to Berlin). The surprise attack by the Americans ended up not being a surprise at all: Spotters near Corfu had heard the rumble overhead and warned the German high command that large numbers of big planes were heading northerly. The Nazis determined that Ploesti was the only logical target, so German and Romanian defense forces were alerted, prepared and in waiting.

Lessons Learned

Media photos showed bombers, explosions and spectacular oil field fires, but in reality the refineries at Ploesti were repaired and back to near normal production within weeks. The U.S. bombed in daylight hours, when airmen could better see and verify hitting their targets, but that strategy made the American ships themselves easy targets. America’s Allied counterpart, the British Royal Air Force (RAF), bombed at night from high-altitude, where the altitude alone, along with clouds and darkness, provided substantial cover. After Ploesti, the U.S. continued daylight bombing, but never again would the Air Force attempt a low-altitude large scale bombing mission against heavily defended targets. Another consequence, the Air Force then prioritized the development of long-range fighter aircraft capable of escorting bombers deep inside enemy territory. That innovation in flight would enter combat in Europe four months later.

Profiles in Courage

Russell D. Longnecker

Russ Longnecker was born in Broken Bow, Nebraska in 1921. He and his family relocated to the tiny Pacific NW town of Bow, Washington when Russ was a high schooler. He worked part-time as a farm hand while attending nearby Mount Vernon High School. After graduating, in summer 1940, Longnecker enlisted in the U.S. Army National Guard. Then he transferred into the Army Air Corps, which would become the U.S. Army Air Force in June 1941.

Trained as an aviation mechanic, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the U.S. suddenly required more pilots. Russ was qualified; he satisfactorily completed flight training and earned his pilot’s wings in January 1943. Four months later, he was a flight officer with the American Eighth Air Force, the 328th Squadron, 93rd Bombardment Group, based at Hardwick Air Field in Great Britain.

The 93rd had the nickname “Ted’s Travelling Circus,” a nod to their former commanding officer Lt. Colonel Ted Timberlake (later promoted to general). The B-24 Liberators in the Traveling Circus were dispatched to anywhere they were needed: North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Germany, Romania and the German occupied countries. The 93rd took on big jobs: Nov. 16, 1943, Norwegian resistance commandos on the ground, and a bomb dropped by a Circus Liberator flying over the Rjukan/Vemork hydro and electrolysis plant in Norway, put to final rest any thoughts Hitler had of creating a nuclear bomb from heavy water (water with a unique atomic structure and properties).

Russ Longnecker had survived Ploesti. It was his eighth bombing run and the first time the 22-year-old aviator had flown in the first pilot’s seat. Previously, he’d been the co-pilot on the Liberator “Thunder Mug.” When the regular pilot, Hubert R. Tardif, came down with dysentery shortly before takeoff, it fell to Longnecker to get “Thunder Mug” to Ploesti.

Roaring toward the target, “Thunder Mug” was wing to wing with Lt. Col. Addison Baker, the pilot of “Hell’s Wench” and commander of the 93rd Bomb Group. Baker hadn’t been leading the Circus for long, but he’d gained the confidence of his men with these words, “I’ll get you to Ploesti even if my plane falls apart.”

Longnecker’s proximity to Baker gave him a bird’s eye view of the horrors that unfolded that day. About 30 miles from Ploesti, as the bomb groups descended to 2300 feet, a check point was misidentified and the lead plane in the attack force turned toward Bucharest — Romania’s capital and 37 miles off target. With the Liberators in tight formation, the 32 Circus planes were caught up in the wrong turn. Baker, recognizing the navigational error, led his bomb group out of the errant turn and directly into Ploesti.

Russell Longnecker was a witness to his commander’s gritty determination:

“Colonel Baker made a decision. There was no doubt about his decision. He maneuvered our group more eloquently than if he had radio contact with each of us. He turned left ninety degrees. We all turned with him. Ploesti was off to the left and we were going straight into it and we were going fast.”

It didn’t end well for “Hell’s Wench”: Longnecker saw a shell hit the ship and then the gas tank ignited. As flames spread into the cockpit, in feats of superhuman endurance, Baker and co-pilot Major John Jerstadt remained airborne long enough to drop their bombs. As they attempted to gain altitude, to give the aircrew a chance of bailing out, a wing broke off. “Hell’s Wench” went down, killing all on board. Baker and Jerstadt were two of the heroes posthumously awarded Medals of Honor.

Longnecker’s eyewitness accounts of the carnage at Ploesti are often quoted in historical works. The flight of “Thunder Mug,” both to and from Ploesti, was described in Bill Bradle’s book “The Daring World War II Raid on Ploesti.” [2] “Russell Longnecker and Deacon Jones, the co-pilot in “Thunder Mug,” had a panoramic view of the charge into the refineries and the damage both in the air and on the ground.[3]

Straight ahead, Longnecker saw a B-24 sliding down a street, with both wings sheared off. A plane hit a barrage balloon and both disintegrated in a ball of fire. He saw bombs dropped by other planes skipping along the ground, hitting buildings, and passing on through, leaving gaping holes in the brickwork.

“Longnecker turned his attention to his wingmen, watching as suddenly a huge oil storage tank exploded directly in front of wingman, Vic Olliffe. This raised a solid column of fire and debris two hundred feet, and it was waiting for Olliffe’s plane “Let ‘Er Rip.” He couldn’t possibly avoid it. The next instant Longnecker glanced out and saw Olliffe crossing under Hugh Roper in “Exterminator” and “Thunder Mug,” Longnecker said, ‘barely clearing us and then going over a pair of stacks like a hurdler, before putting his bombs in a cracking tower. How he missed the explosion, our ships and the stacks is a mystery and always will be.’

“Pivoting back to the target to his front, Longnecker focused on the oncoming fire: ‘The tracers were so solid in front of us that it looked like a fishing net woven of fiery cords. I thought the flight was over for us. From the expression on Deacon Jones’ face, I am sure the same thing was crossing his mind; not fear, but rather a sense of vast disappointment, like having to give up a good book before reading the last chapter. As we were about to touch this web of death and destruction, it parted and fell away. Our bombardier Willie Schrampf dropped his bombs and Deacon said his first words: ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’ “Thunder Mug” flew out of the inferno blackened but relatively untouched.

“Thunder Mug” couldn’t keep up with the surviving planes and have enough fuel to make Libya. Longnecker and Jones watched the other planes pull ahead and out of sight. Now that they were going it alone, Longnecker asked for a course heading. Navigator Stanley Valcik calculated the route to Benghazi, gave it to the pilots, and sat down to read a magazine. Nearing Benghazi, a sergeant watching the gas gauges called them empty. Longnecker and Jones saw a fellow traveler, pilot Ramsay Potts in “Duchess,” and queued up behind him for landing. They had made it home [after more than 8 hours in flight from Romania] with no fuel to spare.”

Gene P. Alvord

Gene Alvord was born in Detroit in 1919. His family, with Gene in tow, moved to Chicago when he was a child. In the 1930s, as a teenager at Chicago’s Senn High School, Alvord held the rank of corporal in the ROTC. Gene graduated in 1938, took a job in a print shop and then attended college for a year. In 1940, after first enlisting in the Regular Army, he transferred into the Army Air Corps. Upon completing his training as a navigator, in fall 1943 Lieutenant Gene Alvord was assigned to the 328th Squadron, 93rd Bomb Group, Ted’s Traveling Circus based at Hardwick Air Field in Great Britain.

Going Over the Top

Dating back to the First World War, the expression “Go Over the Top” referred to being in grave peril, fully cognizant that you might die at any moment. That was life for aircrews flying bombing missions. When Russ Longnecker wrote to his family back home, he described that inevitable feeling of trepidation: “I have never been afraid yet and the only time I am nervous is before takeoff, but once the target is reached and they start shooting [flak shells and fighter aircraft armed with machine guns] we get a detached feeling as if we are watching a movie from a seat in the back. And we go ahead with our jobs until we get out of range. Then we can start thinking again and laugh at it. Happy to think that we will get another chance to get in another trip another day. Well, that is enough of that but I thought you might like to know how we feel when we go over the top. There really isn’t much to it, sometimes there is little or no opposition and we call it another milk run.”

Milk Runs

It’s true that bombing runs, if they met with little enemy resistance, were described by airmen as “milk runs.” But there were no safe bombing runs — some were just better than others. The Wehrmacht maintained powerful ground defenses and, until the Allies established air superiority over Europe in spring 1944, the Luftwaffe could muster skilled pilots in high-performance fighter planes that ran on high octane aviation fuel from the Ploesti oil fields. The B-24 was notoriously difficult to fly and its design didn’t instill confidence — a single exit made emergency escape difficult. That’s just one of the reasons they were nicknamed “flying coffins.” The fact is, bomber boys never had it easy.

Along with the always present dangers of getting shot down, picked off by fighters, or clipping a barrage balloon that could rip a wing off or drag a plane down, wartime aviation was fraught with mechanical calamities and engine failures. For personal protection, the crews wore heavy and uncomfortable flak jackets. Then there was the paraphernalia they required: At cruising altitudes, the air was thin in the unpressurized cabins and temperatures would drop to 50 below zero or colder. Oxygen masks were a necessity and it wasn’t uncommon for airmen to don cumbersome electrically heated clothing.

Bremen and Vegesack

On October 8, 1943, in the brutal skies over war-torn Germany, the lives of Longnecker and Alvord would be linked by war. That was the day the B-17 Flying Fortresses from the 100th Air Force bombed the city of Bremen and the B-24 Liberators from the Travelling Circus targeted Vegesack, a northern district inside Bremen. Geographically near the Weser and the Lesum Rivers, Bremen was an industrial and port city where Germany’s 1200-ton U-boats were built and the Vegesack area boasted major shipbuilding yards and the second largest seaport in Germany (the largest being Hamburg).

Preyed Upon

Allied heavy bombers flying in formation – presenting a unified and formidable display of firepower — were less likely to be targeted by enemy fighters. Conversely, crippled bombers that were unable to stay in formation were easy prey for German fighters. Twenty or more fighters might gang up on, and finish off, any Allied stragglers that fell out of formation. Gene Alvord knew the hopeless feeling that came from being Nazi prey. In the book “Ted’s Traveling Circus, 93rd Bomb Group,” Alvord described the harrowing ordeal of getting out of Vegesack alive. [4]

“We were flying ship 976 back on the right side of the formation. Got to the enemy coast at 1525 [3:25pm], passed Bremen where we got heavy flak and some gray two-engine fighters. On to Vegesack. Arrived two minutes late. Bombs away 1553 [3:53 pm]. Number three engine shot out. Other damage. Impossible to stay in formation. Radio operator and I were superficially wounded. Everyone knew we had to stay in formation or the enemy would get us. We thought we were done for. At 1610 [4:10 pm], after losing 2000 feet in altitude, we noticed ‘Dog Patch Raiders’ [pilot Russell Longnecker] pull out of formation with all of his fans running. He signaled us to form on him. We did so while under constant attack by German FW-190 fighters. A few other B-24s came along and we had a small formation. We kept descending to 15,000 feet. Made Hardwick at 1835 [6:35 pm]. I owe my life to Russell Longnecker.” Lt. Gene Alvord, U.S. Army Air Force

The October 8, 1943 bombing raid on Vegesack was Alvord’s inaugural mission. It was Longnecker’s tenth. Alvord and the crew on ship 976 beat the odds: From October 8 through October 14, 1943 American losses were stark – 148 U.S. bombers downed and 1,500 casualties. Alvord’s ship 976 (full serial number 42-63976) was, as with all American WWII aircraft, officially identified by its Air Force serial number. However, many of the bombers had nicknames bestowed on them by their aircrews, see the previously mentioned “Hell’s Wench,” “Thunder Mug” and “Dog Patch Raiders.” The nose art the airmen painted on their ships often included, along with the female form, symbols denoting missions flown and kill markings. Below are the symbols on “Dog Patch Raiders” when Russ Longnecker was the pilot. The women and the bombs represented bombing missions and the Iron Crosses depicted the number of enemy aircraft shot down. The battle tallies changed, of course, but if the Nazi fighter pilots saw the nose art on “Dog Patch Raiders,” it’s no wonder they scattered when the giant Liberator dropped out of the clouds to the concussive thunder of its booming .50 caliber machine guns (more on that later) to intervene on behalf of endangered U.S. airmen.

Bombing Paused in October

October 1943 got off to a rough start and then it got worse for the Allies. On October 14, the bombing raid on a ball bearing factory in Schweinfurt, Germany earned the name “Black Thursday.” The descriptor came with the loss of 60 planes and another 17 that were badly damaged and written off. More than 600 airmen were killed, wounded or missing in action because of that one mission. The total casualties by mid-month were even more disturbing — 148 bombers lost and more than 1500 airmen gone. The grim numbers were of great concern to the American public. Military and political leaders caught up in the controversy included generals, the Secretary of War and FDR — all of whom described the losses of men and materials as sustainable and balanced when compared to the mass destruction the beleaguered Germans were up against. Regardless of the explanations by the government, pressure from American moms, dads and family members led to a temporary suspension or pause on long-range daytime bombing missions in Europe. The pause was scheduled to last until February 1944, but the U.S. Air Force brass hoped to bring long-range fighter aircraft into combat sooner rather than later.

Losing Friends

Nobody in the military was immune to losing friends. Russ Longnecker understood loss — greeting his friends in the morning and finding their empty bunks at the barracks that night. Death happened day in and day out and day after day. Longnecker had been witness to his commander, Lt. Colonel Addison Baker, being shot down at Ploesti. Withdrawing from Ploesti, Longnecker saw his friends Captain Hugh Roper in “Exterminator” and Lieutenant Vic Ollife in “Let Er Rip” disappear as they flew in formation into a cloud bank. The mid-air collision that followed left the wreckage of the two planes and dead airmen scattered in mountainous terrain east of Macedonia.

Lieutenant George Wilkinson, one of Russ’ companions in the desert before the Ploesti raid (see previous photo), was killed in action over Austria on October 1, 1943 – two months to the day after he’d survived the slaughter at Ploesti. Lieutenant Hubert R. Tardif, the first seat pilot on “Thunder Mug,” when Longnecker was the co-pilot, died over occupied France in February 1944. Those names are only a start, many of Russ Longnecker’s friends and fellow airmen were killed in action. American heavy bomber crews in WWII faced three in ten odds of dying.

In autumn 1943, Longnecker wrote home about war and death: “I remember when I was young and hoped there would be a war. Well, I got one and I am pretty tired of it as it is not a bit glamorous. It is hard to lose friends you’ve talked, drank and gambled with. But it must be done and I plan to stay in until it is over for good. We [airmen] have a lot of time to think of the past and to make plans for the future. But to us there is no present we can enjoy. Our only hope for the future is that this war is over soon and we can return to the U.S. with a secure knowledge that there will be no more wars for a couple generations.”

More to the Story

Five years ago, I had read Alvord’s account of the close call over Vegesack. Since Russ Longnecker was my first cousin, 30 years my senior, the information was interesting to me. Russ lived in the Skagit Valley, 25 miles south of my folk’s home in Bellingham. In the 1950s and ’60s, I would see Russ at family gatherings. He didn’t talk much about the war, unless he was asked. Recently, I discovered a letter Russ sent to his sister, Vera Rose. It was written shortly after the Vegesack mission. He explained his decision to leave the relative safety of the main formation to join the straggler aircraft. Additionally, he described some of his experiences at Ploesti. Russ’ letter was published in late 1943 by the Custer County Chief, a newspaper in Broken Bow, Nebraska — his hometown in his youth.

“Dear Sis,

“I think I can spare a little time to write a letter in answer to your last two or three. I have enough time but can never get in the mood. I can’t tell you much of what we are doing, as I have already told all that is allowed and it is pretty much the same as ever.

“You can tell Mary Belle [who would become his wife within 6 months] that the scarf she gave me has been over Italy, Rumania, Sicily, France, Germany, Sweden, Poland and a lot more small countries. It is nearly four years old now and still like new. It has a lot of sentiment to it and seems to bring me good luck.

“I have gotten into three or four missions since I sailed over the Ploesti oil fields. By the way, I acquired the distinguished flying cross for that little deal and also an air medal with oak leaf cluster for over ten missions. My ship’s name is “Dog Patch Raiders.” I think I will call it “Patch Raiders” as it has so many holes patched.

“I went on two raids in succession awhile back [Vegesack and the next day Danzig] and the holes from the first mission weren’t patched and they, plus the new ones from the second mission, made the aircraft sound like a pipe organ on the way home.

“I had a bad moment or two on the first of the two missions. As we were coming away [from Vegesack] in formation two of my closest friends, one of them in the crew I flew from the states with, had an engine shot out of their ship [976] and they were limping home on three engines. If I went back to cover them, I would be taking a chance of getting the fighters on myself.

“As the rest of our ships were going on it was a hard decision to make, but it seemed like, while I was making it, my ship just went over and started flying with two cripples. A third ship that was having a little trouble joined us, so the four of us came across Germany defying the Luftwaffe, with our thumbs to our noses, but with our pants down and our rear ends exposed.

“We started getting it from the German fighters, but in the first pass the bombardier on my ship let one of them have it [with a machine gun blast] and he flew down into the water without any tail on his plane. I guess the rest of them decided we weren’t helpless and left us alone. That made the fifth fighter my gunners had chalked up. Another one of them was at Ploesti, we were flying at about 40 feet off the ground. Our gunner hit under the right waist windows and parts of that Luftwaffe plane flew above our ship.

“Leaving Ploesti, we must have scared a couple local women out of several years growth. They were working in a hayfield. After we crossed the target at the refineries, I pulled up to about 200 feet. Then the Germans started shooting at us again. I went into a steep dive and headed toward the hayfield. The girls started running, but then they dropped flat on the ground. We passed about 10 feet over their heads and blew hay all over them.”

Old Friends

Russ Longnecker’s friends had been in grave danger. That’s why he dropped out of the formation, and dove 2000 feet in “Dog Patch Raiders,” to fly cover for the crippled aircraft. It wasn’t about saving one or two friends; it was about saving many friends. Reviewing the October 8, 1943 crew loading list for ship 976  that Alvord was flying on, and comparing it to “Thunder Mug’s” loading list for the Ploesti mission, seven names stood out: William Schrampf, J.C. Pinson, Bernard Strnad, Aloysius Cunningham, Howard Teague, Leonard Dougal and Edward Sand. Those seven men had all flown to Ploesti with Longnecker on “Thunder Mug” (see loading list above). It was all a matter of friendship, loyalty and courage: If you could do something about it, you didn’t survive flying through hell with your comrades and later just watch as they got shot down by Nazis.

Flying Mustangs

The odds dramatically shifted in favor of the Allies on December 13, 1943. On that day the “little friends” or “little friendlies,” North American P-51B/C Mustang fighters, were combat ready. Long-range, they could escort bombers on missions deep inside enemy lines. P-51 Mustangs had been around since late 1942, but the new Mustangs were different. Powered by Merlin V12 piston aircraft engines (Packard manufacture in the U.S. and Rolls Royce if built in the U.K.) the redesigned Mustangs were heavily armed, highly maneuverable, faster, they flew higher and they could perform high-speed dives. As hundreds of the new P51s arrived in Europe, they were divided into escort groups that provided long-range continuous protection for Allied bombers. On shorter missions, the existing fleet of P-38 Lightnings and Republic P-47 Thunderbolts were also deployed as bomber escorts. Soon after the Mustangs arrived, the hero of the first bombing raid on Tokyo, Lt. General Jimmy Doolittle, landed in Europe as the new commander of the Eighth Air Force.

Winning the War

In 1943, the Nazi’s had sufficient numbers of fighter aircraft to deploy them 500 at a time – taking a big toll on Allied bombers. German wartime production could produce 2,000 or more new fighters per month. Lt. General Doolittle planned to cripple Germany’s supply chain by bombing infrastructure and manufacturing plants that produced aircraft parts, related machinery and weapons. His other strategy focused on depleting the Luftwaffe fighters by drawing them out and then shooting them down. The Nazis had to be softened up prior to the planned invasion of Northern France in 1944. Longnecker and Alvord took part in some of the key bombing missions of 1944 that struck deep in the heart of the Reich and ultimately led to German capitulation.

Big Week (Feb. 20-26, 1944)

The third week of February 1944 is historically known as “Big Week.” The British and Yanks bombed aircraft factories in central and southern Germany. The RAF attacked at night, the U.S. by day. American B-24 Liberators and B-17 Flying Fortresses flew more than 3500 sorties (a sortie is one plane on one mission). Hundreds of Mustangs and Thunderbolt fighters escorted the bombers into Germany.

On February 24th, near the end of Big Week, 31 Circus Liberators — including “Naughty Nan” with Gene Alvord on board — unloaded on Gotha. The next day Alvord was on “Naughty Nan” again, his usual ride in 1944, when 32 Circus ships bombed Furth in the German state of Bavaria. The targets on both missions were (1) Messerschmitt fighter factories, and (2) the Luftwaffe fighters that dutifully appeared to defend the Reich. Enemy flak was heavy and German defenders were strong. By the end of Big Week, the U.S. had lost 226 bombers, 28 fighter aircraft and 2000 airmen were dead, missing or captured. Those totals took into account three Circus planes and their crews. The British sustained heavy losses as well – more than 120 RAF bombers shot down and 800 airmen killed.

Luftwaffe Lost

Difficult as Big Week was for the Allies, it was harder on the Luftwaffe. The attacks on manufacturing plants set German aircraft production back by two months. One-third of their operational fighter fleet was destroyed and 20% of their veteran pilots were killed or maimed. Official German losses were put at 262 fighter aircraft downed and 250 pilots killed or out of commission. With manufacturing in shambles, the Nazi’s were losing materials and men faster than they could produce new aircraft or train pilots. As the Allies rallied, German air defenses withered under the pressure. Big Week was so successful that General Ike Eisenhower, the Supreme Allied Commander, sent a message to the Eighth Air Force: “I congratulate you on the magnificent contribution your forces have made during the past few days. Every ton of bombs that falls on the enemy’s war machine helps to hasten the day of his ultimate defeat.” Big Week was a big step forward in establishing Allied air superiority in Europe.

Frankfurt (March 2, 1944)

Dismantling the Luftwaffe was front and center again on March 2, 1944 when an armada of U.S. bombers winged for Frankfurt. Twenty-six Circus Liberators, with “Naughty Nan” and Gene Alvord in the mix, participated. The target was an aircraft assembly plant, but a thick cloud cover made it impossible to get a good visual. Going for the secondary target, the bombers unloaded on historic old town Frankfurt. Two airmen from the 93rd died as flak downed one Circus plane. Yet, even against that backdrop, the feel of victory was in the air: The Allies were only 288 miles away from Berlin. In four days, Hitler’s crown jewel would feel the heat.

Target Berlin (March 6, 1944)

One of the biggest bombing raids of the war came on March 6, 1944. Seven hundred thirty U.S. bombers, with 796 fighter escorts, launched a full-scale daylight attack on Berlin. It was -55 degrees up in the clouds as the Americans went after another ball bearing factory and industrial and military targets. The airmen had seen flak before, but never anything like this. They were flying into the most heavily defended city in all of Europe.

Twenty-eight Circus Liberators flew the March 6 raid on Berlin. At 20,000 feet, Gene Alvord was the navigator on “Naughty Nan” and Russ Longnecker was piloting “Fighting Cock II.” The Circus’ target was the Daimler-Benz engine works, but the clouds didn’t cooperate. The airmen were forced to unload on alternative targets: industrial buildings and marshalling yards in a six-mile metropolitan area that stretched from Potsdam to the Berlin railway station. The U.S. lost 69 bombers, 11 fighter aircraft and 700 Americans were dead, wounded or missing. Those counts included one Circus bomber and crew. Even with protective fighter escorts in full force, the attack on Berlin was one of the worst days ever for the American Eighth Air Force.

Despite the heavy Allied losses, the Fuhrer’s most coveted city was burning. The vast numbers of Nazi fighters downed and veteran pilots killed were staggering: 200 plus fighter aircraft destroyed or seriously damaged, and many of the most experienced Nazi fighter pilots were dead or listed as casualties. The Luftwaffe was being drawn out and eliminated piece by piece and man by man: General Doolittle’s plan was working.

Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering had seen it coming: When the revamped P-51 Mustangs entered combat for the Allies, he feared his country could not defend itself against fleets of heavy bombers protected by the new long-range fighters. Goering was right. By war’s end, 12,000 Luftwaffe pilots were dead or missing and 6,000 were wounded. In 1944, United News released a movie house newsreel that described the bombing raids on Berlin.

The End was Near

Persistence and bombing paid off: The Allies had established air superiority over Europe. As D-Day approached, Hitler was facing major difficulties – too few pilots and planes, stalled manufacturing, shortages of munitions and fuel. Bombing had cut the output from the refineries at Ploesti to a trickle and the Allies were going after the synthetic fuel plants. Hitler’s domestic crises, scarcities of materials and manpower greatly diminished the German response to the Allied liberation of France. In June 1944, D-Day, the Circus joined other Eighth Air Force heavy bomber crews on missions in support of the landings. The role of the 93rd in the months that followed involved strategic bombing of fighter bases in the vicinity of Hamburg and other targets, plus transport duties: delivering fuel to General George Patton’s Third Army tank columns that moved so quickly they soon outran their lines of supply.

As the relentless air assault on the Reich continued in late spring and summer 1944, the British Royal Air Force bombed at night while the Yanks bombed during the day. The prime targets were military installations, manufacturing, industrial sites and fuel production facilities in Germany and in Nazi occupied territories. In August 1944, Hitler’s fuel supply got even tighter when the Soviets overran the Ploesti oil fields.

Target Synthetic Fuel

With Romanian oil out of the equation, the Allies put more pressure on what remained of Germany’s synthetic fuel processing plants. On September 12, 1944, recently promoted Captain Russell Longnecker commanded a bombing raid against German synthetic oil refineries at Heide/Hemmingstedt. Flying the “Un-Holy Virgin,” it was Longnecker’s 37th and final bombing mission. The Circus met with only token opposition from the failing German defenses. An American radio operator summed it up succinctly: “Light flak, no fighters, good bombing by 30 Circus aircraft. Made three runs over the target. Delivered ten 500-pound demolition bombs.”

Surrender

German morale collapsed as the military, industries, cities and the civilian population took a beating. On April 30, 1945, with the ruthless and feared Soviet Red Army only blocks away from his underground bunker, Hitler and his longtime lover and wife of only a few hours, Eva Braun, committed suicide. A week later, the remnants of the German high command unconditionally surrendered to the Allies.

Berlin in Ruins

When the war in Europe ended, the enormity of the devastation within Germany became known. It was shocking. CBS Radio correspondent Howard K. Smith was familiar with Berlin. In 1941, he’d been a radio correspondent there, one of “Murrow’s Boys” overseas. It was fitting that on May 7, 1945, he was present at the initial German surrender in Reims, France. (The formal and final signing ceremony, as demanded by the Soviets, took place in Berlin on May 8, 1945.) After the ceremonies in France, Smith toured Berlin with the British and American Air Force officers who masterminded the destruction of Germany. Smith couldn’t believe his eyes. The once fourth largest city in the world was unrecognizable – reduced to rubble by the Allied bombing campaign. Smith’s unedited report can be heard below.

Howard K. Smith, May 7, 1945 (Running time 10:13)

Epilogue

Russ Longnecker

Russell Longnecker was awarded a distinguished flying cross for the mission to Ploesti. He received a presidential citation, an air medal and three oak leaf clusters for his 37 missions over Europe. Russ was cited for meritorious achievement in Oct. 1943, shortly after “Dog Patch Raiders” intervened to save ship 976 and other crippled Liberators. Arriving in England as a flight officer in early 1943, after the Ploesti mission Longnecker was promoted to lieutenant and, in September 1944, General Ike Eisenhower promoted him to captain.

In 1943, Longnecker flew 18 missions on “Thunder Mug” (as co-pilot and pilot) and later “Dog Patch Raiders” (as pilot). When 1944 rolled around, he piloted a total of 19 missions on several different Liberators. That wasn’t uncommon, a circumstance often related to crew casualties, illness, or lost or damaged aircraft that required repairs or maintenance. Seven of the planes Russ flew on one or more missions have been identified: “Miss America” (three missions), “Nancy Lee” (two missions), a ship identified by serial number 42-95147 (two missions), “Fighting Cock II” (one mission), the “Un-Holy Virgin” (one mission), Itty Bitty Commando” (one mission) and “Beaver’s Baby” (one mission). [5]

Longnecker was a skilled pilot, but he had his share of luck too. Of the nine Liberators that were singled out as flown in combat by Russ Longnecker, only “Itty Bitty Commando” survived the war to return to the U.S. The others were shot down or crashed after Longnecker had been reassigned to other aircraft, or subsequent to his final mission in late 1944.

During the war, Russ flew heavy bombers. Back home, he operated an aerial crop dusting company. Fellow Skagit Valley crop duster and author Leonard Belisle said of Longnecker: “Like all natural born barnstormers, Russ Longnecker’s heroic wartime exploits in WWII had only whetted his appetite for risky flying. When the shooting stopped in 1945, he came home and worked for a local crop duster and did itinerant work in Oregon.” [6].

In late 1955, Russ teamed up with two partners to start a crop dusting business in the Skagit Valley. Over the years, he bought out his partners and later brought in a new partner. He flew from his own runway at FarmAir Field, west of Mount Vernon. Longnecker became a local legend – known as a cowboy hat wearing war hero, with a Nebraska drawl and a daredevil with a mastery of flying three feet off the ground over rows of peas, broccoli and strawberries. On his way to and from crop dusting jobs in the small rural communities he served, Russ famously would tip his wings and roll his plane as he soared over the homes of his friends and relatives. I remember being impressed, as a grade school kid, when I watched Russ perform a few aerobatic stunts over his mom’s house in Bow, WA. In the course of business, Longnecker acquired different planes, but his most recognizable crop duster was a Grumman AgCat.

In 1972, after 30 years on the job, Russ sold his share of the crop dusting company to his partner and retired at age 51. He enjoyed retirement but, very unexpectedly, Russ Longnecker passed away from natural causes in Mount Vernon, WA in fall of 1989.

Gene Alvord

Lieutenant Gene Alvord completed 25 bombing missions over Europe. He was awarded a distinguished flying cross, an air medal and two oak leaf clusters. The planes Alvord crewed on as navigator, ship 976 and “Naughty Nan,” were lost in combat after Gene had moved on to different aircrews and duties. When WWII ended, Alvord turned the U.S. Air Force into his career — serving stints overseas during the Korean War and later Vietnam. While in the service, Gene earned a bachelor’s degree in military science. By 1950, at the rank of captain, he was stationed at McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma, WA.

In 1963, completing 20 plus years in the service, Alvord retired at the rank of Lt. Colonel. After the Air Force, age-wise in his early 40s, Alvord stayed in Tacoma and took a job as a social worker with the state of Washington. Later, he earned a master’s degree in social work and was promoted to a supervisory role with the Department of Social and Health Services. In 1971, Alvord ran for — but did not win — an elected position as a port commissioner in Tacoma. He left his state job, retiring for a second and final time, in 1982. Gene Alvord passed away in Tacoma, from natural causes, in fall of 2003.

The Greatest Generation

Longnecker and Alvord both lived in Washington State, but they were never close friends. They saw one another and spoke occasionally at Air Force reunions. Alvord once thanked Longnecker for saving his life back in 1943. Longnecker said he didn’t remember. Alvord believed that Longnecker remembered all right but he chalked it up to modesty – an attribute Russ Longnecker was known for. These two courageous war heroes, who helped beat Hitler and then came home from the war to contribute to their communities, are excellent examples of why their generation is now recognized as the “Greatest Generation.”

 Another Giant – Walter Cronkite

A documentary on the low-altitude Ploesti bombing raid was aired by CBS Television in January 1957. Released 12 years after the war, it was part of the series “Airpower,” narrated by legendary CBS news anchor Walter Cronkite. In Cronkite’s earliest appearances on CBS TV, he presented documentaries and historical reenactments. In 1962, he took over the CBS Evening News. A giant of television, Cronkite’s weeknight newscasts attracted 27 to 29 million viewers – dwarfing TV news ratings today. Back then the U.S. population was about half of what it is now, yet current networks and cable news channels struggle with comparatively tiny audience shares: averaging 400,000 to 2.4 million nightly viewers (less than the population of one large U.S. city). Cronkite, known as “the most trusted man in America,” retired from CBS in 1981. “Airpower-Target Ploesti” is available for viewing below.

In the Seattle area in 1957, “Airpower” originally ran on KTNT, channel 11. After legal wrangling in 1962, KIRO, channel 7, became the sole CBS Television affiliate in the Seattle market.

A Letter to the Folks Back Home

Click on the envelope below to read a handwritten letter Russell Longnecker sent to his sister Vera Rose and his family less than two weeks before the Ploesti bombing raid. At the time, he was quarantined with other American airmen at a desert airbase near Benghazi, Libya.

Russ Longnecker’s Letter Home (written July 21, 1943)

Footnotes & Thank Yous

1. 1. In the aftermath of the Ploesti mission, five American airmen (three posthumously) were awarded Medals of Honor – the most Medals of Honor presented for a single action in WWII and the most ever awarded for a U.S. Army Air Force operation. Every survivor was promoted upwards by one rank, six airmen received Distinguished Service Crosses and 841 airmen were presented with Distinguished Flying Crosses.
   2. William R. Bradle, author/historian, “The Daring World War II Raid on Ploesti,” Pelican Books, 2021 copyright
   3. Donald K. Jones, native New Yorker, moved to Savannah, GA after the war and was successful in the management and ownership of radio broadcast stations.
   4. “Ted’s Traveling Circus – 93rd Bombardment Group (H). USAAF. 1942-1945.” Carroll (Cal) Stewart. Nebraska Printing Center, Lincoln Nebraska. 2007 copyright.
   5. Thank yous to Don Morrison, 93rd Bomb Group historian, for B-24 Liberator mission research, aircraft names and serial number identification; Joe Avendano Duran for graciously providing photos and his expertise; Joe Perrotta for sharing many sought after archival documents and his in-depth historical research.
   6. “Back-N-Forth: Recollections of a Crop Duster,” by Leonard Belisle. Belisle Communications, 2008 copyright.