Stinky's Last Flight
Stinky’s Last Flight
A memoir of the last flight of a B-24 Liberator, named “Stinky”, shot down over Normandy on June 2nd, 1944.
The following memoir has been edited for clarity. The original transcription can be found here.
The 489th Bombardment Group was stationed near Halesworth, East Anglia, England. We were part of the 2nd air division of the 8th Air Force. There were four squardrons in the 489th. They were the 844, 845, 846, and 847th. We were in the 846th squadron, crew #66, consisting of Lt. James Bebout: Pilot, Lt. Donald Bruening: Co-pilot, me, Lt. Stanley Biskup: Navigator, Lt. Dean Davidson: Bombadier, Sgt. Jim Trewartha: Engineer, Sgt. “Shorty” Smith: Radio Operator, Meehah: Top-Turret Gunner, and Harris: Ball-Turret Gunner. Our B-24 Liberator’s serial number, I believe, was 94864+U. It was painted olive drab and it had “Stinky” written in yellow on both sides of the nose section. Also, next to the word “Stinky” there was an out-house painted on both sides of the plane. Our pilot, Jim Bebout, picked out the name for the plane back in the states. I liked the plane, but I didn’t care for it’s name.
Our group had flown two combat missions and was not scheduled to fly June 2nd, 1944. In the afternoon, an alert was called and all available flight personnel were informed to report to the briefing room. Our Colonel Napier read a commendation letter from headquarters, regarding our previous successful mission and stated that next, he expected a Presidential Citation. Many of the fellows laughed. Then, the S-2 (Intelligence Officer) reported that the Germans had moved squadrons of fighter planes to two airfiends around Paris. We were to rendezvous with the other groups over East Anglia, leave the English coast at Beachy Head, cross the channel, cross the French coast 5 miles right of LeHarve, and head for the initial point: Chartres. There, we would make a sharp left turn and proceed to the primary target: an airfield just south of Paris. We were to fly at 19,000 feet and estimated time of arrival was to be 21:30 (double British Saving Time). If for some reason, we were unable to drop our bombs, we were to proceed to the secondary target, which was an airfield just northeast of Paris. Our heading back was almost northwest, crossing the French coast east of Dieppe, over the Channel and back to our home base. We could expect heavy flak crossing the French coast both coming and going. Some flak could be expected along the route to Chartres and heavy flak around Paris. Intelligence had report that there were about 750 anti-aircraft guns surrounding the city. The meteorologist told us that we should have good flying weather except for some scattered alto-cumulus clouds. The briefing was over and we filed out of the room, climbed into our trucks and were driven to our dressing room. While dressing into our flying clothes, James Bebout remarked to Don Bruning,
“You know, I don’t think we’re coming back from this one.”
Don laughed, but in a serious manner replied, “Hey, let’s not talk like that.” (My comment was “Yeah! I also feel it’s going to be a rough one.”)
The squadron navigator came by and asked if he could fly in my place. I wanted to say yes, but reluctantly turned him down. My crew would have been very apprehensive if I didn’t fly with them – they knew that back in the states my previous crew crashed on landing while I was grounded for a bad cold. Also, that I was a survivor of the Japanese attack of Pearl Harbor (Wheeler Field), December 7, 1941. I had the feeling that the crew would be very uncomfortable if I didn’t fly this mission with them.
It was a good day for flying and at first all went well. The take-off, the assembly of the group, and the rendezvous with the other groups. Our plane was flying #4 position behind the lead ship of our squadron. The group was on course leaving the English coast and proceeded across the Channel. I was surprised to see the great number of ships in the Channel. About 15 miles from the enemy coast I informed the crew that it was time to put on the flak helmets. We broke the French coast right on course through some light flak and proceeded toward Chartres, with light flak around along the way. We made the sharp left turn at Chartres and headed for our primary target. The flak began to get heavier and heavier the closer we got to Paris. I was having difficultly making navigational entries into my log – something kept telling me that it didn’t matter whether I had a good log or not. Some flak hit the astral dome above me and another made about a 2 inch diameter hole at my right. I stood up and pointed to the hole in the astral dome. Don looked concerned, but Jim was smiling. It didn’t seem to faze him at all. We were now on our Bomb Run, and the Bomb Bay doors were opened and I was slouched over with my hand on the Salvo Lever waiting for Dean’s “Bomb’s Away!”. The flak was very intense, bursting close to our plane and rocking it. We did not drop our bombs. The bomb bay doors were closed and I returned to navigating. Looking out, I was surprised to see that we were cutting across a good part of Paris (I thought that we should be flying around it – less flak). As I was trying to pin-point myself off the left side of the plane, I saw flak hit the plane flying next to us, between the #3 and #4 engines. It made the plane rise with one wing pointed toward the ground before the plane dropped, barely missing our plane. Our tall gunner kept watching the plane, reporting that it was in a crazy spin, no parachutes, and then its crash into the ground. We were now approaching the secondary target.
Again, the bomb bay doors were opened, we were on our bomb run, and I was slouched with my hand on the salvo release lever. Again, the flak was very heavy, causing the plane to bounce around. Suddenly I heard Dean’s “Bombs Away!” and I pushed the lever down. The bombs dropped, I sighed with relief and prayed fast that no civilians would be hurt. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that our #3 engine was sputtering. This I didn’t like, although I knew that the plane could fly on only three engines. I resumed navigating, noting into the log the areas where the flak was heaviest. Our #3 engine was feathered and we could not keep up with our formation. We kept dropping further and further behind our group and losing altitudes. Over the target areas we were at 19,000 feet and now we were at 17,000 feet. I could se the French coast up ahead below the horizon. I made an entry into my navigational log – 22:00 (approx. time) and 13 minutes to English coast. Then, the coastal flak batteries opened up. The plane lurched up as it took almost a direct hit in the bomb bay area. I smelled gasoline through my oxygen mask. In a daze, I heard Dean Davidson on the intercom holler to open up the nose-turret door for him (sometimes it would get stuck and it couldn’t be opened from the inside). I opened the door and when I turned around there were flames coming in from the hatchway, which led to the flight deck. I immediately unclamped the two parachutes from the left wall, handed one to Dean, sat down in front of the escape hatch, placed my chute on the floor (right side, next to me), and pulled the red emergency handle which opened the escape hatch door. As quickly as possible, with both hands I removed my flak helmet, oxygen mask, flak jacket, throat mic, and unplugged the heated suit chord, grabbed the chute and snapped the right ring to the body harness. I don’t remember jumping. I sensed the plane pass over me. I was holding onto the chute and tumbling in the air. When I stopped tumbling, I very deliberately snapped on the left chute ring to the harness. Then, I checked both sides and yanked on it to make sure it was fastened securely. I was falling on my back, feet up, spiraling, counter-clockwise.
I remembered to delay opening the chute for two reasons: 1, the air above 10,000 feet lacks sufficient oxygen, and two, the closer to the ground you open, the less chance of being spotted or shot at by the enemy. I kept falling and spiralling. When I wanted to view how high I was, I would put out my left hand, slow down the rotation, look over my right shoulder and tell myself “still plenty high”. After about the fifth time I put my arm out, I saw in sharp detail a horse-drawn wagon on an asphalt road and a bunch of trees off to the side, like a small forest. I figured I was close enough to the ground (about 2000 feet), so I pulled the rip-cord. The chute opened up beautifully, with just a slight jerk. I was amazed at the intense silence. My thoughts were like a loud voice talking to me during my fall and especially after the chute opened. The descent with the chute seemed slow. All of a sudden, I saw myself heading for a cluster of trees and realized that I could still break a leg or something if I landed in the trees. I tugged on the chute strings and the last 100 feet came up fast.
I landed in a clearing about 150 yards away from the trees. I got up quickly, gathered up the parachute, unhooked it and threw it into some low bushes with the life vest and boots. I squatted down in the tall grass and began to move toward the forest, when I saw a German soldier coming from there shouting comrade. I squatted lower and began to move to my left, when I heard another soldier shouting something which I didn’t understand. I looked up and saw four German soldiers (about 20 yards away) with burp guns running towards me. One was shouting something and waving a potato-masher (hand grenade). I stood up straight and waited, the closed in on me, one began to search me asking for a pistol. I brushed the searcher’s hands away from me and said, “No pistol.”
They motioned for me to follow them. It wasn’t long before we came to a small town. Some French children began to follow us and I heard them say American several times. I was led into a large home and down some stairs to a lower level. One soldier turned the crank on a telephone and began shouting into it. I figured he was talking to his headquarters, but it struck me funny that they shout so much. When he finished, they led me into the front room, which had a table and chairs. I looked at a picture of a woman on the wall. One soldier made me understand that the woman was the owner of the building. They offered me a chair to sit on. I sat down and asked them what was the name of the town, and somehow I got them to understand. One of them brought out a road map and pointed to Ancourt. I still had my escape kit with me and this information was important, if I could escape somehow. They asked my name and rank, which I told them. One brought a cup of milk, drank some (I guess to show it wasn’t poisoned), and offered it to me. I took it and drank it. A crowd of French people gathered outside and were looking through a window at us. A soldier began shouting, ordering them away. They didn’t pay any attention, so he pulled out his pistol and threatened them. I told him to leave them alone, they weren’t bothering anybody. I was surprised that he listened to me and didn’t pay any more attention to the people. An automobile arrived outside, and I was ushered into it. It was a four door, no top, open automobile. Two soldiers went in front and one soldier with me in the back seat. We drove along a winding narrow road for about 12 miles. During the ride, I thought about how lucky I was to be alive and wondered and hoped that the rest of my crew also got out of the plane safely.
It was dark when we stopped and I was led into a building, up a flight of stairs and into a longer narrow room. There were two German officers and a few enlisted men with the ones who brought me. One of the German officers began to speak English. He asked my name, rank, and serial number. Then he asked where I was from. I told him Chicago, but that wasn’t what he wanted to know.
He said, “Hell, you couldn’t have flown here from Chicago.”
I said, “Oh, yes, we fly here every day, take pictures, and then return to Chicago.” I was joking and he knew it.
Then, in German he told a soldier to search me. I cooperated by emptying everything from my pockets onto the table. Previously, I had placed my escape kit into my woolen olive drab shawl, this I held in my hand while being searched and later placed on their table. They didn’t find it. They got real interested in a religious packet from my girlfriend. In it, there were some religious medallions and a note from my aunt written in Polish. One of the Germans read the note and translated it in German for the others. He asked if I could speak Polish and I said yes.
“You must have a nice aunt,” he commented. He asked a few more questions and then said, “Well, for you, the war is over.”
A soldier opened a door at the end of the room and to my great surprise, in walked Murphy and Gullet. They were as amazed as I was. The German officer asked if I knew them, and I answered yes. He asked if they were on my crew and I said I cannot answer that question.
“What kind of airplane? What group?” he asked. I told him my name, rank, and serial number, and that according to the Geneva Convention, that was all I have to tell him. He then asked if we were paid extra money for each mission we flew.
I laughed. “That’s ridiculous! We are soldiers just like you and get paid according to rank, the same overseas as in the States.”
The interrogation ended and we were taken to an underground heavy cement bunker. There they placed us in a large room with three straw mattresses on the floor. Two soldiers were left to guard us and we were warned that trying to escape would be futile and disastrous. An electric light bulb was left on all night. Murphy and Gullet came close to me and said they could hardly believe their eyes when they saw me. They thought I was trapped in the nose section of the plane. I told them that Dean got out right after me – in fact, he was in such a hurry that he probably kicked me out. I didn’t know anything about the rest of the crew members. They told me they were at the waist gun opening and Harris was ready to jump, but he told them to go first. They didn’t know anything about the crew on flight deck except that they heard Jim, the pilot, give the order to prepare to ditch. Murphy asked me what time it was and I told him it was 1:30 am – time to go to sleep.
During the night, there was an air raid and heavy bombing shook the ground. It scared the hell out of our guards and us. The next morning, June 3rd, we got up, washed our faces at a sink in the corner and were fed some dark bread. At about 11:00 a.m., a Germain soldier came into our room and told us to go with him. We gathered our clothes, and with three soldiers guarding us, followed him outside. They motioned for us to get into an old Army truck. We got in and were taken for a short ride out into the country. The truck stopped on the highway in the middle of open fields, and as I looked out I was amazed to see the tail section of our plane in the distance against a railroad mound. The German officer who was riding up front with the driver came to the back of the truck and told us to dismount. He gave some orders to the soldiers and went to examine the wreckage. I looked in his direction and about 300 yards out, I saw parts of a wing and engines. I also saw a train overpass to the left of the tail section. The next thing I knew one of the German soldiers was motioning us with his burp gun to step off the highway through the bushes.
My god, I thought, Are they going to shoot us here?
As I stepped off the road and looked down, I saw two bodies laying in a shallow pit. I turned away, awe-stricken from the sight of flattened faces of two of our crew members. The German soldiers wanted us to load them onto the truck. We couldn’t do it. We asked for the German officer, he returned, and there was some conversation between him and his soldiers. Then, two soldiers went through the bushes and soon came out carrying one body wrapped in the white cloth of a parachute. With tears in our eyes, we helped the Germans load both bodies onto the truck through gritted teeth. We then got into the truck, and with the bodies at our feet, drove a short while to a small cemetery near a town (I’m not sure whether it was Ancourt or Envermeu). The German soldiers carried the bodies into a small brick building (a 9’ x 12’ morgue), then motioned for us to come to the building. There were four steps up to the doorway. As we reached the doorway, there on the cement floor lay four corpses. On each of their chests was laid their civilian picture from their escape kit and their identification dog tags. We identified them as Bruening, Meehan, Harris, and Smith. An old Frenchman came to us with tears in his eyes and tried to tell us something in French, but we couldn’t understand him. He then lit a match, showed two fingers, and said “Comrade”. We then understood that two of our crew were burned badly – it must have been Bebout and Trewartha. This left only one crew member unaccounted for and that was Dean Davidson.
In mid-April of 1945, after about a three-week march cross-country from a P.O.W. camp at Nurnberg to a P.O.W. camp at Mooseberg (just north of Munich), I ran into Dean Davidson. After the usual greetings, he told me his story:
In the airplane, after I let him out of the nose turret, he was already disconnected from his throat mic, oxygen mask, and heat chords, so he had his chute snapped on completely while I was still disconnecting myself. He saw the flames closing in on me from the passageway to the flight deck, and when he saw me pick up my chute and snap on the right side, he just couldn’t wait any longer. He put his foot to my back and shoved me out, and immediately followed out of the escape opening. As soon as he stopped tumbling through the air, he pulled the ripcord and the chute opened up. It took him a long time to get down, but he landed safely and was not captured. The next day, some French people found him and took him to a safe place to hide, and later delivered him to the French underground. However, the following day, Dean had an appendicitis attack. There was nothing they could do for him, so they arranged for Dean to be captured by the Germans. The Germans rushed him to a hospital and removed his appendix. They actually saved his life.
We were liberated on April 29, 1945 by General Patton’s Army. In fact, he rode into our P.O.W. camp and made a short speech stating how proud he was that even in a prison camp, we still looked like American soliders. Anyway, Dean and I got separated and I haven’t seen or heard of him since. When I returned to the USA, I received forms to fill out about each of our dead crew members. I was surprised that they also asked about Dean Davidson. For a number of years, I wrote Christmas cards and letters to his home address, but I never received any reply.
From the memoirs of Lt. Stanley Biskup.