Pilots of 23rd Fighter Squadron, 36th Fighter Group at Le Culot, Belgium 1945. (1) - Phil Wright, (2) - Clyde Harszell, (3) - Robert "Red" Ferris.
Mid-February of 1945 Major General Elwood "Pete" Quesada, the legendary commanding general of IX Tactical Air Command 9th Air Force, zipped on to our field, A-89, at the village of Le Culot, Belgium - trailed by a host of aides and staff members.
He had come to fly a mission with our 36th Fighter Group to check out why the new "Pickle Barrel Bombing" technique wasn't living up to expectations.
"Pete" Quesada's fame stemmed from his daring and "can do" spirit. On D-Day + 1 he flew a P-38 into the beachhead to establish his own headquarters next to General Bradley's. He often visited the front to check on how his fighter-bombers were doing. On one trip his jeep took a direct hit from a German Panther tank's 75mm. shell, smashing the jeep to smithereens and wounding the driver. The General spent the next twenty minutes ignominiously crawling away under small-arms fire.
But his most famous exploit had raised all
kinds of hullabaloo in high places. During a visit by General
Eisenhower to Normandy in mid-June '45, Quesada left a staff
meeting to go on a fighter sweep.
Eisenhower asked, "Can I come?"
"Sure." Quesada answered.
Eisenhower was crammed into the rear seat of a
P-51 and they flew a few miles over the lines, before Quesada
thought better of the idea and aborted the flight. Both
Eisenhower and Quesada received holy hell from the big-wigs in
Washington for this nutty escapade.
Now, "Pete" Quesada was here in Le Culot to fly a Pickle Barrel Bombing mission with us. The us being: 1st Lt. Robert "Red" Ferris, 2nd Lt. Clyde Hartszelle, and me, 1st Lt. Philip N. Wright, Jr., better known as "Junior," because I was always the youngest officer in the Group the entire time I was there.*
Pickle Barrel Bombing was a spin-off from a new radar system, touted to be accurate within fifty feet from a distance of fifty miles. They thought the idea was simple. Send a bunch of P-47s out over solid cloud cover at 10,000 ft. and 250 mph. in tight formation. Guide them to the target with the new radar, and tell them exactly when to drop their bombs. Bingo! It was a great idea, but it wasn't working.
The operation was run out of a site well back of the lines. A Norden Bombsight was hooked up to the new radar, and specially trained bombardiers that gave the order to drop the bombs. We bellyached that these guys were probably yelling, "Bombs Away!" and rushing out for a shot and a beer to ease their "combat fatigue." They probably even expected D.F.C.s for heroism. Damn it, they weren't the ones getting shot at - we were!
At 10,000 ft. and 250 mph., flying straight and level in tight formation, we were sitting ducks for the German radar controlled 88mm flak. Pickle Barrel Bombing missions had turned us into a bunch of lousy bomber pilots. We hated these missions.
On this mission there would be one critical difference- there would be no cloud cover. With clear skies the General hoped to find out why "Pickle Barrel" wasn't working. The idea was nuts! Cloud cover was the only protection we had. If we'd been sitting ducks before, we'd be dead ducks now. Our only hope was we'd be flying behind a two star general's skirts. The Germans wouldn't dare shoot him down!
Why the 36th Fighter Group was chosen for this mission, I have no idea - even more why the 23rd Fighter Squadron was selected, and even more than that why we three were picked.
Our briefing was like no other we'd had before one major general and three lowly pilots, hovered over by a bunch of brass. The target selected was a German Panzer division headquarters, because it was close to the lines. If anyone got hit, he'd have a better chance to make it back before going down.
"Red" Ferris was picked to lead the mission, with General Quesada flying his wing as Vibrate Red Two. I would lead the second element, with Clyde Hartszelle as my wing-man. On the way out to our Thunderbolts, armed with two 500 lb. bombs and full loads of ammunition, General Quesada grinned and said, "Gentlemen, just forget I'm a general," then wryly added, "If you can?" We laughed but knew there wasn't a chance in hell we would.
We took-off, formed up, and it was immediately apparent our new colleague wasn't used to flying our combat formation of low and forward, but instead, he flew the old training command formation of level and back. How was "Red" Ferris going to radio him, "Damn it, Vibrate Red Two, close it up, and get in formation!" So much for forgetting who was what.
Ten minutes out a call came in, "Vibrate Red Two to Vibrate Red Leader, my engine is cutting out when I switch fuel tanks, but I'll keep going." We didn't know what to do about this- and did nothing.
Pickle Barrel Control took over before we reached the target area, and gave us our heading. We snugged up tight and flew straight and level at 10,000 ft. and 250 mph. towards the target, sweating out the inevitable bursts of 88mm. flak. Then "Pickle Barrel" radioed up, "Our radar is acting up, and you'll have start over."
We went through this, on again - off again
thing several more times, sweating out the flak each time.
Finally, the controllers called and said, "Our radar still
isn't working, and we have to scrub the mission. Out."
"Okay. Roger and out." "Red"
Ferris responded.
We spread out - "Whoosh." I looked
back- "WHOOMPH," six bursts of "88" went off
right where we had been. It never fails that the sight of those
orange-red fireballs inside the black bursts, turns courage to
mush. Without knowing it the Germans had come within a gnat's
eyebrow of bagging a renowned two star general. Maybe, those
controllers weren't so
dumb after all.
"Vibrate Red Leader, this is Vibrate Red
Two. We still have all of our bombs and ammunition. Let's
dive-bomb and strafe the target.
Out," the General urged.
"Roger, Vibrate Red Two." Ferris came
back.
We dove down on the Panzer division
headquarters, each of us firing bursts from our eight 50cal.
machine guns, in hopes of shaking up the German gunners firing 20
and 40 millimeter flak at us. We lined up on the target, and let
fly. For once, my bombs made a terrific hit, and I hoped Vibrate
Red Two was as impressed with me as I was. One run was
enough, and we headed home, happy to be in one piece.
Back at the field, we were de-briefed, then stood around bragging about what hot shot pilots we were. The General's P.R. photographer snapped away, as the rest of the squadron gawked in envy. We played our parts to the hilt.
It turned out the reason General Quesada's engine kept cutting out was that he was turning his fuel tank selector valve through "Off" when he changed tanks a big No-No. But he had a lot of guts and had flown the entire mission on one tank of gas. He was a good sport about his boo-boo. On the other hand, our sympathy towards him was shamefully condescending. We owed him better.
With all the hoopla and good-byes over, the General and his staff took off for IX TAC Headquarters. We continued to carry on in our self-anointed glory. But it didn't last. The next day we were back to where we were- three not so hot-shot fighter-pilots. But thanks to General Quesada and the good Lord, there were no more "Pickle Barrel" bombing missions.
In Aspen, Colorado in the late 1960s, Aspen
resident and friend, former Secretary of the Navy, Jim Smith,
came into our store with a familiar figure. I approached him and
asked, "Are you General Quesada?"
"Yes, I am" he replied.
I reminded him of the mission we'd flown together,
which he remembered. I took him into my office and showed him the
picture of the four of us of on that long ago day. We went across
the street to the Red Onion saloon, downed a couple of beers, and
laughed over the great "Pickle Barrel Bombing" fiasco.
We agreed it was just another of those great ideas... that didn't
work.
At a marvelous party in Vail, Colorado in the
1980s, that Mrs. Quesada also attended, she told me the General
was nearly blind and unable to travel, or he would have come.
"Please, say, 'Hi' to him for me, and give
him my very, very best," I asked her. She thanked me and
said she would be happy to pass along my message.
General Quesada passed away several years later.
* To this day, whenever I attend a 36th Ftr. Grp. reunion, someone always comes up to me and says, "Hi 'Junior.' How are ya?" Despite the incongruity of my bald pate and a more rotund figure, I consider it a compliment.
From left: Lt. Clyde Clyde Hartzel, Maj. Gen. "Pete" Quesada, Lt. Philip Wright and Lt. Robert Ferris.
2002.01.01, © WW II Ace Stories.