Well over a year before the United States entered the war, Adolf Hitler was plotting Operation Sea Lion, an invasion of England that, if successful, would mean German domination of virtually all of Western and Central Europe. First, however, Hitler’s Luftwaffe would have to destroy the Royal Air Force (RAF) and gain control of the skies over the English Channel. In the summer of 1940 the Battle of Britain was on, and German air power unleashed a furious blitz on both military and civilian targets in England, killing thousands of innocent men, women, and children. Outnumbered by the German warplanes three to one, the RAF nevertheless outmaneuvered and outlasted their enemies through sheer skill and determination. Landing only long enough between missions to resupply fuel and ammunition, the relatively small band of airmen slept little and relied on adrenaline to keep themselves going. The Luftwaffe was unable to neutralize the RAF, and Hitler ordered Operation Sea Lion postponed. “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few” extolled Prime Minister Winston Churchill of the RAF. Captivated by the gallantry and heroism of the British pilots, many young American men volunteered for the RAF before the U.S. declared war on Germany. Ed Land left his hometown of Houston, Mississippi, for Canada to train with the Royal Canadian Air Force and then headed off to England in November 1941 (a month before Pearl Harbor). Land began flying with the RAF soon after his arrival, and on April 22, 1942, he wrote to his brother about his experiences.
Frank,
I’ll have to hurry with this letter for I’m flying again tonight. In 45 minutes I’ll be eating and filling myself full of hot tea to last me through the night. Shortly after, I’ll be roaring down the runway and climbing slowly into the gathering darkness, those little red lights there on the ground flicking away behind me until they are all at last from sight.
Behind me, and with me, my crew will be going about their duties, all enveloped in the black curtain of the night that is around us, and holding us there in its bosom. All is quiet except for the sweet steady drone of my engines, and the whisper of the radio waves coming through my earphones. Before me—my instruments—my controls—my love—my life.
Behind me—my men—their lives, their all depending on me, the captain of the ship. Ahead of us all what? Only God could say. I know I don’t have much longer to live. Don’t ask me how I know or can say that. I’m just being fatalistic. I can see it and feel it around and about me. I know down deep within myself that one of these nights I shall go out and not return. My pals, one of these mornings will all be sitting down to breakfast without me. A few empty chairs—someone raising his eyebrows in silent query—someone else nodding in silent confirmation. A moment’s reverent silence and quiet; then all will continue as before. “Tough luck, Eddie, see you later.” Yes, I know! Because all the time this goes on about me, one day I have a pal—the next day I don’t. Through the months they’ve come and gone. Here today, gone tomorrow. It used to shake me when I lost a friend—but now—well, I suppose one gets hardened to it all and it’s just to be expected.
I do know though, that I’m happy with my job. I would not trade it for a war job on the ground at all. I’m fighting in this war the way I want to (in the air). Never shall I the least bit regret the work, the hell, I’ve gone through to get where I am today I am today what I’ve always wanted to be (a pilot). Many thousands of dollars have been spent on me, getting me ready and capable of striking a lick for freedom, and life of a united people. I’m striking that lick, again and again, and all about me my comrades likewise—until the day comes when there’s nothing left to blast—nothing left to blow up in smoke and flame; and all is quiet where once was hate and death.
I must be getting along now. Wish I had some plain old Mississippi cornbread to eat instead of what I know I’ll get. Haven’t seen a piece since I’ve been in the foreign service. Englishmen have never heard of it.
So, until later,
Your bud,
Ed
Five months later, in late August, Captain Land shot down his first German fighter. In a letter to his family dated September 12, 1942, he reported how close he came to being killed himself:
I had one cannon shell burst two feet beneath my seat, it having come through the aircraft and between my navigator’s legs before it exploded beneath me…. My mid-upper gunner had a thermos of coffee beside him and one slug tore through it. Another cannon shell just missed his head. The entire aircraft was riddled from end to end…. We crash landed back here in England and walked away from the wreck without a scratch on a single one of us. Miracles do happen.
It was Land’s last letter; while returning from an attack on Germany a week later his plane sent out an urgent SOS before plummeting into the ocean just off the coast of Denmark. Similar to Ed Land, Charles Stenius (“Bubba”) Young, from Dayton, Texas, enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force in the fall of 1941 and went on to serve with distinction in the ranks of the RAF. (The Army Air Corps initially rejected Young for being too short.) Having proven himself in combat, Young was eventually commissioned as a flight officer with the Army Air Corps in March 1943. On August 1 of that same year the Allies launched a massive but perilous raid on the heavily defended oil refineries in Ploesti, Romania, the source of half of Germany’s petroleum. The Allies suffered tremendous casualties, losing almost 25 percent of their men. Lieutenant Young, who was on one of the 178 B-24 bombers that bombarded Ploesti, wrote to his family about the mission from North Africa.
Just Outside Bengazi in Libya.
Dear Mom & Dad & All:
This I hope is an uncensored letter which I am sending by Lt. Hap Kendall. He is going to send you some pictures and this letter if he can get it through.
Well I will try to tell you everything that I possibly can remember at this time for he is leaving tomorrow morning.
Went on the raid in the heart of Romania. Just northwest of Bucharest at the city of Ploesti. We had our squadron Commanding Officer on Board as command Pilot and Technical observer. Jake Epting Capt. my first pilot was flying and I was Co-pilot. Before we came to our turning point into the target which was the Vega-Romano Refinery our left waist gunner was killed by machine gun fire. I asked Major Dessert to take over as co-pilot and I went back and took the waist gun. We were down to 50 or 60 feet above ground and were just coming over a village before Ploesti. The people in their very pretty native costumes (the day being Sunday) were waving and standing in the streets.
Just after we passed over that village I saw an 88mm flak battery consisting of 4 guns. They were pointed at us. Four Germans or Romanians were handling shells over the revetments and I opened fire on them. Killed all four of them and blew up something in the battery. Those 4 guns did not fire anymore.
We then were coming into the edge of Ploesti and I saw a 6 gun battery of 37mm. and 100 yards on a 20mm. battery composed of 8 guns. I shot approximately 150 rounds into each battery and completely wiped both out. But not before they got one of our wing men. I must have killed 30 or 40 men in the 2 batteries. There was a woman standing by the 20mm. battery and I killed her with a shot in the back. I felt sorry but she should have never been there.
Then into town I go and on every house top and building there were guns. I fired constantly and killing and wrecking as we go. On my left I see a B-24 Liberator go down in flames and I see the battery and I get it. I hear our bombardier say there is the target at 12 O’clock. Then another one of our planes go down. That was Nick Stompolis of Kalamazoo, Michigan. His co-pilot is Ivan Canfield of San Antonio, my very best friend in the 409th. From their bomb bay doors on back he’s in flames. He is trying to hold the ship in the air till he gets over the town but can’t make it. So seeing that he can’t he turns for the biggest building in town and goes head on to make it quick. Which in my estimation was the most heroic move on the raid.
I look up ahead and see black smoke and then back to the left I see our Commanding Officer Lt. Col Baker pull up and straight down he goes. Then there is the target with oil storage tanks blowing up all around us. I machine gun the distillation columns and the boiler house and storage tanks. And we are still being fired on.
I chance a look up there’s a bunch of fighters coming in on us besides the fire from the ground we have to contend with them. I looked down and there’s a marshalling yard so I open up on an engine and a full train and when my incendiaries hit the tank cars up they go and steam pouring out of the engine and men running everywhere.
We are getting close to the edge of Ploesti and I think now only fighters to bother with but lo and behold. Farm houses and haystacks and trees drop their sides and start firing at us, and I see a Liberator with its wheels down it’s Ben W. Willie. The pilot is Hubert H. Womble from Caldwell, Texas. Another swell guy and he lands in a field and the last thing I saw was 6 guys running like mad to escape capture and try to get to Turkey and internement or to Yugoslavia and join the Guerilla Bands or Chetnicks. Dad if you get the chance go to Caldwell and see Mr. H. H. Womble and tell him that his son is pretty positively alive and either a prisoner of war or a guerilla warrior now in Yugoslavia.
Well so much for all that. We turned for home and made it back okay. The mission was 13 hours long and a little over 2400 miles. And the 409th is only a shadow of its former self. We’ve lost Lt. Pryor and crew from Texarkana, Texas. Lt McPeters and crew. Lt Womble and ship. Lt. Stompolis and crew. And Lt. Wilkinson interned in Turkey. And after yesterday’s raid in Germany Lt. Gerons and crew interned in Switzerland.
It’s really rough losing all those boys. I did 22 missions with the RAF and they don’t count here. I’m going to work hard and when I finish my missions am going to try to get into Headquarters or Operations and advance myself and get higher rank and learn something.
My estimation is that the Ploesti Raid was the roughest mission of the war and should be given more credit than Tokio, Rome, Berlin and all the raids put together. And the Liberators haven’t been getting the credit they deserve cause some people in the states think the only 4 engine bomber is a Fortress. The Libs can outfly carry more bombs faster and over a greater distance than the Forts. And also if the Fortress boys got all the enemy fighters they claim why is it when they go back to the same place they meet the same number the next day.
We cruise 35 miles an hour faster than the Forts and our bomb load is 8,000 pounds and theirs 3,500 pounds. We can carry 4,000 lbs for 2,500 miles while they can carry 3,800 for 1,200. So there.
All first pilots probably will be awarded the silver star for the raid and all the rest of the crews the Distinguished Flying Cross probably.
If I ever have to go on another mission like that I think I will balk.
Tell everyone including my two sisters I send my very best of love to all. And to you Mom and Dad if I don’t come back from this war you can say I was a fighting fool. But I’m coming back.
Well, that’s a little story of my life away from home. I broke off all marriage ideas so you don’t have to worry about that.
I’ll close now.
Love to you all.
Bub
Less than a year later, Young was killed in England during a routine training flight.