It was mid-March, 1944. We were quartered in mud huts in the nondescript village of Pogio Marino at the base of Mr. Vesuvius. That volcano had been announcing its instability with spasmodic, fiery showers for several days.
I was scheduled to leave for R&R in Cairo on the 9 th. I packed my things in a barracks bag, threw it in a corner, and asked the fellows to toss it on a truck as and when “that thing blows its top.” They threw a couple of shoes at me and I left.
Our designated transportation was a used-up, battle-weary, flak-ridden B-25. Complaints to our CO, Major Kaufmann, produced a “That's it, guys, it's all we can spare — you don't have to go.” We went.
There were three of us: Roberts, a copilot whose name I have forgotten, and me, the stalwart, ever-dependable navigator.
We arrived in Cairo on the 20th, parked the plane at Payne Field, and rode the bus to town. The fresh steak and huge tomatoes were a treat — something that was not available at the officer's mess at the field. We asked why. “Probably because they don't like the way we fertilize them.” And we thought the “honey bucket” brigades just quaint, colorful background. We stopped eating tomatoes.
On the 28th a telegram came ordering us back. Vesuvius had blown, and — get this — we had the only serviceable aircraft.
We headed back, but not before loading the bomb bay with Egyptian beer, wire swing bales securing faulty ceramic tops to old wine bottles.
Desert flying is hot, very hot. So we headed up to cooler, comfortable air. It was not only more comfortable, it was downright aromatic. The bomb bay was foaming, delightful, delicious, malt-laden foam.
We went down. Down was a hot and thirsty place; the beer was cool and going flat. We drank the beer, we sweated and went up. The beer foamed, we went down, sweated and drank the beer. And so it went. The profile of our flight was a continuous series of erratic ups and downs. We were dedicated and doing our level best (no pun intended) to keep that beer from going flat.
In due time we arrived at the designated ash-covered field. A strip had been cleared for us and a VIP group of brass was anxiously awaiting our arrival. After all, we did have the only operational aircraft in the group.
Not ones to flaunt tradition, we buzzed the field. Blowing volcanic ash over one and all, we landed in a series of staccato bounces.
We tumbled out of the plane as our not-too-friendly, red-faced CO drove up. We greeted him with all the dignity at our disposal. “Here's your___ing plane, Major, sir.”1
From a personal diary: “. . . we found almost complete devastation. Tents were torn to ribbons and 88 airplanes were a total loss. Eighty-eight B-25 Mitchells — $25,000,000 worth of aircraft. How Jerry gloated. Axis Sally2 dedicated her program one evening to the survivors of the 340th Bomb Group. Actually a sprained wrist and a few minor cuts were the only casualties. The following night she cracked, ‘We got the Colonel. Vesuvius got the rest.’ She explained how the 340th was no longer operational. How wrong she was. Within a week the 340th was again bombing Jerry in Northern Italy.”