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389th Bomb Group

Standing (L-R): Lt. George F. Doell, co-pilot; Lt. Leon S. Campbell, bombardier; Lt. Lester J. Litwiller, pilot; Lt. John Heisl, radar navigator; Lt. John Brown, pilotage navigator; Lt. Robert A. Jacobs, D.R. navigator. Kneeling (L-R): T/Sgt. Warren Harding, flight engineer; S/Sgt. Lewis Critchelow, waist gunner; S/Sgt. Oscar Otto, ball turret; S/Sgt. James Maynes, waist gunner; T/Sgt. Fred Barnes, radio operator; S/Sgt. Earl Brooks, tail gunner.

Asleep At The Switch - The Extra Long D-Day

At 0230 on 5 June 1944, the crew of Liberty Run was awakened to fly its 24th mission. Our crew, originally from the 93rd BG, was selected for PFF (pathfinder) training with the 564th Bomb Squadron of the 389th BG, Hethel, in March 1944. We flew our last 18 missions out of Hethel as a PFF crew leading or flying deputy lead for various bomb groups but most often with the 93rd. Howard Hinchman gave us our final pre-operational flight check ride upon completion of the PFF training. The crew was composed of the personnel named under the photo shown on this page. The mission of 5 June was to the Pas de Calais area, short and uneventful with no fighters and little flak observed.

Upon returning to Hethel, we received word that hot water was available at the "Ablutions." This was an infrequent occurrence, so we made a dash for it. While in the shower, our crew was paged on the Tannoy and told to report to the briefing room immediately ready to fly - which we did - to Bungay, home of the 446th BG. When we landed, we were met by armed MPs, taken to a secured building, and informed that D-Day was 6 June, the following day. We spent the remaining time at target study and flight planning. I think we were given some coffee and sandwiches but cannot recall the details of that particular meal. To say that we were excited would be a gross understatement. This was what we had been waiting for. Our mission was to lead the 446th BG to bomb the invasion beaches of Normandy immediately prior to the ground assault. We had been selected to be the first heavy bomb group to cross the French coast on that day.

We took off at 0220, climbed to 10,000 feet and circled in our prescribed forming area firing specific flares as the 446th aircraft assembled in formation behind its. The mission went precisely as planned except for an undercast which necessitated bombing by radar. As we approached the French cost, the radar navigator called me over to look at his PPI scope. It clearly showed the vast armada of the invasion fleet standing just off the coast of Normandy - a thrilling sight even on radar. Bombs were away at precisely 0600! We led our aircraft back to Bungay via Portland Bill and returned to Hethel. Much to our surprise, no flak or German fighters were observed. Our fighter cover was everywhere.

As we started to undress to get some rest, we were again paged and told to get over to Bungay for another mission. During the course of the briefing, the flight surgeon gave each aircrew member a pill with instruction to take it only "when you feel you can no longer keep awake." We had been up since 0230 of 5 June, and it was now the afternoon of 6 June, some 36 hours later - we were running on reserve energy.

Shortly after takeoff, my eyelids began to get very heavy. Since we were again leading the 446th BG and I needed to have all faculties clear, I took my pill. Shortly thereafter, all signs of weariness disappeared and I was again able to perform my navigation efficiently. We flew to our briefed target, Coutances, dropped our bombs, and returned to the English coast above a solid undercast. At landfall, I gave the pilot a heading for Bungay and relaxed. It was all over but the landing, or so I thought.

The next thing that I recall was being shaken violently by my engineer, T/Sgt. Bud Harding. He finally managed to get across that the pilot was calling me over the intercom. The pill had worn off and I had fallen soundly asleep! Les Litwiller, my pilot, informed me that he had been instructed by the British for circle and let down below the overcast so that our formation could be identified visually. There was some fear of German intruder aircraft. The formation was now at 1,000 feet and Les wanted a new heading for Bungay. There I sat, the lead navigator, feeling half drugged, without the foggiest notion of our position. I told Les to contact the deputy lead and obtain a heading from his navigator while I attempted to fix our position. We were apparently too low to use GEE, because I could not pick up any station clearly.

The heading obtained from the deputy lead put us on attack due east. In the meantime, I found out exactly when the formation letdown had started and was able to compute an approximate D.R. position around which I drew a circle. The radius of this circle was determined by the maximum distance we could have travelled from my D.R. plot. I figured we were somewhere in the circle, about 50-80 miles due west of London. Noting our easterly heading, I asked the pilot, to monitor channel 6440 for balloon barrage squeakers because, according to my rough position, we were heading straight for Rainbow Corner. By now it was dark. Pilotage navigation was out because of the blackout.

I continued to work with the GEE set and was finally able to pick up one station. About that time, the pilot called to tell me that he had picked up the balloon barrage squeakers. I immediately gave him a new heading for Bungay, away from London. Then, for the first and only time, I used the GEE homing procedure that I had learned at Cheddirrgton when our crew first arrived in the U.K. It worked beautifully, and we came across the blue perimeter lights of Bungay at 500 feet just as the GEE blips lined up - just as we had learned in the classroom at Cheddington.

A quick peel-off and we were on the ground at Hethel at 2345. It had been a long two days! As you can imagine, I was on the receiving end of many "asleep" type oneliners by my crew and other friends as word got around in the days that followed.

Robert A. Jacobs (389th). Reprinted From The 2ada Journal. Asleep At The Switch - The Extra Long D-Day. The Journal 2nd Air Division. Volume 44 Number 2, Summer 2005.

Shot Down In France

The mission on January 7, 1944, bombing a chemical plant in Ludwighaven, Germany, was a success. Home, heading home, England. He thought briefly of the candy bar he would eat upon seeing the white cliffs. Then, a horrible roar. Shrapnel flying. Pounding. Ricocheting. Twisting, turning, falling. Fire, violent flames with dark blue roots. Confusion. Think. Wounded. Drenched with perspiration, and only one able hand, the airman grabbed his chute and struggled getting it fastened. He was halfway out the waist window when the plane exploded.

Panic gripped the airman as he realized he could not see. Hesitating, the airman reached for his face. Relief came as he discovered his oxygen mask had slid over his face. Then another wave of panic as he watched a stream of blood squirt from his neck. It pulsated with each beat of his heart. The whipping of his pocket flaps caught his attention. The ground came into focus. Thick black smoke, flames, and charred pieces of his plane were spinning between his legs. It was then the airman realized he was falling. His heavily gloved hand made pulling his ripcord impossible. His left arm was lifeless. Trembling, he began removing each layer of gloves with his teeth. Finally, a parachute blossomed. As he looked up, an inflated dinghy was peacefully, silently, floating. The airman found this to be surreal. Now, all was quiet. Deathly quiet.

Upon hitting the ground and seeing the blood-soaked scarf the airman's survival instincts took hold as he packed mud into his wounds. Viewing the burning plane pieces and mangled wreckage scattered upon the foreign landscape, sorrow tugged at his heart.

Alone. Colonel Caldwell, Lt Daley, McConnell, Capt Wilhite, Caplinger, Snyder, Dewitt, Flatter, Roodman and Saunders ... gone. Anger mixed with survival, those were his thoughts now. With the breaking and bleeding of each fingernail, he painfully and desperately tried to bury the chute in the frozen ground, but it was useless. The need to move quickly and hide required the airman to shed the heavy flight boots and leather jacket. Searching the countryside, he sees what looks to be a haystack. With a swollen ankle, he hobbles in. Slowly and without speaking, Frenchman approached. The airman knew his life, his freedom, depended on this man. Without words the Frenchman spat into his handkerchief and began cleaning the airman's face of blood. Quickly there was an exchange of clothing.

Hearing the German soldiers shout orders, the farmers began to collect the plane pieces. Gesticulating to the airman and another Frenchman, they both lifted a plane's wing and began moving toward the burning pile as commanded by the German soldiers. Once in a gully and out of sight of the German soldiers, a young French boy grabbed the Airman's end of the wing allowing him to dart for a small grove of trees. Burying himself in the dried autumn leaves, he lay quietly. Listening ... waiting. Cold. Wet. Alone.

Exhaustion soon overcame the airman. Time drifted in and out. With the on-coming of dusk, nesting birds began to land in the small grove. Sensing something strange, the birds squawked and nervously twitted from one tree to another. Worried the birds may draw the Germans' attention, he began watching the working French farmers. Soon he noticed the deliberate slow movements of one Frenchman. He loaded the hay into his cart, all the time moving closer to the grove. The airman recognized the man. Unable to move and weary from the loss of blood, but seeing his only hope of rescue, the airman forced himself to roll down the hillside toward the Frenchman. Quickly, the farmer helped him into the waiting hay cart. Like a wooden Indian, the airman sat lodged between two Frenchmen. The cart jerked and began to roll. Jerking, rolling, and swaying the cart moved along the dirt road lined with armed German soldiers toward a small village.

Thirst. Water, fresh and cold from the ground, only wine ... sleep. . . he dreamed of home. Delirious with fever, the next few days were only blurred images of people and unfamiliar bits of conversations. Upon one awakening, he remembered a young girl picking shrapnel from his face, then unconsciousness.

Trust was the constant thought, a fear. Who? No names. He and the families were in great danger of losing their lives. Silence and secrets were the passwords for life. Several days later, he was moved to another home. Again, no names. Danger lurked everywhere. He realized the great danger families faced as he watched and listened to the Frenchman's young daughter give a special knock before entering her own home. A small girl of maybe seven, fighting a war. This thought brought a surge of illness to the airman.

Well enough to travel, a Frenchman took the airman to a railroad station to catch a train for Paris. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Finally, on a perfect night, no moon, the airman and others were led to a stone schoolhouse. In the room's dim light, warnings were given. "Absolute silence and do as you are told. Your life, our lives, depend on it." Silently, the group of airmen, now evaders, were led through a minefield. The airman concentrated. For months now, he had survived, but there was the ever present thought, "not one wrong move ... careful, not one wrong move."

They approached the coastline. With one man's feet upon another man's shoulders, the group of airmen descended the steep rough cliffs of the French coastline. Only the soft crunch of the sand could be heard as they made their way into the waiting rowboats. The over-loaded boats soon began to fill with the icy waters of the English Channel. Shivering, the men bucketed handfuls of the cold water. In the darkness, the PT boat came into sight. Through tears and mixed emotions, the airman realized the French people will always hold a special place in his heart but for now ... safety ... home ... freedom.

As a young girl that is all I knew of my father's war story. Over the years, little by little, he began to tell the story, his story. I listened, spellbound and fascinated. I am still spellbound and in awe of his tremendous courage. At 21 years of age, this young man fought for his country. He lost his crew. To survive, he trusted others. Today, at age 81, he lives his life, trusting others, and helping all. My father is Robert H Sweatt, and this is his story.

The Sunrise Serenade Jerry Penry. The true story of a WWII bomber crew downed behind enemy lines during a brutal month of the War. Follow the crew through training, combat, being prisoners in Stalag Lufts, the Belgian Underground, death, and the adjustment when most returned home. This book provides an in-depth history of the 452nd Bomb Group's triumphs and tragic losses combined with early 8th Air Force struggles.

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