The Pittsburgh Press (June 2, 1944)
Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
London, England –
There was a knock at my door and two young lieutenants with silver wings and bright medals on their chests walked in. They were in town on leave and had decided to pay a social call.
They are the pilot and navigator of a Flying Fortress. They came to see me because I had known the pilot’s mother in San Francisco. She is Mrs. Mary White, she used to manage the coffee shop at the Hotel Californian, which was my home whenever I was in San Francisco.
Her son, Lt. Bill White, is a likeable young fellow whose blond hair sticks up high from his forehead and whose eyes crinkle when he smiles.
His navigator is Lt. John D. Bowser of Johnstown, Pennsylvania. They’ve been over here whacking at the Germans since February.
The boys were in the midst of an eight-day leave, given them as a sort of reward for having survived a ducking in the cold North Sea. They had had to “ditch,” as the expression goes, and after a crew ditches it always gets a leave of absence.
They had a close call when they ditched. They had been to Berlin – their second mission over the big city. The flak was pretty bad. On the way back Bill White looked out and saw a big hole in the right wing. It didn’t seem to be causing any trouble. Pretty soon he glanced in the other direction and here was a big hole in his left wing.
At first, he thought he was crazy and had forgotten which wing he’d seen the hole in. His head went back and forth as though at a tennis match. Actually, there were identical holes in the two wings.
But that wasn’t what put them in the drink. Apparently, the ignition system had been hit, for every now and then all four motors would stop for about five seconds at a time and then pick up again.
Finally, the engines started going clear out, one by one. They saw for sure that they couldn’t make the coast of England. Lt. White had everybody get in “ditching position.” The radioman sent his distress signal. They hit the water. The plane broke in two. And yet not a man was scratched or bruised.
When they hit, salt water rushed up over the windshield in gigantic waves. The plane stopped moving and Bill looked up. All he could see was water. He thought they had dived straight into the sea and were going on down head first.
He said:
I thought this was it. I was so convinced I weas going to drown that I almost just sat there and didn’t even try to get out.
But actually, they came piling out of that plane like rockets. They said that in training they had been taught you would be all right if you could get out in 30 seconds. They were all out in 10 seconds.
The plane sank 40 seconds after hitting the water. They were 25 miles from shore. The men clung to their rubber dinghies, and in less than an hour a rescue boat came alongside and took them aboard.
Since returning they’ve had a wonderful time talking about their experience. They call themselves sailors now. Before this happened, the crew used to do a lot of joking about “White’s little air force goes to war.” Now they’ve changed it to “White’s little air force goes to sea.”
Whenever a ditched flier is fished out of the North Sea or the Channel, the RAF gives him a little felt insignia about an inch high in the form of a half wing, showing a fish skipping over the water. This is his membership badge in the “Goldfish Club.” He is to sew it under his lapel, and throw back the lapel to show it when occasion demands. It isn’t worn outwardly, I presume, because we don’t want German agents to know how many guys have been fished out of the water.
The boys have another memento of their saltwater bath. They all have Short Snorter bills, of course. But they’ve started a new series of signatures on bills which they call “Dinghy Snorters.” Only fliers who’ve had to ditch are allowed to bills. They flattered me by asking me to sign, and said mine would be the only non-Goldfish signature permitted on their bills.
All ten of the ditched crew had wristwatches. Two watches, apparently waterproof, are still running. The eight others were corroded by salt water and have stopped.
Lt. White still wears his, even though it doesn’t run. But while he ruined his watch, he did save $40. He had ordered a $40 pair of fancy boots made, which he had expected to be ready the day before this mission. They weren’t. He was pretty sore about it then, but now he’s glad, for he would have had them on.
These two boys really enjoy their job, I believe. They get an exhilaration out of it. They see the funny side of life, and they’re able to take things as they come. But still, of course, they would like to be home.
Lt. White’s mother now works at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, and we sat around here in London wishing we were sitting at dusk at the “Top of the Mark,” looking out over the steepled sea of San Francisco, so serene in its soft envelopment of peaceful mist.