Visit to Bosnia, February 15, 1945
Down behind enemy lines. By William Bonnifield
Nine young friends and I set out this self-same date, February 15, 50 years ago for the full-service round-trip tour of Eastern Europe — with stopover at that quaint little country we now call Bosnia-Herzegovina. On arrival, we were warmly received by its citizenry, offered friendly advice, and encouraged to respond to enquiries regarding our immediate future. We were able to observe the full cultural heritage of this historic region and its quaint and archaic people. But as it came our time to leave, we were unable to persuade these dear hosts of the genuineness of our intent — or of our line of credit. They’d checked with associates at our point of departure who proved reluctant to acknowledge our existence or provide reimbursement for the amenities of our stay. But on further negotiation, we returned home to a subdued welcome and some unduly inquisitive colleagues — who promptly enrolled us as their guests — at the local MP stockade. Our storybook tour ended after 9 hours.
That’s the soundbyte/MTV version of our story. We were, in fact, on a USAAF B-24 bomber, mission 375, with our target the Matzleindorf railroad yards. Our crew of 10 was to deliver at 1247 hours, returning to Lecce, Italy, at 1605 hours.
About three hours into the mission, somewhere over the Austrian Alps, we felt a loud explosion. The bomber swerved downward, out of control. A glistening smear of oil spread across the right wing. With fuel shut off, and the propeller feathered, fire was reduced to a thin trace of gray smoke. There was no further sign of the enemy, so we set about planning for our return home some 400 miles west across the Adriatic — Matzleindorf’s gasoline tank cars and munitions could wait one more day.
Just as we were beginning to feel secure, no. 4 engine lost its power. With both engines out on the same side, our plane lurched into a violent downward spin to the right. Adams and I stood full-strength on left rudders, chopped throttles 1 and 2. Our world gradually turned right side up and the horizon began to settle down. We had lost 4,000 feet in four minutes. And we were still going down at 500 [feet] per minute.
Ten men then set some kind of world-class record dismantling and throwing overboard everything not riveted in place — except parachutes, escape kits and 45’s. Everyone came up on the flight deck to balance the load. But still we continued to descend.
Down below were the Austrian Alps and the Nazis, or at least, the Chetniks and Serbs, which could be even worse. To the West, Croats, Bosnians, Slays,
Slovenes, Herzogs and more Serbs. Not much better, but for the moment nominally loyal to the local Communist warlord, General Tito — who’s on our side this month. We might be welcome. We’d have to limp along between the higher mountain peaks. We might be able to get through to the Adriatic and belly-land in the surf beneath the cliffs on some kind of beach. We’d have about 20 minutes remaining to find the best spot along the coast. We’d qualify as “ship-wrecked mariners” under rules of the Geneva Convention. We took a vote. Go for the surf!
We were getting close. Too close: 9,000 ft. Ground elevation creeping upward beneath us. Maybe a week went by. Then slowly, very slowly, things on the ground got smaller. We’d cleared the top of a mountain pass through the Julians. We’d make the coast!
Navigator Gillette was riding with us for the first time. We don’t know much about him. Was he good? He should have told us how high that mountain pass was back there.
“Cap’n, this is the navigator. Got an idea. At briefing three weeks ago, they gave us a wheels-up, crash-landing strip behind the German lines somewhere around here. Hasn’t been reported at briefings since. About 30 miles south. Want a heading?”
Why not? Gillette’s crash strip came up right on time. Good man, our Gillette. A muddy pasture high on the narrow coastal plateau. Some farm sheds, vehicles at one end. Someone thought he saw two yellow-nosed Me-109’s with German markings behind a barn. Freezing rain. Prevailing winds the wrong way. We voted to bring it in.
You can only turn one way with two engines out on the same side. In this case, turn left. Verrmy slowly. It took two turns to line up. Everyone had a chute. Half flaps and wheels down. Dropping like a brick. Touch. Bomb doors open. Then, the explosion of mud, turf, fence wire, rainwater, hurtling by. The old warwagon wallowing to the right and sliding sideways through mud to an ungracious stop, listing hard to starboard. Dead silence. Someone moved. Everyone okay? In 10 seconds flat we were all grouped safely upwind, our hasty plans for torching the plane before surrender temporarily postponed.
Just as well. They came from three directions, this rough looking bunch. A military jeep skidded to a broadside stop. Man standing on the rear seat in strange uniform, clearly their commander, shouting, arms waving, apoplectic with outrage, ready to kill. In another 10 seconds, they were all over us, rifles aimed not quite at our heads. Maybe 40 of them. Dirty, no shaves, long hair, uniforms didn’t match. Raunchiest bunch of Germans we’d ever seen. And their commander, a disgrace to the Third Reich, indistinguishable uniform, yelling at them and us in some Prussian dialect, waving his pistol, raging out of control.
We thought we heard some scattered English words in the madman’s tirade, good Anglo-Saxon, 4-letter words with a distinct accent, maybe Cockney or Australian. Then “arrest”, “airfield,” “secret,” “orders.” This Kraut was talking in some kind of English. When we paid closer attention, phrases stood out. The commander was English.
These men were Yugos: Bosnians, Croatians, Slays, Loyal-Serbs, Muslims. Their commander was a British colonel on liaison to General Tito. The real Germans were 14 miles away looking down on us from those mountains. The reason they all were here was top military secret. We’d destroyed his fighters’ runway. He couldn’t move that stranded whale out of there. We were all under arrest!
Our guards proved friendly enough. Some Yugos carried homemade wine in their canteens. Meanwhile the good colonel tried by shortwave radio for a positive ID and order from Mediterranean Hdqts: They’d never heard of us. No ID. No orders. We were to be held prisoners until further notice. Our newfound Yugo friends prodded us to grubby farm sheds at the north end. We caught a glimpse of those two Me-109’s, a large stack of camouflaged crates and some steel matting. We were divided into two groups, and escorted to separate unlighted quarters, guards at each door. Plenty of time to think about our future. If the whole goddam Mediterranean Theater won’t identify us, we don’t exist. Are we POW’s? Missing in action? Will they let us escape? We don’t even know where we are. Gillette thought the little town down on the coast had a name something like ‘Sarah.’ Are we expected to join up with this rag-tag auxiliary for the rest of the war? We could prove useful. We should start learning Slavic.
What was the commotion outside? Shouting, truck noises, the cough and pop of cold aircraft engines starting up? Those in-line Me-109’s out for some decoy action among the Luftwaffe? But the colonel said we’d torn up his fighter airstrip for at least a week. Framed through those windows, an OD camouflaged C-47 Dakota transport, both engines running, its RAAF ‘target’ barely painted-over. These babies could land anywhere and take off in 150 yards. We were addressed in unmistakable English: We’d been “acknowledged” — we were going home. Now! No questions. Get in the plane. Now.
Five minutes later we were skimming southwest over the Adriatic in that veteran 1927-design tin can. No sleek, new, shining P-51 ever looked so good. Pilot’s cabin door was locked. Not allowed to talk with you guys back there. Straight course to Curry. We landed parallel in the grass. With the last man out, the Dakota took .off. A command car stood by to welcome us, two MP’s in the back.
We stopped first at the guardhouse. “We have a couple of questions. You’re all detained.”
Ah, Bosnia. Will we ever go back? Has “Sarah” survived Milosevic’s Serbian wars? Does my old Yugo guard, P. Cristo, show his grandsons my signature on that one-dollar bill? I still have his 10-kuna note to show mine. Where are all my once-young companions today? Today; February 15th. Should we start an another full-service tour of Eastern Europe with stopover at that quaint little country we now call Bosnia-Herzegovina?
Does my old Yugo guard, P. Cristo, show his grandsons my signature on that one-dollar bill? I still have his 10-kuna note to show mine.
Originally written for THREE VILLAGE HERALD / FEB 15, 1995
Photos courtesy of Mr. Bonnifield
Letter written to Captain William Bonnifield from crew member Raymond Duquette, 1957:
Hi Bill,
Well it’s that time of year again when we limber up the writing arm, and believe me, I’m really limbering up mine tonight. I’ve just got thru writing to John Kisenbauer you know he’s living here in Sunderland, Mass. don’t you? You and he are the only ones I still hear from. The others seem to have drifted away. If you hear from any of them let me know their addresses so I can write them.
I can tell you now, when we were first assigned as your crew, we were kind of leery because of your age, but after the way you handled that crate in Yugoslavia it removed all doubts and made loyal members of the family. Thanks again. I sure was scared.
It’s been a long time hasn’t it Bill? but I’ll never forget you and the boys. John, Tom Crehan, Frank Voci, Joe Burkett, Dick Marsden and Ken Oestreicher and Ted Seaman they were our first Navigator and bombadier. I don’t know if you knew them. I believe they both got it before you came with us, or we came to you. I don’t know which. We sure were a sorry lot when we took on with you. After our first Pilots Capt. Debbotis and Stubbs got killed, we were bounced all over the place as a mixed crew. I can tell you now, when we were first assigned as your crew, we were kind of leery because of your age, but after the way you handled that crate in Yugoslavia it removed all doubts and made loyal members of the family. Thanks again. I sure was scared.
You know, Bill, I don’t know why, but I can’t for the life of me remember the Co-pilot Bombadier or navigator of our crew. All I can remember is the bombadier on that Yugo job was so scared, he got himself stuck in in the passage trying to get to the bombay. I had to pull him back and plug in his headset so he knew what was going on. Boy that was quite some trip. Remember how we were going to burn the plane, and there, flying on a mast, big as all getout was the British flag? You know, my escape kit was thrown out with the rest of my gear. I had to sign a form letting them de-duct that money from my pay before they let me come home, but after I got here I raised such a stink about getting robbed, I got it back.
Well enough for now old son, for all I know you won’t even get this card.
I hope you do.
Your buddy,
Ray Duquette
31391621
Seeking Information
By William Bonnifield
To the Editor:
Seeking information: 344th Sqdn, Vienna, 15 February 1945.
Can anyone here add to the following-information from their own memory or records? (Have inquired USAF Historical, Maxwell AFB, Col. E.V. Converse, over past 15 months without receiving genuine response):
… On 15 February 1945 bombing mission to Vienna area, a 344th Sqdn B-24 crew of ten, flying “Watt’s Cookin’”, had no. 3 engine explode, and then lost no. 4 at about 18,000 ft. somewhere over the Austrian-Hungarian border.
With two engines out on same side, half gas load, full-weight of crew, full armor and armament, they planned to make it back over the Julian/Dinan Alps, through the Velebit Mountains, and far west as possible over the coastal plain before bailing-out at 100G ft.
Everything thrown overboard, crew exchanging positions, feathering props on 3 & 4, flying in skid close to stall, working flaps and pitch on 1 & 2; they squeezed-out a negative 175–250 FPM: Even holding that rate of descent, not possible to cross the Adriatic.
Navigator remembered wheels-up emergency airstrip from briefing two weeks earlier, but no longer on record: Reached there with 1700 ft. alt., circled left once, and crash-landed in rain soaked pasture. Walkaway damage. No injuries. Two ME-109’s, German markings, parked other side of farm building from unmarked C-47. Wood OD crates, runway mats, collapsible tank sections visible. Captured by Yugo Partisans with British Liaison. German patrols 18 mi to East, Partisan factions feuding. Held at crash site until flown out in unmarked C-47 on receipt Theater GHQ clearance.
On return Lecce, entire crew held by MP’s for day-long interrogation, then confined to quarters for one week, sworn to secrecy then released, then returned to active duty. No explanations.
Two months later awaiting troopship in Naples; were told storage tanks, runway matting, and OD crated equipment had been set up for re-fueling B-17’s to reach Berlin, operations at that time still TOP SECRET. Never learned anything more since — —
According to the ‘flimsy’; aircraft was 022 M, pilot BONNIFIELD, 2st CCU onboard, flight E-1 LEANTO, mission 375, MATZLEINDORF Marshalling Yards, Vienna, 575 ft, 1247 hrs, 80 degrees fi 23,700 ft., fgtrs. & wthr. reconn, courses SanPan-SanVito-Pilagosa-SV&Pinja-Sibenik-Judenburg-Moos-Wilhelmsberg-Matzleindorf-Illmitz-return.
Location of landing strip: near coast betw 15 and 16 degr. E.Long. and 43 to 45 degr.N.Lat. Probably a harbor for tankers nearby.
Faded Yugoslavia photos taken by CCU, or crew, appear to include: Thomas Crehan, Richard Marsden, John Kliesenbauer, Frank Voci, Donald Burkette, Raymond Duquette, William Bonnifield, Adams/ Erdmann, Piefer/Gillette, (2 others unidentif, pl 2 Yugos).
Information, ideas, suggestions, clues; phone collect or write: Bill Bonnifield
Originally written for THREE VILLAGE HERALD
Photos courtesy of Mr. Bonnifield
