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  PATHFINDER PIONEER

  PATHFINDER PIONEER

  The Memoir of a Lead Bomber Pilot in World War II

  Colonel Raymond E. Brim, USAF (Ret.)

  Published in the United States of America and Great Britain in 2016 by

  CASEMATE PUBLISHERS

  1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083, USA

  and

  10 Hythe Bridge Street, Oxford OX1 2EW, UK

  Copyright 2016 © Raymond E. Brim

  Hardcover Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-352-8

  Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-353-5

  Mobi Edition: ISBN 978-1-61200-353-5

  Cataloging-in publication data is available from the Library of Congress and the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

  For a complete list of Casemate titles, please contact:

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  Telephone (610) 853-9131

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  Email: [email protected]

  www.casematepublishers.com

  CASEMATE PUBLISHERS (UK)

  Telephone (01865) 241249

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  www.casematepublishers.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Preface

  Acknowledgements

  PART I DIVIDEND, UTAH, 1922–1941

  1. A Town Called Dividend

  2. A Dividend Childhood

  3. Down in the Mines

  4. The Blind Date That Changed My Life

  PART II THE WAR YEARS, 1941–1944

  5. Enlisting in the Army Air Corps

  6. Learning to Fly

  7. The BT-13 and the AT-6

  8. Bomber Pilot

  9. Going A.W.O.L.

  10. Final Days in the States

  11. Overseas

  12. England at Last

  13. Escape and Evasion Training

  14. Mounting a Mission

  15. Preparation

  16. Mission One—Lorient Submarine Base

  17. Missions Two and Three—The Piccadilly Princess

  18. Missions Four and Five—Tested to the Limits

  19. Missions Six and Seven—The Dutch Coast

  20. Pathfinding in the Eighth Air Force

  21. Time Off

  22. Mission Eight—First as a Pathfinder

  23. Missions Nine and Ten—Experimental Flying

  24. Missions Eleven and Twelve—John Ford Gets Wounded

  25. Mission Thirteen—The Bloody Hundredth

  26. Missions Fourteen and Fifteen—The Milk Run

  27. Missions Sixteen through Twenty—Counting Down

  28. Mission Twenty-One—The Big “B”

  29. Missions Twenty-Two through Twenty-Five—The Home Stretch

  30. Special Orders

  PART III AFTER THE WAR, 1945–1975

  31. The Black Days

  32. Project Sandstone

  33. All Over the Map

  34. The Aleutian Islands

  35. An Air Force Career

  36. Command and Staff College, and Afterwards

  Epilogue

  Appendices

  To my beloved wife, Patricia, who made me who I am today with her love, her inspirational courage, and her intellectual curiosity. During the 33 years of our Air Force career she was a devoted and tireless wife and companion, tolerating countless reassignments. With each move she not only created a warm secure home for our family but also enriched our lives, from so many military installations in the U.S., to Japan, to Washington D.C., to Germany, and for decades after we retired. While Pat passed away in 2007 her love and guidance continues to be with me every moment of every day.

  FOREWORD

  A British Perspective

  At 4pm on a foggy December day in 1944, an English farmer stood aghast as an American bomber, returning home from a mission, plummeted to the ground in flames before him. All nine airmen on board were killed in the resulting crash and explosion. One of the nine had not seen his family for two years. He would not return to his grieving mother who never recovered from his death. He would not see his 23rd birthday on Christmas Day, nor would he ever meet his son, born a month later to an English girl named Doris. This man was my grandfather, Staff Sergeant Robert (Bob) Lennes Burry from Detroit, and until I was 19, I had never even heard his name.

  When my father was two years old, Doris married Alex Searle, my grandfather, who subsequently adopted my father. The past was buried away, silenced, and their lives moved on together as a new family. Doris never once spoke to my father about his American parentage; it must have been easier for her that way. It wasn’t until my father was 10 years old, while building a chicken coop in the garden with Alex that he learned the truth.

  “You know I’m not your real father, don’t you?”

  An awkward, one-line revelation from Alex, a responding nod from my father, and the matter was settled and never raised again. There had been clues, enough to raise a young lad’s suspicions: gifts from a “Mrs. Amalia Burry”, from America, who had once visited, and monthly insurance cheques from the American Embassy. Doris kept Amalia, Bob’s mother in Detroit, updated on my father as he grew, sending letters and photos; but contact gradually became less frequent, until after Doris’ death at the age of 45, it stopped entirely.

  On my father’s 50th birthday, when I was 19, everything I thought I knew about my father and my family history changed forever. I had always been interested in learning about the past, bugging family for stories and information. I knew that on my father’s side, we were a typical local family; ties with the small town in Cambridgeshire in which we still live stretching back through the generations. Back in the 1990s, before the town grew, everybody knew everyone else; who was related to whom, and all their business besides. It came as a massive shock then, as we raised our glasses for a birthday toast, to hear our father reveal the secret he’d kept from my siblings and myself our whole lives. It came as an even bigger shock when the realisation dawned that everyone else in the family already knew the secret and had been complicit in the duplicity. Now though, after over 20 years, my father had finally found his American family and it was time for us to learn the truth.

  I will never forget the first time I visited my grandfather’s grave at the American Cemetery in Cambridge, less than an hour from home. It was the absolute silence which made the biggest impression. My grandfather is buried right at the back of the cemetery; in the most tranquil spot, overlooking the woods and fields below. As I knelt by the marble cross, the empty space I felt inside and the unanswerable questions gnawed at me. On that day, I began my journey on a path to find my grandfather, the person behind the face in the black and white photographs. Initially, there was very little available information, but piece by piece, gradually at first then slowly gaining momentum, I moved towards knowing my grandfather. Each discovery added more colour to those black and white images and helped me to see beneath the picture to my lost grandfather beneath.

  Bob and Doris met and fell in love while he was stationed at RAF Alconbury, in Cambridgeshire. Despite the distance of 30 miles from his base to Doris’ home, they tried to do all the things usual for courting couples: visits to relatives, the cinema and the local photographers. Bob came to spend most of his furloughs in our rural little market town of March. He became a regular visitor at Doris’ parents’ riverside home, in one of the narrowest and oldest streets in town. I often wond
er what the boy from the bustling metropolis thought to such a peaceful old fashioned place and I like to think that it provided him with a welcome refuge and escape from war. Doris’ brother, John, who was a radar man with the RAF, told me about the Bowie knife Bob fashioned at their bungalow from one of two swords Doris’ mother bought at a local sale. When reading the inventory of the items returned home to his mother after his death, it is the poignant entry of: “Bowie knife” therefore, which imparts the sweetest recognition. In time, Bob wrote home to tell his family he had met a girl and they were going to be married. Doris also discovered she was pregnant. After reluctant agreement from her parents, it was decided they would marry after his last mission in December. Bob and his crew had recently transferred to another unit in the hope of finishing up their missions more quickly and were now stationed much further away in Northamptonshire. Doris, eight months pregnant, was now faced with the prospect of infrequent visits; left counting down the days until his missions were over and she could be sure she would see him again. I know Hershel’s wife received a visit at work from two officers, informing her of Hershel’s death. However, as they weren’t yet married, I don’t know if Doris was afforded the same consideration. Bob had only been with his new outfit two weeks. I have no idea how much his new commanding officers knew about my grandmother and their future plans. I don’t know how long my grandmother waited before she discovered it was in vain, that she would never see Bob again. The sadness of that desperate hope before learning the inevitable and horrific truth, haunted me; fueling my hunger to seek out more of my grandfather’s story.

  Robert Burry was the second of 10 siblings. By the late 1930s, the Burry family was suffering great financial hardship and Bobby was encouraged to leave school and seek employment after just two years at high school. This proved more difficult than anticipated and he eventually applied to serve in the Civilian Conservation Corps (the CCC) after turning 16, lying about his age. He arrived at camp in Illinois at only five feet tall and weighing 110 pounds. His dental records show he arrived devoid of his upper front and lower front two teeth; hinting at the already emerging boxer he was to become representing the Air Force. He is described in his camp records as a “good man”, a patriotic individual who enjoyed reading and athletics. Bob would spend the maximum two years with the CCC, gaining new teeth, four inches in height and 40 pounds in the process. His love of camp life probably influenced his decision to enlist into the Air Force, at the first available opportunity – in Detroit on 27 January 1942. His stature marked him out as perfect for the role of ball turret gunner. In August 1942, seven months later, he arrived in England, with the 92nd Bomb Group, at RAF Bovingdon.

  The internet has proved itself to be an invaluable, almost magical resource for me, leading to so many discoveries: reports of missions Bob flew while on loan with the 303rd Bomb Group and an eyewitness report of their plane, flying low over Daventry High Street, just minutes before their fateful crash. Albert Fitzpatrick, one of the waist gunners from the crew, later gave a sworn affidavit of their final journey together. He recounts how the plane had been severely damaged by flak and how they were lost in the fog. The crew doubted their ability to make base. Lieutenant Harris, my grandfather’s last pilot, passed word upon reaching the coast of England, that whosoever felt inclined, should bail out. Albert was the only one to do so. Over the years, the question of why my grandfather didn’t jump has been foremost in my mind. One which I think I have finally answered.

  The internet also led to lasting friendships with Brian Francis of the 8th Air Force Historical Society, and Romer Adams, a representative of Sywell Aviation museum, who excavated the crash site two summers ago. A deeper understanding of the crash arose, as I learned, that despite the damage to the plane, it was the fog that proved their undoing. In the poor visibility, the pilot was unable to get a clear visual, turning too late to prevent the stay of a radar mast from ripping the wing from their plane, resulting in their crash. On 23 August 2015, the sacrifice of the crew was commemorated with the dedication of a memorial, commissioned by Daventry Council, which my father and I unveiled. I was honoured that both Brian and Romer gave their time and support and were such an important part of the day.

  Grandad’s brothers had told me about his prowess as a boxer. There was a family legend about a match between Bobby and the man who “fought Joe Louis”, with Bob winning a silver ring as a result. I knew he had won medals and belts, but as none of his things survived the families’ several house moves I didn’t know what for. The internet had answers for me once again, which I found in the Stars and Stripes newspaper archives. There were several references to boxing matches featuring my grandfather, and even a report of an entertainment evening laid on at the Mostyn Red Cross Club in London with showgirls. Further digging unearthed a Pathe newsreel of one of the matches, dated November 1942. At 2am, my poor husband Richard, jumped out of bed, convinced that my scream as I caught a glimpse of my grandfather on film meant something dreadful had just occurred. The pride I felt was immeasurable.

  As I discovered, my grandfather had spells with various Bomb Groups during the war, but completed most of his missions with the 482nd Bomb Group. The time he spent with them, a year and a half, was a blank in my research. I had no idea who his pilot was, who was on the crew or how many missions they flew together. Two years ago, Bob’s sister, my Aunt Diane, contacted Maxwell Air Force Base requesting the records from the 482nd Bomb Group, which we hoped would provide some answers. A disc arrived two months later, packed with a file of over 1,000 scanned microfilm images. I spent the day eagerly scouring the pages for any mention of my grandfather. I didn’t know how much I would find as, unless there had been an accident, it appeared only the pilot’s name had been recorded for each mission. Abruptly, I stumbled across an entry of an aircraft which had crashed on the runway, returning to base. The entry listed the entire crew on board, and suddenly, I was in possession of the name of the man who had been my grandfather’s pilot for a year and a half, Ray Brim. Starting again from the beginning, I re-read the pages, looking for Ray, hoping to uncover further details about any of their missions. There were many and I learned about the pioneering and brave work of Ray, his crew, and the rest of the 813th squadron. It was evident from the records that Ray and the crew had been instrumental in creating the Pathfinding process at its very inception. By this point, I was desperate to speak to the hero who had brought my grandfather safely home from 20 missions before returning home to America; the man who could tell me things I had only ever dreamed of knowing. Fortune favoured me once again, as within 10 minutes of searching, I had a telephone number.

  I spent an agonising day waiting (because of the seven-hour time difference) until a suitable time to call. My husband tried to steel me against disappointment, but I wouldn’t be dissuaded. I wouldn’t let it cross my mind that it would be a wrong number, or that Ray wouldn’t remember my grandfather. I didn’t think about what I was going to say. I simply remember my stomach dropping like a stone as I told the gentleman who’d answered the phone that I was the granddaughter of his ball turret gunner from WWII, and holding my breath while I waited for his response. What I received was an introduction to the most wonderful and modest man I have had the pleasure to call a friend. Further contact created mutual areas of interest and forged friendships with Ray’s two daughters, Christine and Celia. I became part of an extended family, with a bond stretching across the ocean and spanning 70 years. Amazingly, when I speak to Ray, he says it is him who is the lucky one. He cannot understand why he is so special, and is so gracious and overjoyed whenever I call. I have tried to tell him he is a hero, that I am honoured to have made his acquaintance and am so lucky to have his friendship, but Ray will just say how lucky he was in his crew. It is humbling to hear of their faith and trust in one another to fulfil their roles, working as a team to make it through each mission. I am not sure how I would fare in such a situation.

  Speaking to Ray, I finally understand w
hy my grandfather decided to stay with the plane and not bail out on his final mission. He recounted all their hairy moments as a crew, where they thought they wouldn’t live to see another day. On several occasions, he gave leave to the crew to bail. They never did. On 15 December, 1944, just a few miles from their base, my grandfather made the decision to stay with his team, his family. He felt a duty to them, and did not want to let them down. He had faith in them and trust their luck would hold, that they would see it through one more time, as they had always done before. If it wasn’t for the fog that day, his faith would have proven correct once again.

  When we visited the crash site with Romer, we were gratified to discover a very special place; a beautiful cornfield in the middle of an idyllic English landscape. The farmer’s dog accompanying us, took a liking to my father, chasing around him while running through the corn. The wind blew roughly and the sun shone. Above our heads, I tried to imagine the turmoil, fear and noise of the crash 70 years before. Instead, I felt at peace, picturing my grandfather and his friends soaring above me in the blue beyond the horizon.

  Ray might not tell you he is a hero, but I can tell you he is. They all were.

  Rebecca Saywell

  February 2016

  PREFACE

  Like so many of my generation, my life changed after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and my enlistment in the Army Air Corps to become a pilot. Before all that, I was just a kid from the small mining town of Dividend, Utah. Afterwards, I felt I was a part of history. At the age of 19, during flight training school, I began to keep a diary. During the war I kept writing, keeping track of each mission in the form of letters, notes to myself and journals. The writing habit turned out to be a hard one to break, and I recorded my adventures, often accompanied by my wife Pat, from the Pacific Islands to Alaska to Japan, Europe, Turkey, and across the U.S. In later years I wrote down my fond memories growing up in the 1920s and 30s in the silver- and lead-mining town of Dividend.