By Frank G McDonald III, EAA 90149854
Like most aircraft homebuilders, people ask me the standard questions about my Kitfox: Am I the builder, how long was the build time, which engine did I install, what is the cruise speed, etc. But no one has ever asked about my N-number.
I’m very proud to have N5929 as my registration number. 5929 was my dad’s POW number when he was a German prisoner during World War II after being shot down while supporting Operation Carpetbagger.
The “carpetbaggers” flew the Consolidated B-24D Liberator out of Alconbury, U.K., with the 8th Air Force, 328th Group, 36th Squadron. These clandestine sorties were always low-altitude night flights for concealment, often in weather considered impossible for flying. To avoid detection by searchlights, the aircraft were painted flat black. The four-engine bomber was highly modified. The bomb bay was equipped with special shackles to accommodate special supply canisters. Oxygen tanks, unnecessary avionics, and most armament were removed. Flame dampeners were installed on the turbochargers. The B-24s were equipped with unique avionics such as the RT7/APN-1 Radar Altimeter and Rebecca (an airborne interrogator homing device). The carpetbaggers’ mission was to make covert arms, supplies, intelligence, and personnel drops over Nazi-occupied Europe, particularly to France, Italy, and Belgian partisans. Occasionally the mission included extraction of personnel from the ground during a low-level pass.
At a designated point after departing Alconbury, a crew would descend and remain below 1,000 feet, making the final run 400 to 600 feet above the terrain. Relying on fickle winds aloft forecasts, across several hundreds of miles, and in unfamiliar blackout countryside, they sought uniquely designated drop zones in Nazi-occupied territory. The partisans used Eureka (a ground-based homing device) for proximal gross course guidance. Hand-held lanterns marked the edge of the precise drop zones and as an ID code to the pilot making the drop. For each mission, the number and pattern of lanterns and colors (red or white) were altered so as to counter the Nazi’s efforts to intercept the drop by creating a false drop zone. The B-24 flight crews had no reliable low-level radio navigation, the low-frequency radio navigation was imprecise, and they could not climb for a better view.
My dad told of how, during Operation MUSICIAN 5, he became disoriented on the night he was shot down, just before 2300 hours Greenwich Mean Time, March 2, 1944. Only a slight sliver of moon hung in the sky — not enough moonlight to illuminate the terrain. For some undocumented reason, his crew was unable to pinpoint the primary drop zone. Perhaps either the Rebecca or Eureka system was not functioning or not on the same frequency. The navigator was sure they were in the immediate area of the assigned drop zone. If they could just locate the train station in the village of Doullens, France, they could plot an accurate radial to the drop zone.
The good news was they found the train station. The bad news was a German anti-aircraft gun train car had just been positioned there. The Germans heard the distant increasing roar of his four engines approaching and tracked the anti-aircraft guns to the engine sound, firing as he passed overhead at only a few hundred feet. Numerous rounds hit the B-24 damaging engine No. 1, causing the No. 2 engine to explode in a ball of fire, and making engine No. 3 inoperative. Night vision was instantaneously compromised. B-24 crews knew the wing fuel tank would unavoidably catch fire very soon after the engine fire and cause a catastrophic explosion, potentially severing the wing from the fuselage. Dad would tell me later that he immediately knew his only course of action. They could not bail out — they were too low, he didn’t have engine power or time to climb to sufficient altitude, nor could the crew evacuate the ravaged failing aircraft quickly enough. His only possible option was an immediate off-field gear-up landing in the dark, hoping some light from the engine fire combined with the landing lights would adequately illuminate any major obstacle in their path and the ground. He could just make out an open field among the trees. It was nearly a completely blind touchdown.
Depending on one’s viewpoint, the landing was a great tragedy or a huge success. By happenstance, the touchdown was in a farmer’s crop field on the outskirts of the small villages of Hem-Hardinval and Fienvillers in the Somme region. The B-24 survived the landing intact and before the fuel tank exploded. However, unfortunately, the tail gunner was killed either on impact or from flak. The rest of the crew, seven of the eight aboard, survived with relatively minor injuries.
The crew buddied up and departed the wreckage in different directions. Dad and his buddy evaded for 28 days, helped by the French underground, working their way south toward the Pyrenees Mountains, knowing crossing the range south into Spain would bring them sanctuary. The morning they were to make the trek across the Pyrenees, a French physician Nazi collaborator turned them in to the Gestapo. He was initially taken to a German POW camp in Paris, then was transferred to Stalag Luft 1 in Barth, Germany, where he remained a POW until liberated by the Russian army, a total of almost 10 months.
Dad continued to fly the rest of his life. After separation from the U.S. Army Air Forces, he operated a private airport with a flying school and was an air show performer. One act was to pick up a silk scarf on the ground with a hook on his wingtip as he made a low pass. During the Korean War, he was recalled into the U.S. Air Force as a pilot and later retired from the Air Force in 1965. He resumed flying in general aviation. It’s striking that he eventually became a glider pilot/CFI at a glider port in northern Colorado and developed a cordial relationship with the operator, a former WWII German Messerschmitt Bf 109 pilot. That is where he gave me my glider private pilot training.
All of the crew, except for the tail gunner, survived the tortuous ordeal that followed the off-field landing: one evaded capture and six were POWs. The crew periodically got together after the war, becoming lifelong comrades. They all belonged to both the Air Forces Escape & Evasion Society and a POW society. They have all since gone west.
During the construction of my Kitfox, I investigated the possibility of having 5929 as my N-number. The FAA records showed 5929 was already applied to a gyrocopter registered to a fellow named Ed. I queried Ed about his gyrocopter, explaining my interesting in the N-number 5929. Since he was no longer flying N5929, he took the necessary action to inactivate N5929, making it available for my Kitfox. He and I have exchanged Christmas cards ever since.
Next time you encounter a plane builder you might consider adding a question to the array typically asked. Inquire about the N-number. You may be rewarded with an interesting story.