Gunner Earl Neslon is Mortally Injured

On the intercom I called for a damage report. The bad news came quickly that our top turret gunner, Earl Nelson, was hit badly. The crew got the wounded man down out of his turret, laid him down, applied sulfa powder to his wounds, endeavored to stop the bleeding, and gave him an injection of morphine out of our first aid kit to lessen his pain.

From a description of his injuries I thought it unlikely that he would survive unless he could be hospitalized quickly. What should I do? Should I break away from the formation to get help for him? Should I leave the protection of the fire-power of the other aircraft? Should I put my other crewmembers, as well as myself, in jeopardy by becoming a loaner that enemy fighters loved to find? Or should I stay with the other planes, and drop our bombs on the target? I didn’t recall ever being advised just what to do in these kinds of circumstances and at 24 years of age the decision was not that easy.

Always in combat while over enemy held territory there is underlying apprehension that’s thick enough to “taste”. From outward appearances others could have considered me to be a very cool, collected, “in charge” kind of person, but my insides felt like “jello”; I was scared. With more missions, my tolerance of fear hardened.

I decided to continue till we dropped our bombs, which we did resulting in our wiping out the bridge - an air medal mission. After all that’s what we came to do.

Meanwhile, consider if you can, (I can’t), the plight of Earl upon being hit. From out of nowhere suddenly there is a 50-caliber hole, about the size of my ring finger, that exists through your back and chest and along the fleshy part of your upper arm. They lay you down on the hard metal floor aft of the bomb bays. You are at 12,000 feet without heat or oxygen equipment while other wild eye crew members try to administer first aid of which they have had no training. You are not even aware of the entry wound in your back so only your chest and arm are treated with sulpha powder. Although shock and the morphine injection help deaden the pain you suffer greatly, but never lose consciousness.

As we approached the target with the bomb bay doors open the wind whips through the plane. We take evasive action while the German anti-aircraft 88 batteries open up momentarily pock marking the sky with black explosions of hot steel shrapnel bursting around the formation and buffeting the planes as if they’re toys. You wonder if this flak will shoot down your aircraft. Then bombs are away and hopefully escape for a long ride back to safety and medical care. You think of family and home a continent away.

When we were halfway out of the enemy territory, I radioed the Flight Commander, in the lead aircraft, advising him of our wounded man, and requesting that another plane be directed to lead me to the nearest hospital which I thought was near a fighter field at Alto Base on the north end of Corsica. I wasn’t sure about it, nor its exact location. I received no response to my transmission, not knowing at the time, that my radio receiving equipment had apparently been damaged in the attack. I applied full emergency power to my engines and headed for the north end of Corsica alone. The flight commander had received my transmission and had assigned another plane to lead the way. This plane couldn’t catch me, as I sped out of enemy territory and out over the Mediterranean.

I badly abused those two 1,850 horsepower Pratt & Whitney engines when they were placed on emergency full power for so long a time. However this was a decision with which I was happy where previous ones had been suspect. Not that they were wrong, but that fear had driven them.

Besides gambling on the engines I also was gambling that no enemy fighters would intercept us, as we were very much alone over a lot of enemy held territory. We could have been “had”, but not without a fight.

Upon reaching the northern tip of Corsica I saw a steel matted Alto landing strip that was nestled on a short plateau between a mountain’s shoulder complicating the southern approach (wind direction required this approach this day), while a wind swept turbulent sea guarded the northern approach to the field. We weren’t able to make radio contact to advise them of our coming and need for an ambulance. I wasn’t even sure they would recognize us as a friendly plane although I had our IFF electronic identification operating. So I came in low just off the deck still on full power over the landing strip and discharged a red flare to indicate an emergency. In one fluid series of actions under reduced engine power settings I made a sharp 45 degree right climbing turn followed by a level 135 degree sharp turn to the left lining up with the landing strip, lowered the landing gear and flaps for second savings fast approach. It was like the Lord coordinated all my actions as I never before or since made these sharp maneuvers. The landing was smooth as silk.

As the plane slowed with the brakes at the outer end of the field I could see an ambulance speeding toward us, so I shut off the engines as we pulled off the strip. The crew passed Earl out the waist gun port into my arms, while he swore with pain. Even though it’s a momentary action in lowering Earl to a stretcher there is no way to mercifully support him even if I had known of their exact location of his wounds, which I didn’t. My arm and hand, where I held him, where covered in blood. One of the two ambulance medics who were in charge, upon seeing Earl, loudly declared, “HE IS TOO FAR GONE TO SAVE!” (That was pretty close to the truth - my god, it must have been nearly an hour since he was hit).

I lashed back with great anger chastising the medic saying, “THAT IS A HELL OF A THING TO SAY TO A INJURED MAN” and “IF YOU DON’T GET HIM TO A HOSPITAL IMMEDIATELY AND IF HE DOESN’T SURVIVE I WILL PERSONALLY SEE TO IT THAT YOU ARE COURT MARSHALLED”. I meant every word of it and they knew it!! (Earl very much remembers these statements.)

The medics wasted no time in getting him to a field hospital several miles away. There the doctors gave Earl massive blood transfusions and injections for infections that went on for several days. The hospital was not well equipped and the carpenters even had to build him a special bed in which be could lie comfortably.

Earl proved to be one very tough bird and only survived by the “Will Of God” and a personal will to live beyond comprehension. Having blood-clotting ability comparable to fast setting glue must have helped too.

He did loose a lung. If he had been facing in his turret in any other direction, the bullet’s path would surely have killed him. It was fortunate also that the projectile was armor piercing otherwise the bullet would have mushroomed.

That day we left our comrade with the medics with a prayer and again took off so as to get our plane back to our base and ready for another mission.

Ten weeks later, after moving our base to the Alto field from Sardinia, Earl, was released from the hospital and came by to “thank us” and say “goodbye” as he was headed back to the States. His only disappointment was that during his absence his favorite flight jacket was stolen, but that’s life living with so many G.I.s in tents. He was a very lucky lad indeed. Our future remained in doubt for an unknown time. As it was I flew 69 missions before the war ended.(Continued)