James M. McGarry Memorial

Hello, this a memorial to James M. McGarry, a World War II veteran.
He had five children of which I hope don't mind the showing of their names: Michael,
Gregory, Maureen, Brian(my current 6th grade teacher) and Celia. He was a
fighter pilot on a B-17. James was based in the olive groves near Foggia,
Italy with the 15th Air Force from July 1944 untill August
1945.

There is soo much to say, I can only include 2 or three chapters of
his diary, and will have to compress them, or put them in a big nut shell
:). The other pages will be up after my teacher gives his remark on this
page. I will try to get all the pictures in the diary on this web page
although I only have...20 MB OF SPACE! :)

Navigation

chapter 1
chapter 2

If I should be killed...

General "Skinny" Wainwright, captured by the Japanese at Corregidor
early during World War II, wasn't the only one who kept a diary in the
combat zone. I violated Army regulations too.
I rember the night I bought my diary.
We were on our way overseas and had just landed at Grander Bay,
Newfoundland, that evening. The co-pilot, navigator, and bombardier were
poking around the PX with me and when we came out we each had a new
diary.
We walked to the barracks in the darkness. It was August 1944, but we
had been in Savannah. Ga., a few days earlier and Newfoundland was cold.
Clouds, solid and dark and low, blanketed us from the stars, and the wind
moved with crisp, snappy flourishes across the squadron street.
Inside, it was warm and cozy. We were all sprawled on our bunks. I
had just begun to say something when a traffic explosion from the distance
interrupted me. Ed Lundy, the bombardier, ran outside to see what had
happened. When he returned, he told us that a plane had crashed against a
hillside soon after taking off. And that is what prompted the first
entry I made in my diary.
On the fly leaf I wrote dramatically--"If I should be killed, I asked
that the diary be delivered to my father." Chuck Whiting, my co-pilot,
did the same thing. Alex Einsenstein, our navigator, skipped the flyleaf,
but noted the accident in his book. As things turned out, Alex never
should have skipped the flyleaf.
He was to be killed in action over the Adriatic Sea, less than a month
later.
I got up early the next morning to check with opperations concerning
our time of departure. They told me we were to take off, some time after
midnight, for the Azore Islands.
I went down to the hangerline to see Carl Hodges, one of the waist gunners
who had been guarding the plane all night. We both got in the cockpit
together and ran the engines up for a final check.
Bill Dryden, the tail gunner, and Pierre LaCroix, our radio opperator,
came along. They walked back with me. On the way, we passed a peculiar
looking shack. It had no roof and false vegitation and been strewn about
it. There were sandbags against the walls.
We learned that it was an anti-aircraft post, and i rember Bill
remarking that our new fortress would make a big target for a flak gunner.
Three or four months later. in a riddled B-17 over Austria, I reminded
him of that remark and he said, "I told you lieutenant, I told you."
It was after midnight when we went out to the plane. It was cold and
the wind puffed along the runway in gusty blasts. The wether was bad. I was
scared.
The clouds formed a solid overcast just a few hundred feet over the
field and the flickering smudge spots lining the runway were lit only on one
side of the take-off path. The take-off would have to be accomplished
entirely with the use of instruments.
During the afternoon, workers on the field had loaded the nose of the
plane with a crago of field rations. With these extra supplies, a full
load of gas(2,700 gallons) and a complete crew and equipment, the job
would be a ticklish one, for I had never made a night take-off in a plane
so heavily loaded. Our total weight was more than 60,000 pounds.
The crew assembled inside the plane. We had a descussion on survival
at sea. I had a pamphlet describing the duties of each crew member in the
event of a forced landing on water and we went over it thoroughly.
Cans of drinking water, sandwiches, and jugs of coffee were loaded
aboard the plane.
It was almost 2 a.m. We took our stations. Chuck and I checked over
the cock pit and started the engines. Chuck tapped my arm and said
quietly:"Here's wishing us all the best of luck the rest of the way." We
shook hands.

Chuck released the brakes and we began to taxi out slowly in darkness
for the take-off.

A Shaky Take-off


No one mentioned it openly, but the entire crew was worried. Their
faces were sober when we had assembled in the plane and the usual round
of wise cracks and good-natured kidding was missing this time.
I knew they were thinking of the crash that had occured under similar
circumstances the prvious night.
Chuck and I completed the checklist routine and we lined up the plane on
the runway. The control tower flashed the take-off signal to us.
The engines roared as we advanced the throttles. We started rolling.
As our speed increased to 50 or 60 miles per hour, we hit a bump on
the runway. The shield on one of the four fluoresent lamps which
illuminated the instrument panel was shaken loose and fell to the floor
between the rudder pedals. The sudden glare blinded me and our Fortress
began to swerve twards the side of the runway.
I hate to do this to yu people's but that is all I can put on here untill tommorow when I get the book from my desk and can summerize some more chapters.
Bye for now,
JET!
E-mail me your fellings on my page! Thanks