In early June, 1945, the 467th Bombardment Group prepared to fly almost all its B-24s back to the United States, part of the aerial exodus of England by the Eighth Air Force. Thus it was that on June 6, 1945, I took off in my assigned B-24 ("943"). 790th Bomb Squadron, with my crew of nine and eleven passengers (including '943's' ground- crew) to fly the first leg of the trip, to Valley, Wales, arriving the same day. It was an uneventful trip, but we were destined to remain there ten days.

On June 10th we were cleared for the next phase of the flight plan. We assembled at the flight line early and took off for Reykjavik, Iceland. I signaled Harry Small, my co-pilot, to raise the landing gear but the right landing gear refused to stay up, sliding back down about 70 degrees. We spent the better part of an hour trying to get the gear to stay up but we were not successful in our efforts. A quick conference between "Andy" DeBiasse, our engineer, Al Muller, our navigator. Small and myself resulted in the conclusion that we would never make it to Iceland. Back to Wales, then, with a heavy load of fuel.

As we approached the field, I was instructed to fly a square pattern around the field for something like four hours to burn off gasoline and bring the plane's weight down to an acceptable level. This was nonsense, as far as I was concerned, because I had on occasion landed a B-24 with about the same weight in fuel, plus a full load of bombs! So after flying around the field two or three times, I radioed that we were coming in. I thought, on the final approach, this landing better be good! It was a good one though a little hard.

The next day I checked in with the Maintenance Officer to see how soon the gear could be repaired. He told me that had the gear failed at Rackheath, it could have been repaired within in a hour with available parts; however. Valley was Air Transport Command, not Eighth Air Force, and it would take considerable time to "get the parts. So we settled in to wait for the part to arrive.

If you flew right on through Valley without layover, here's what you "missed." In addition to the transient Eighth Air Force and American permanent party. Valley was host to some returning British Army veterans from fighting fronts, now quiet, all over the world. But mostly they were very young men; untrained, untried, unbloodied recruits. Harry Small, Al Muller and I one evening fell in with a group of them while walking to the local dance hall. One complained bitterly, to the acute embarrassment of his associates, that in England he could only aspire to the same station in life as his father and grandfather, in contrast to America where he could aspire to a better life. Our arrival at the dance hall averted what had become a tense situation.

Another evening, Harry and I found an attractive seaside pub. We entered shortly before six and found the place filled with British officers. To a man, they stopped drinking and stared at us. The hostility was almost palpable as if to say, "What the hell are you doing here?" We turned to the bar maid who slammed down the roll-top barrier to the bar. We were not to be served! I had never been so insulted in my life — nor since (I was 20 at the time). I still do not understand why we were treated so shabbily. My resentment was so strong that 25 years later, on a visit to Wales, I tried to find the place to see what kind of a reception I'd find as an American tourist. I could not find it and somehow it no longer seemed important.

After Harry and I left the bar, we heard sounds of merriment coming from a one- story building on the side of a nearby hill. The sounds were coming from an Australian enlisted men's club so we hung back from entering. Then four or five of them, all tall men, came out, shook hands, and invited us in; we enjoyed the rest of the evening. I will be forever grateful for their kindness and hospitality.

On another occasion, Muller and two of our crew walked to a small Welsh village. Al, always "camera ready," attempted to take a picture of a "typical" Welsh house, but was set upon by a woman brandishing a broom "You G- d— Limey, get the hell off my property!" (She had mistaken Al's Ike jacket for a British uniform.) When Al convinced her he was really an American, all was forgiven and the pictures taken.

Each day made us more impatient to start on the long trip home. I visited the Maintenance Officer at his Nissen Hut each day. I asked him on the eighth day what kind of part he was waiting for. "A spring," he said, "to pull the landing gear lock into place, about 'so big." I was standing next to a double deck bunk without a mattress. I pointed to the springs: "Like these?" "Yes, it might be worth a try." The spring was in stalled and did work. Our B-24 was now flyable, thanks to a bedspring.

We took off, despite a rough running No. 3 engine, on June 16 headed for Terceira Island, one of the Azores. Unexpected high winds blew us over the coast of Ireland, but Muller quickly corrected. We passed the "point of no return" and headed toward that speck of land that was our "target."

Don Faford, our radio operator, recalls this flight as "the most difficult leg of the journey as far as navigation was concerned...As radio operator, I was working closely with Al Muller to verify our position by radio. I was able to obtain one, possible two fixes by radio bearings, but we were almost entirely relying on Al. About 200 miles from the Azores, 1I lowered the trailing wire antenna to increase our radio range and shortly was able to receive the radio beacon from Terceira and by our radio direction finder was able to give Al a radio bearing to the islands. Al appreciated the information; we were all relieved to know that we were not going to miss our mark. I was so excited by all this that I forgot to retrieve the trailing wire and we lost it during landing. However, Maintenance replaced it in a day or two. They must have replaced quite a few.” I remember only two things about the island: the abject poverty of the people and the price scale for a willing woman's favors — 20 "scoots" (Escudos) to the locals, 40 to the British, and 80 to the Americans, presumably on the basis of ability to pay. (This was hearsay, of course; as transients we were confined to base.)

The flight to Gander, Newfoundland, our longest at 1237 nautical miles was expected to take ten hours but due to changes in forecast weather it took over eleven. On this long flight, passengers and non-flying crew idled away the time in talk, reading, and napping; non-working crew wandered about the plane as desire, all this "activity" amidst the excitement of flying home. On the flight deck, Harry and I took turns flying (mostly auto pilot), Andy monitored fuel consumption and engines, our No. 3 still shaking, Faford exploiting radio signals as available. But it was all work, work, work for Al Muller up front.

Muller recalls "dead reckoning during flight. We flew through a weak front causing changes in original data. A severe bearing correction disconcerted crew and passengers and I had to say repeatedly 'do not alter course' to the accompanying personnel. Every horizon cloud formation, as well as the many icebergs caused the sensation of seeing land — that is, mirages. Thank God that GANDER LF — WYZD radio station was located by Faford, always alert, and whose radio compass bearing was a great comfort in our final leg. The last hour of flying was a blessing and delight to 20 members of the 790th Squadron." (For the record, the pilot did not doubt Muller's headings.)

We came in across northern New Foundland, a barren mountainous land that I thought must look like the surface of the moon. I asked Small to land the plane on the longest and widest runway I had ever seen. He did a perfect job! When we all scrambled out of the plane, our crew from the waist congratulated me but I had to confess that Harry had done it. We spent the evening at the Officers' Club, drinking with a "cosmopolitan" collection of transient airmen from various Air Forces who told some fascinating war stories.

That day, June 19th, 1945 was the last time our crew was effectively together for 33 years. At the Second Air Division Association reunion in San Antonio, September 1978, the nine of us who flew home together — Small, Muller, DeBiasse, Faford, Miller, Hayes, Shaut and myself — plus Bob Snyder were reunited after 33 years. (Bob arrived with us at Rackheath only to be denied the opportunity to fly with us. There were no "openings" for bombardiers on non-lead crews.) We were the first complete crew to attend a 2ADA reunion; we remain in touch and see each other as circumstances permit.

Looking back, it did not occur to me that my landing at Bradley Field was the beginning of the end of my Air Force service. We all "knew" we were going on to the war against Japan, but such was not to be. (Harry and I stayed together through Sioux Falls, where I transitioned to the AT- llC/C-45, then on to Hondo, Texas, where we flew B-24s training B-29 engineer students.) I passed through the Separation Center at Fort Sam Houston on September 17, 1945, Harry re-enlisted to complete a 20-year tour as a fighter pilot.


*Editors note: RZI order has them leaving on the 10th. William Smiths 'Penn. Comp" papers has him returning to the US on the 23rd. Thinking Coffey might have dates incorrect. More research needed.