WWII crew stumbles on Tuskegee Airmen
The bomber was losing altitude at 200 feet per minute.
Anti-aircraft flak had fused the bomb bays open on a run over an industrial rail center in Linz, Austria. Two of four engines had been hit.
Crew 396 faced a dilemma — ditch the plane in the Adriatic Sea or find a place to land within minutes. Nose gunner Michael Preputnik spotted an airstrip on the Eastern Italian coast. It wasn’t on their maps.
The crew thought it had to be a German base. Still, they agreed that being prisoners was better than crashing into the ocean.
The last two engines cut out as pilot 1st Lt. Murl D. Brown landed the damaged bomber.
Parked nearby were P-51 Mustangs with painted red tails, like the fighters that protected them on missions.
To the crew’s surprise, two Black pilots rose from the Mustangs. African American men in Army uniforms packed four jeeps that rolled up to the bomber.
The all-white crew was stunned — the only African American servicemen they had seen during the war were cooks and waiters.
They’d landed at Ramitelli Air Field, Italy, the home base of the Tuskegee Airmen — their escorts on bombing runs. The pilots, their faces obscured by helmets, never broke formation, always close through enemy skies.
Twenty-two years ago, World War II veteran Larry Fleischer revealed how his crew discovered one of the Army Air Corps’ best-kept secrets. Fleischer was a bombardier on the “Yellow Oboe,” a B-24 Liberator stationed in Southern Italy.
Over coffee at a Northeast Side eatery, he rewound time to Jan. 20, 1945 — a fateful day he never forgot.
“People don’t realize the Tuskegee Airmen saved hundreds of lives,” Fleischer said in 2001. “Plus, the fact that every time a plane got back and was able to go again was what won the war. We realize what those men did for us. And we want to continue thanking them.”
The Tuskegee Airmen served when the military was segregated.
The first all-black military pilot squadron escorted allied bombers on long-range missions over the Mediterranean and Europe. Named for their training site in Alabama, the airmen are credited for helping integrate the military.
When I was starting out as a journalist, Fleischer took an interest in my career, always supportive. We met for several years, sharing tales of our backgrounds.
Fleischer was 18 when he was drafted into the Army. He was Jewish, a native of New York City, teeming with all races.
His crew flew 25 missions; eight of the 28 bombers on the 1945 Linz mission never made it back to their base in Southern Italy.
Bombing runs over Afghanistan stirred memories of military service and prompted him to contact the Express-news to gauge interest in the story that impacted the crew’s lives.
At 25,000 feet, the frigid temperature, 60 degrees below zero, froze his eyes open. Three 100-pound live bombs remained stacked in the bay.
Breathing from a portable oxygen bottle, Fleischer crawled into the cramped bay five times to dislodge the ordinance. He lost a boot when his foot got stuck in the racks. Wearing another crewman’s boot, he kicked the bombs loose above the Swiss Alps.
Fleischer suffered severe frostbite that was treated at Ramitelli. During their severalday stay, the crew enjoyed the airmen’s hospitality — all except for the pilot. He wouldn’t sleep on a Black man’s cot.
The pilot spent the first night in the plane, cold from sea air that swept through the bomber. The next night, he accepted his hosts’ invitation to sleep in one of their warmed tents.
Sgt. George Watson, one of the men in the jeeps, wasn’t thrilled about two white enlisted men sleeping in his tent.
On a phone call from his home in Lakewood, N.J., Watson said at first, his attitude was, “These guys didn’t want us in the States. Let them sleep outside.”
It wasn’t long before he joined bunkmates and the white crew members as they swapped war stories.
“That’s the first time we were integrated — for a week,” Watson said.
He stayed in contact with ball turret gunner Frank X. Connolly, who said the story was a “living part of our history.”
Fleischer also kept in touch with fellow crew members.
In October 1997, Fleischer, Connolly and tail gunner Victor Dewolf traveled to Moton Field at Tuskegee and presented a memorial plaque to two original Tuskegee Airmen for saving the bomber crew’s lives during the war.
Fifty-two years after his mission, Fleischer was awarded the Purple Heart. He said his hospital records never reached the Pentagon, and the award was denied because his actions took place over the Alps, a neutral location.
Eventually, efforts by crew members and State Sen. Gregory Luna resulted in recognition of Fleischer’s bravery at a ceremony at Kelly Air Force Base. It felt fitting the Purple Heart was pinned on by Gen. Daniel James III, adjutant general of the Texas National Guard and son of original Tuskegee Airman Gen. Daniel “Chappie” James.
After the war, Fleischer moved to San Antonio, away from the cold of New York that caused recurring pain from the frostbite. He worked as a civil engineer at military bases and later practiced law.
Fleischer died Feb. 13, 2018. He was 93.
But our first meeting remains a lasting memory.
The WWII veteran opened a manila folder and pulled out an old black and white photo of the 10-member crew. The young men, ages 18 to 24, stand in front of their B-24 Liberator.
They’re forever young, ready to fly missions high in enemy skies, protected by the war’s best-kept secret.