Prisoner of War (POW) P-51 44-14644 'Damn Yank III' Crashed near Straubing.



An article written by Ken Wright "When ya Gotta Go ya Gotta Go" - Answering Nature's call at 26,000 Feet, discusses "bodily functions" of combat aircrew during WW2. Larry Dissette contributed the following:

“A day in mid-winter 1944–45 with a bright and clear sky over Europe at 28,000 feet. Below us lie solid snow white stratform clouds. Three hours has brought my fighter squadron escorting heavy bombers on a mission, deep into enemy German territory. The air temperature outside of the canopied cockpit of the Mustang fighter is at least -40 degrees Fahrenheit at this altitude. Body comfort in the cockpit depends on having at least two layers of clothes under the flying suit and heavy boots with leather gloves under the gauntlets.



My bladder has been sending urgent messages for the last half-hour to evacuate the remnants of last night’s over indulgence in English beer. Responding reluctantly to the ‘Maximum Tolerance Pressure’ I prepare. I sweep the sky visually, move the other members of the flight into a loose formation and trim the plane for straight and level flight.

he second part of the drill is to loosen the restricting crash straps and impatiently locate the funnel shaped relief tube clipped under the bucket seat, then hopefully place it between my thighs. Finally, I probe through two zippers and long underwear for the organ of my discontent. The offending organ’s head retracts in terror and revulsion when it feels the cold glove. Precious moments are lost warming the rejected hand and enticing the reluctant digit to pour forth its voluminous donation into the receptive relief tube.



Oh no! The exterior exhaust end of the relief tube is iced up. There I sit, half finished, holding a container of steaming urine in my hand. My dilemma is abruptly terminated by an urgent radio call from my wing man: ‘Red Leader, Bandits’ seven o’clock high, coming in on your tail. Break left!’



Disregarding everything, I grab the throttle and control stick and snap into a defensive Lufberry turn. The unconfined liquid splashed onto the windshield and canopy, freezing instantly. Tearing the gloves off my hands with my teeth, I frantically scratched at the yellow coating of ice restricting my visibility. At the same time, I kept my aircraft trembling on the edge of a high speed stall. My unrestricted visibility returned after the longest and busiest five minutes of my life, to reveal an empty sky. The lonely flight back to base, plus landing, proved uneventful.



My crew chief waited faithfully as I taxied back to the revetment area. After I parked and opened the canopy, this imperturbable mechanic stood on the wing and leaned into the cockpit to help me unbuckle all the straps. He sniffed the air like a bird dog and casually remarked: ‘It smells like you wus awful scared cap’n.’ ”



From http://www.vintagewings.ca/VintageNews/Stories/tabid/116/articleType/Art...