Lewis Nathaniel Ellis

Military
media-17365.jpeg UPL 17365 LT. Lewis N. Ellis Crew
389th BG
Crew Roster:
Lt. Lewis N. Ellis, Pilot
Lt. Callistie B. Fager, Copilot
Lt. , Navigator
Lt. Guido Gioana, Bombardier
T. Sgt. Blase Dillman, Engineer
T. Sgt. Arthur T. Waugh, Radio operator
S. Sgt. James W. Ayers, Aerial engineer
S. Sgt. Carl A. Alfredson, Aerial radio operator
S. Sgt. Owen J. Coldiron, Top turret operator
S. Sgt. Nicholas Hunt, Tail turret gunner

389th BG website

Object Number - UPL 17365 - LT. Lewis N. Ellis Crew 389th BG Crew Roster: Lt. Lewis N. Ellis, Pilot Lt. Callistie B. Fager, Copilot Lt. , Navigator Lt. Guido Gioana,...

Lt. Lewis N. Ellis was a B-24D Liberator pilot assigned to fly the airplane named, 'Daisy Mae' on the famous mission to bomb the oil refineries at Ploesti, Romania, from Benghazi, Libya. Before the mission, on July 23,1943 he wrote in his biography about the mission :



Something new is in the air. Today we were introduced to a Major Blank, an expert in low-level bombing, who lectured us on a new bombsight, which was a converted gunsight. He explained how the Douglas A-20s had been making low-level attacks and that experiments were being made with B-24s. He said that he didn’t know if the new sights would ever be used, but we assumed the Air Force wouldn’t be running experiments that far out in the desert for nothing, so we decided to get interested in low-level bombing.



July 24, 1943 . This afternoon several B-24s were rigged up with the new sights, and some of the lead crews ran demonstrations on wooden targets built much like billboards. The planes came in very low and released their bombs just before reaching the target. Bull’s-eyes were scored almost every time.



July 25, 1943 . Today all the ships on our field were suddenly equipped with the new low-altitude sight, and the bombardiers were given special bombing charts. Now we knew they weren’t kidding! Rumors and tall stories began going around the camp about where the attacks would be made. Some guessed the Messina dockyards.



This afternoon we were briefed on low-altitude formation flying and also on security, which wasn’t much of a problem in the desert because there was no one to talk to except ourselves.



July 26, 1943 . Captain Packer called my crew in and explained that our group, the 389th, had more crews and ships than our quota and that the 98th Bomb Group was short, and, since we had joined the group last, we were to fly the next mission with the 98th Group. We, therefore, packed and went the short distance over to the 98th and were assigned the airplane, 'Daisy Mae', a veteran of some fifty six missions but a good ship just the same. Little did we know what a difference this simple transfer was to make for us in the raid to come.



The next five days were busy ones. Every morning we flew low altitude formation from fifty feet down. It was really fun! All five groups, the 44th, 93rd, 98th, 376th, and the 389th, were doing the same thing. I guess we frightened every Arab off every hay wagon and blew down half the tents for fifty miles around. Each morning we added something new. At first we flew in three and six-ship formations, then, squadron formation, then, in our group, and, finally, in five waves with seven ships in each. I was assigned to fly on the left wing of the squadron leader, Maj. Herbert Shingler, of the fourth wave. For days you could look around almost anywhere on the desert and see formations of B-24s skimming along the ground, just missing what few palm trees there were. In open spaces they swooped still lower until they barely missed the ground. The sheepherders on the desert really had a rough time! One lieutenant actually flew so low he scraped off his bomb-bay doors, kicked up a lot of dust, and blew down three tents. On the third day the British engineers erected the “target” on a clear space in the desert. It consisted of a large number of long, low, wooden buildings with an occasional circular building and a few towers. We always dropped a few one-hundred-pound practice bombs, but on the last day we put in some live five-hundred-pounders with delayed fuses and blew the whole thing sky high.





In the afternoon and evenings we studied the target, for by now we knew we were making a low level attack on the Ploesti oil fields in Rumania. I guess we received the most complete and detailed briefing of any air raid in history. Each of our five groups was assigned one of the thirteen oil refineries around Bucharest, and each of the five waves in our group had a certain area. Every airplane had a specific building or a part of a building on which the bombs were to be placed. Our target was the left end of a boiler house; the ship behind us was assigned the right end. The briefing facilities, equipment, and assistance were unlimited. We had draftsmen to make drawings and sketches of every route, every target, every building. They constructed wooden models, to scale, of every building and every oil storage tank. We had pictures, maps, and drawings galore. Every pilot, navigator, and bombardier knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Group commanders Colonel Kane, Colonel Wood, Colonel Timberlake, and wing commander Brig. Gen. Ent knew all the targets better than the crews themselves. General Brereton and Air Chief Marshal Tedder talked with all the crews. In the evenings we were shown motion pictures of the target area and buildings, some borrowed from the files of American oil companies in the States, and some smuggled out of occupied Rumania. One evening a group of engineers who had helped to build the refineries spoke to us and described many of the buildings, how they were constructed and how the plants could best be put out of action. For five days we talked only of Ploesti, trying to digest all the information the intelligence section had spent so long in preparing. On Sunday, August 1, we were ready.



On August 1, 1943 at 3:30 A.M. the assistant operations officer came around to our tent and woke us up for the mission. We dressed, ate breakfast, and went over to the briefing hut. Not much additional briefing was necessary, so thorough had been our previous study of the target. Colonel Kane, from Shreveport, Louisiana, did most of the talking. He reminded me a lot of Wallace Beery, only he was younger and tougher. He reviewed the formation board and the briefed route from Benghazi to the island of Corfu, to the target, back to Corfu, and home, just as simple as that. It was a twenty-four hundred mile flight. We had an extra bomb-bay tank, which gave us a total of thirty-one hundred gallons of gasoline in addition to our bomb load of three 1,000-pound bombs with long-delay fuses, plus some incendiary clusters and an extra-large load of ammunition. We had the ten regular .50-caliber machine guns and two extras—double-waist guns, very formidable weapons. The weather officer, Captain Anderson, explained the situation. Pretty heavy clouds were expected along the coast in the Corfu area. Otherwise it was OK. The intelligence officer, Major Exnicios, briefly reviewed the targets. Ours was Target White IV, the Astra-Romano refinery, Blue Route, Building No. 6, the oil refining plant. We already knew it perfectly. The question was raised whether we should carry our pistols. Colonel Kane explained that it was optional and that, personally, if he went down, he was going to shoot his way out of Rumania, and about half the crews decided to take them along. Our crew didn’t. But everyone did take his water canteen in addition to the huge thermos jug in the ship and a good supply of K rations.



Altogether the briefing was comparatively short for so important a mission, but practically everything had already been covered many times in previous sessions. We went out to check over our ship. The mechanics had been working all night to get everything in shape, and it looked pretty good. The crew members reported their equipment as being in proper condition. Takeoff was scheduled for 6:30 A.M.



Father Beck came around in his jeep to give final blessings and to pick up any last-minute “just in case” mail, letters to be sent in case the crew didn’t return. Almost everyone had already completed his letters home the day before. This was the first time we had written letters of this kind, and everyone knew this would be a tough assignment. Colonel Wood had said this mission was the reason for our trip to Africa, and Gen. Brereton had explained that if the entire group was lost, the destruction of the target would be worth it. Not much consolation.



Pretty soon it was time to start the engines and taxi out. All of the fellows said goodbye to "Peanuts", our mascot terrier, before turning him over to the crew chief for safekeeping. We had often discussed the possibility of taking him on a mission, but no one thought it was a good idea to take "Peanuts" to Ploesti for his first trip.



As we taxied out, everyone was quiet and confident, at least outwardly. During our few missions in Africa we had learned something about fear and how to control it.



The ships were marshaled in long lines on both sides of the field, tails pointing slightly downwind to prevent columns of dust from covering the ships. Lt. Cal Fager and I ran up the engine and went through the checklist automatically. Then, trying to appear nonchalant, I smiled and said, “Here we go, boy.” I gave it full throttle, and we began to gain speed across the dirt runway, then lifted slowly into the air. I had hardly relaxed after the takeoff because getting safely into the air with a heavily loaded ship is always a mental strain on pilots and quite often on other members of the crew, as well. When Lieutenant Klinkbeil said over the interphone, “Navigator to pilot, a plane has just crashed south of the field. You can see it if you look out your left side window.” Something had gone wrong on the takeoff and Johnny Young's plane, the 'Kickapoo' with it's replacement crew, had crashed and burned furiously. This was a bad omen at the beginning of our trip and I said to myself, “Tough luck.”



We circled over the field and formed the group above the black, billowing smoke of the burning ship and headed north, on course, across the blue Mediterranean. The other four groups were flying parallel courses, two up front and one on either side.



Sixty minutes went by without incident. Then suddenly the navigator, who always saw things first, called out that a lead ship up ahead, 'Wongo Wongo', was losing altitude and was going to crash and, sure enough, down it went, a long trail of blue smoke following it into the water. The radio operator reported that the leader had radioed a distress signal to Malta, but we could see no survivors.



Another hour went by and we passed over the southern tip of the island of Corfu and headed northeast across Greece where it joins Albania. As we crossed the coast we expected some flak but saw none. We were flying low, six thousand feet, to avoid alerting the German radar stations, but now we had to climb to pass over the Pindus Mountains. So up we went to eleven thousand feet. We were over enemy territory and heading straight for Ploesti, still five hundred miles away.



The weather above the mountains was worse than we had expected, large cumulus clouds had developed and were towering high above the formation. Three planes began clipping the edges of the clouds, some losing the formation altogether for several minutes. It was difficult just to keep the groups together, impossible to keep them in their proper positions. The lead group became separated, and we did not see it again until we reached the target area.



Across the mountains the weather began to get a little better, and we started letting down to three thousand feet and finally to one thousand feet. We continued across Greece, southern Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, over the Danube, and straight into Rumania. One navigator noted in his log, “The Danube River isn’t blue, but brown.”



At this low altitude we had a good view of the countryside. Bombardier Gioana pointed out a Rumanian festival in full swing with girls in colorful dresses. They were unaccustomed to air raids and waved as we went by. Farmers were ploughing in the small, square fields. Some stopped to look upward, using their hands to shade the sun from their eyes; others ignored us completely. Some fields were green with wheat. In others sunflowers were growing between the rows of corn. Occasionally we passed yellow haystacks, which reflected the bright sunlight. It was a beautiful country and looked quite peaceful.



We had been briefed to expect fighters any time after making landfall, and this thought limited our enjoyment of the scenery. We flew for two and a half hours in a straight line to a little town in Rumania called Pitesti. This was the place where the five groups would break up and proceed to their respective targets. Once, we turned down the wrong valley but quickly turned back and were finally on our bomb run. We were at five hundred feet now and still going down. From Pitesti to Ploesti was only twelve miles, yet it was the longest twelve miles I ever hope to fly. The peaceful countryside wasn’t peaceful anymore: the Germans had made good use of their two or three hours’ advance warning. Haystacks opened up and turned into gun nests, machine guns and flak guns were on every hill. By now, we were down to two hundred feet, but we knew instantly that we were still much too high. Down we went to one hundred feet, fifty feet, twenty-five feet, just clearing the bushes and shrubbery. At 2300 rpm and thirty-seven inches we were doing 230 mph in tight formation. As we got closer we were surprised to see B-24s from another group, the 93rd Bomb Group bombing our target. The ack-ack boys were already at work, and the oil tanks were smoking and burning furiously. Our route followed a railway line to the target. As we headed into the target area, dozens of machine guns from a flak train alongside opened up, and then all hell broke loose! Thousands of tracers crisscrossed through the sky making beautiful but terrifying patterns. I saw one heavy 88mm gun fire,d point blank, and a long arm of orange flame spouted from the muzzle.



Coming out of the smoke on the far side of the target seemed like a miracle, unbelievable! The tail gunner said, “Look at all that oil burning!”

Our gunners were not idle. Twelve .50-caliber machine guns from each ship spouted continuous rounds of deadly fire concentrating on anything that moved. Many gun emplacements were put out of action. Many ground gun emplacements were destroyed. Our lead ships had several extra fixed guns in the nose section that fired continuously until the ammo ran out. One ship made a belly landing, and a couple of the crew members scrambled for cover. The storage tanks were exploding, now, with burning oil flowing out, making towering black smoke clouds. But we could still see the outline of the target, the buildings, and the chimneys. I was astonished to hear Gioana say calmly over the Interphone, “We’re headed straight for our building. Make sure you pull up in time.” When the smoking target was almost in the windshield, Cal and I both hauled back on the wheel, held it a few seconds, and pushed it forward again, barely clearing the chimneys as we plunged through the smoke. I felt the bombs go and saw several balloon cables snap as they struck our wings. A ship on our left waited too long to pull up and flew directly into a storage tank. Burning pieces of it disintegrated into the air, and crewmen were thrown in every direction. Other ships, hopelessly damaged on the bomb run, plunged directly into the burning target.



Coming out of the smoke on the far side of the target seemed like a miracle, unbelievable! We looked around to assess the damage. Our number three engine had been hit and was smoking. I reduced power and waited before feathering it. The nosewheel was knocked out. The hydraulic system was inoperative, fluid pouring into the bomb bay. The top turret was out, and one gun in the tail turret was inoperative. Flak holes were all over the fuselage, and several were in the wings and engine nacelles. But, we were still flying, and no one was badly injured. Our chances looked pretty good, so far.



Others ships had not been so lucky. 'Boilermaker Number II' wasn’t with us anymore. 'The Cornhusker' had gone down. 'Lil Joe' wasn’t there, nor 'Semper Felix', 'Old Baldy', 'Air Lobe', 'Vulgar Virgin', and others. Over on the right, a B-24 suddenly started climbing, stalled, and spun in. Another, trailing smoke, was forced to crash land in a long field. A twin engine fighter crashed in flames. I was amazed at my subconscious mind's ability to record so many details at a glance.



Out of the target area, the formation had loosened up, but we closed in again quickly. I ended up on the right wing of Maj. Herbert Shingler, from Tennessee, our squadron commander, and flew the tightest formation I had ever flown. JU-88s and ME-109s were attacking stragglers and cripples and anyone above one hundred feet. We had been briefed to fly low to make fighter attacks more difficult, and for fifty miles after the target we skimmed the deck, cutting corn, wheat, and sunflowers with the propellers. The engineer, Sergeant Dillman, was posted between the seats as a safety measure, to observe any obstructions that Cal and I might miss. Lieutenant Gioana in the nose was very much concerned about a small wooden tower coming up ahead, which we had already seen, and he screamed over the interphone until, at the last instant, we pulled up and just cleared it.



The navigator reported that Colonel Kane’s ship, 'Hail, Columbia' , had slipped behind and turned off course with his #4 engine feathered. For fifty miles, we flew low at 175 mph. Then someone called the leader over the command radio and complained that his rudder section had been damaged and fluttered if he flew above 160, so we slowed down. Before reaching the target, I had become very tired from flying, and Cal relieved me about every thirty minutes. Now, somehow, I felt fresh, almost completely rested, in spite of everything that had happened. Now, I was thoroughly enjoying flying. We buzzed over small villages and, invariably, people waved. We passed so close over a two-wheeled hay wagon that three girls in brightly colored skirts jumped off, but nevertheless they smiled and waved. I wondered if they knew who we were.



Just past the Danube River, we started a gradual climb. We flew north of Pleven, Bulgaria, and later passed south of Sofia. At about five thousand feet, someone suddenly called out “Fighters at three o’clock and a little high.” Sergeant Coldiron in the top turret, our best man on aircraft recognition, looked them over and decided they were Italian fighters, and he was right. They made a few passes and did not press the attack. I think we actually scared them away with our tracers, which showed up brilliantly in the rather dark sky. There were many thunderheads in this area on this day.



We continued our climb to eleven thousand feet to clear the mountains. Some of the damaged ships were unable to climb and were forced to turn south and fly down the winding river valley. As we crossed the southern tip of Corfu, we breathed a premature sigh of relief. But, the worst was yet to come! We had only nine B-24s left in the formation of thirty-five starting with our group, and, again, we heard the announcement, “Fighters, three o’clock, straight in the sun.” We looked closely and there were fifteen ME-109s flying along parallel to our course, looking us over. We tightened up the formation a bit and waited. I was on the right wing and dropped down a little to uncover the guns of the ship on my left. Pretty soon the 109s dropped their belly gas tanks, and five of them started in, flying abreast in a shallow V-shape formation. There was no surprise action. We recognized this as a cool, well planned, German attack, and we knew the Jerries would not be frightened away. We either had to shoot them down, or be shot down, ourselves, or wait for them to run out of gas. At one thousand yards, we started firing, and at eight hundred yards everyone was firing. Tracers literally covered the sky, and 20mm shells exploded all through the formation. Our gunners got the range, and the two ME-109s on the right were hit hard. One exploded immediately, and the other blew up just after passing the formation. The second Jerry bailed out in a yellow parachute.



But we didn't win that round. One B-24 was hit and burning furiously, and the crew members were already bailing out. That left eight B-24s in formation for the second attack. The Jerries tried the same tactics, this time six abreast. Again, they all fired together, and the lead 109 completely disintegrated in the air, as it was caught in our crossfire. Another was smoking, and, again, a B-24 went down in flames. This time, we only counted five chutes out.



Then, the Jerries changed their tactics again and began coming in individually and from all directions. On the second pass, we received several holes in the fuselage, and Lt. Gioana, who exchanged places with Sgt. Alfredson and Sgt. Ayers, were injured by 20mm explosions. Lt. Gioana said, “I guess we get the Purple Heart.” Another individual fighter slipped in from directly astern and made a direct hit on the armored glass of the tail turret, knocking Sgt. Hunt into the fuselage and putting the turret out of action. Hunt got up and manned a waist gun. Now, we had only our waist guns working and quickly transferred our spare ammunition to these positions.





A 20mm explosion knocked a large hole in the left rudder, and still another tore away a large piece of elevator surface. And, then, suddenly two more shells exploded in the fuselage and seriously wounded Lieutenant Gioana. He had thirty five cuts, mostly on his torso and legs. The explosions severed the control cables. The nose dropped slightly, and the ship started into a shallow bank to the left, out of control. Cal turned and said, “Let’s move back up into formation.” I answered, “Can’t do it. Controls are gone.” As I pulled the control column completely back in my lap. I automatically reached for the elevator trim tab, but that, too, was severed and loose. I almost pushed the alarm button to bail out, but, then, remembered the auto pilot, which I always kept warmed up. I reached over and flipped it “on”, and, thank heaven, it was working. By this time we were down about five hundred feet below the formation. I adjusted the elevator and aileron trim knobs, and the nose came up slowly. We moved under the formation, where we stayed for about fifteen minutes until the fighters, out of gas, finally left us.



Now, we started sweating out the gas. Sergeant Dillman figured we had enough to last until 7:00 P.M. Lt Klinkbeil said we would never make it. So, we decided to stretch it as far as we could. We threw out all the guns, except two, and most of the ammunition, and everything else we figured we wouldn’t need if we were forced to ditch. I cut back the rpm to 1700 and the MAP to twenty five inches and indicated only 155 mph. The number three engine was running smoothly now. I could see flak hits on the top cylinders and several spark plug wires dangling in the air.



We knew the engines were still running, but they couldn’t last much longer. The gas gauges indicated zero. It was 9:30 P.M. We only needed a few more minutes.

Sgt Ayers, Alfredson, and Coldiron were in the back bandaging themselves and Lt. Gioana, who was passed out from loss of blood. Sgt Dillman was busy splicing the severed control cables dangling all over the fuselage.



We watched for the coastline and did a lot of praying. Several times we thought we could see the coast, but it would always turn out to be a long string of clouds. Finally, it began to get dark, and our spirits dropped even more. Gas was critical, and Dillman said he didn’t see how it could last much beyond 9 P.M.



I couldn’t decide for sure what was best to do. I knew that ditching a B-24 at night was a very hazardous undertaking and should be done only while we still had power. Bailing out into our individual dinghies would have been okay for everyone except Lt. Gioana, who was unconscious. We decided to keep flying until we ran out of gas and then ditch without benefit of power from the engines. We reviewed the ditching procedure and did some more silent praying. Finally we saw some red flares straight ahead and knew we were approaching the field. Lieutenant Klinkbeil had kept us exactly on course. The engines were still going but couldn’t last much longer; the gas gauges indicated zero. It was already 9:30 P.M. We only needed a few more minutes! Sergeant Dillman cranked down the main wheels as we crossed the coastline, saving what little hydraulic fluid we still had for the flaps. The nosewheel was useless, so we left it up. The radio was not working, but we could see other planes landing into the northwest. I flew to the right of the field and started a gradual left hand turn. We were at about five hundred feet, and as we came in on the final approach, Cal started pumping down the flaps. I put the rpm up to 2100 but knew we could never go around if we missed the first time. Cal got the flaps halfway down and operated the ailerons and rudder. I manipulated the autopilot elevator knob and handled the throttles. At two hundred feet Cal put on the landing lights. The ship was light. So we slowed down to 100 mph as we flared. The wheels touched and she bounced several feet. I advanced the throttles, and she settled back to the ground just as one engine cut out. She rolled halfway across the field, and the nose began scraping the ground until we came to an abrupt stop. It was 9:54 P.M., fifteen hours after takeoff.



We were overjoyed just to be back on the ground. But our first concern was Lt Gioana. We fired several red flares as we came in, and the ambulance met us on the runway. The attendants lifted him out of the plane. He was a mess, clothes all torn up, all bandaged and covered with blood, like the airplane was, too. I thought sure he was dying or dead because he was so pale and white. But, he rallied and said, “Sure glad to be back.” That night he spent four hours on the operating table. He had a temperature of 105, received two blood transfusions, and lived !



Sgts. Hunt, Ayers, and Waugh were taken to the hospital but were released after first aid treatment. The rest of us went to interrogation where General Ent and General Brereton were very much interested in all the details of the mission. I was amazed to see Sergeant Alfredson in a huddle with both generals, telling them “just how it happened.” After that we went over to the mess tent, where they were serving “fresh” eggs—all we could eat. Lieutenant Klinkbeil ate ten and regretted his inability to make it an even dozen. After eating all we possibly could and relaxing a bit, we began to realize just how tired we really were. Up to now we had been busy trying to learn what had happened to all the fellows, where and when they went down, and what damage had been received by the ones who got back.



August 2, 1943 . At about six o’clock in the afternoon we woke up and decided to have a look around to check up on some more of the fellows.



We learned that Lt. William Nading, on the last ship in his group over the target, had followed his leader, Capt. Robert Mooney in 'Blonds Away' out of the target area, only to learn that Capt Mooney had been killed by machine gun fire, and the copilot was flying the badly damaged ship and trying to stay on course. Lt. Nading took over the lead, realized that the five damaged ships in the formation could never climb over the Carpathian Mountains, and decided to head for Cyprus. Lt. Charles Weinberg, his navigator, ran out of pilotage maps over Turkey but used a large Mercator map to pinpoint the tiny island in the middle of the Mediterranean. It had a small airdrome and short runway, but all the ships got down safely and were refueled. Colonel Kane, too, made it safely to Cyprus, after making a crash landing, destroying "Hail Columbia' by running over a ditch the Brits had dug across the runway threshold.



We heard that after Col. Leon Johnson’s ship landed, the colonel noticed that his waist gunner, on his first mission, was looking a little sad. So the colonel explained to him that all his mission’s wouldn’t be as rough as Ploesti. The gunner was greatly relieved.



Several ships from other fields had crash landed at our base, and some of them looked like wrecks. Ours, 'Daisy Mae' , didn’t look so good herself. The crew chief and his men were already working on her. They had counted more than 150 holes all over the ship, flak, machine gun, and 20mm. Number three engine was in bad shape. Flak had knocked several holes in the nacelle and cowling and penetrated the oil cooler in several places. The top was knocked off of the two top cylinders, and four spark-plug wires were severed. They were unable to measure any gas in the tanks at all and doubted if it would have flown five minutes longer.



The most ironic part of the whole thing was when Capt. Thomas Campbell, who had flown 'Daisy Mae' on thirty five missions, told me that he had never been able to get the autopilot elevator control to work at all. The fact that it worked for us undoubtedly saved our lives.



We began to get some summary figures about the mission: “A total of 178 B-24s took off and 140 reached and bombed the target. Fifty-nine aircraft were shot down or crashed en route, of which 20 were lost over the target. Eight landed in neutral Turkey and were interned. The casualties totaled 450 killed or missing and 79 interned. A total of 51 enemy fighters were shot down, ME-109s and -110s, FW-190s, JU-88s, and some unidentified Romanian bi-planes.”



Early reports indicated that great damage was done to the targets at Ploesti, so everyone felt pretty good except for our heavy losses. We stopped by to see Lt. Gioana as soon as he could have visitors.



August 13, 1943 . It had been pretty quiet around the base for several days, but today the groups went to Wiener Neustadt, another long mission, and landed at Tunis. Our crew didn’t go because our new ship, 'Pistol Packin’ Mama' , was having an engine changed.



August 26, 1943 . Our African campaign was finally ended! We packed up, took off, circled over the field, and buzzed the place in formation as a farewell gesture. We flew over to Oran, landed, and stayed the night, and next day flew on to Marrakech. The following night we took off for dear old England and landed at our home base about noon.



September 15, 1943 . Today we were presented with awards and medals for the Ploesti mission. It was a large gathering and there were Distinguished Service Crosses, Distinguished Flying Crosses, and Air Medals galore. A couple of Congressional Medals, for Colonel Johnson and Colonel Kane, had already been presented. Colonel Timberlake presented the awards to our group and said a lot of nice things about everybody. It’s too bad that the many fellows who really earned the medals weren’t there to receive them.





Here are the full names of the crew of the B-24, 'Daisy Mae' :



Lt. Lewis N. Ellis, Pilot



Lt. Callistie "Cal" B. Fager, Copilot



Lt. Julius M. Klinkbeil, Navigator



Lt. Guido Gioana, Bombardier



T. Sgt. Blase Dillman, Engineer



T. Sgt. Arthur T. Waugh, Radio operator



S. Sgt. James W. Ayers, Aerial engineer



S. Sgt. Carl A. Alfredson, Aerial radio operator



S. Sgt. Owen J. Coldiron, Top turret operator



S. Sgt. Nicholas Hunt, Tail turret gunner



Other participants mentioned in Lieutenant Ellis’s diary:



Capt. E. W. Anderson, Weather officer



Capt. Gerald O. Beck, Chaplain



Lt. Gen. Lewis H. Brereton, Commanding general



Brig. Gen. Uzal S. Ent, Commanding general



Maj. Marshall O. Exnicios, Intelligence officer



Col. Leon W. Johnson, Group commander 44th



Col. John R. Kane, Group commander 98th Bomb Group



Capt. Leon C. Packer, Assistant operations officer



Maj. Herbert Shingler, Squadron leader



Air Chief Marshal Arthur Tedder, Royal Air Force



Col. Edward J. Timberlake, Group commander 93rd



Col. Jack W. Wood, Group commander 389th Bomb Squadron



Lt. Col. Lewis N. Ellis died March 18, 1999 in Georgetown - American Heritage - October/November 1983 - Volume 34 - Issue 6

Connections

See how this entry relates to other items in the archive by exploring the connections below.

Units served with

The insignia of the 389th Bomb Group.
  • Unit Hierarchy: Group
  • Air Force: Eighth Air Force
  • Type Category: Bombardment

People

  • Military/Civilian/Mascot: Military
  • Nationality: American
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group
  • Highest Rank: Staff Sergeant
  • Role/Job: Waist Gunner
  • Military/Civilian/Mascot: Military
  • Nationality: American
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group
  • Highest Rank: Staff Sergeant
  • Role/Job: Waist Gunner
  • Military/Civilian/Mascot: Military
  • Nationality: American
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group 565th Bomb Squadron
  • Service Numbers: 25457408
  • Highest Rank: Technical Sergeant (2nd Grade)
  • Role/Job: Top Turret Gunner
  • Military/Civilian/Mascot: Military
  • Nationality: American
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group 98th Bomb Group
  • Highest Rank: Technical Sergeant
  • Role/Job: Flight Engineer / Top Turret Gunner
  • Military/Civilian/Mascot: Military
  • Nationality: American
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group 565th Bomb Squadron
  • Service Numbers: 17064828 / O-739928
  • Highest Rank: First Lieutenant
  • Role/Job: Co-Pilot

Aircraft

  • Aircraft Type: B-24 Liberator
  • Nicknames: Daisy Mae
  • Unit: 98th Bomb Group 415th Bomb Squadron
  • Aircraft Type: B-24 Liberator
  • Nicknames: Pistol Packin Mama
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group 565th Bomb Squadron 8th Air Force Finance
  • Aircraft Type: B-24 Liberator
  • Nicknames: Missouri Mauler - Playmate
  • Unit: 389th Bomb Group 801st Bomb Group 567th Bomb Squadron 492nd Bomb Group

Missions

Places

Events

Event Location Date Description

Born

Chattanooga, Tennessee 12 June 1915

Died

Bethesda, MD, USA 18 March 1999

Buried

Arlington National Cemetery 29 March 1999 Arlington National Cemetery Arlington Arlington County Virginia, USA Plot: Section 66 Site 4742

Based

Assigned to 565BS, 389BG, 8AF USAAF.

Revisions

Date
ContributorKickapoo
Changes
Sources

American Heritage - October/November 1983 - Volume 34 - Issue 6

Date
ContributorKickapoo
Changes
Sources

The Heritage Foundation - Col. Lewis N. Ellis

Date
ContributorKickapoo
Changes
Sources

Spelling for clarity and accuracy - John S Young Jr

Date
ContributorKickapoo
Changes
Sources

Spelling and wording corrections for clarity - John S Young Jr

Date
ContributorKickapoo
Changes
Date
Contributor466thHistorian
Changes
Sources

americanheritage.com

Date
ContributorAAM
Changes
Sources

'Ploesti' by Dugan & Stewart & page 258 in the book SECOND AIR DIVISION, D790.A2S45, 1998 edition / Drawn from the records of the National Museum of the Mighty Eighth Air Force, Savannah, Georgia

Lewis Nathaniel Ellis: Gallery (1 items)