Lustig David C.

The Last Over the Target
David C. Lustig, radio operator of the 547th Bombardment Squadron, 384th Bombardment Group, 8th Air Army

Long 45 years after the fateful April raid on Škoda, David Lustig, radio operator of the 547th Bombardment Squadron, 384th Bombardment Group during the war, and one of the direct participants in the final “Flying Fortress” operation against a target in occupied Czechoslovakia, visited Pilsen and the former Škoda Company Museum. He wrote engagingly about the course of his last mission:
"It was still dark when we emerged from our quarters in the early morning hours of 25 April 1945 after waking up. The humid air over Grafton Underwood was thick with drowsiness as one by one we came out of the darkness into the tobacco-smoked briefing room. The aircrews of the 384th Bombardment Group sat in silent anticipation on hard wooden benches. The operations officer stepped to the podium and raised a curtain covering a map of the European battlefield with the target of today's raid marked on it. Pilsen, in occupied Czechoslovakia, the primary target being the Plzeň armaments factory, Škoda. It will mean a nine to ten hour flight. The plant is to be attacked only in good visibility. When the weatherman predicted that visibility over the target would be about unlimited, the hum in the hall grew louder.
This was my twenty-second raid as a radio operator and gunner with the 547th Bombardment Squadron, and my first flight with Captain McCartney. Our plane was to fly the lead of the top squadron. After listening to the radio operator's instructions and receiving the day's radio code, and with a satchel full of flares, I jumped on the truck, which sped off in the dark and cold to our stand. After a brief visit to the adjacent armory to pick up a 50 caliber machine gun barrel, I slipped through the back door into the dimly lit interior of our ‘flying fortress’ B-17G. One of the advantages of having a leading aircraft was that the machine was usually newer and better equipped than others that were already war-worn and bore the scars of much combat.
For this flight I was to share my workspace with Lt Edwards and his instrument for target acquisition through the clouds. Personally, I never understood why Edwards was to take part in the raid when the order was given to bomb only visually. Despite this unusual load, the radar jamming equipment and the usual 1,500 kg bombs, our four Pratt & Whitney engines pulled us into the dark sky before we crossed the runway. As we climbed to altitude, I watched the two-tone flares that splashed overhead, which I fired to identify our aircraft as the lead for the other eleven flying behind us.
Having carried out the usual radio procedures, I tried to relieve the tension by listening to the music being broadcast by the BBC. Instead of music, however, I heard an announcement that shook my nerves. The BBC radio station carried a special advance warning from the High Command of the Allied Expeditionary Force addressed to the workers in the Skoda plant: ‘Leave the plant and stay outside as bomber planes are on their way to attack your plant’. It was the first air raid so announced. I immediately shared my surprise with the other nine ‘lucky’ crew members. Their notes cannot be printed.
Our P-51 fighters have always almost guaranteed our mass arrival over the target. However, this announcement, which led the Nazis to strengthen their air defenses, changed our prospects for a smooth bombing run rather cruelly. Only now did we understand the order to ‘bomb only visible targets’. The High Command ordered us to spare Czech lives, even at the cost of our own. Be that as it may, we were already at 21,800 feet and it was almost a perfect spring day when we got above the initiation point.
Within minutes, black clouds began to appear on the side of my left window. Suddenly the plane began to shake with nearby explosions all along its length. Grenade shrapnel bounced off the shiny aluminum surface like hail off a tin roof, and I ducked deeper under my steel helmet and flak jacket. The intensity of the gunfire was incredibly strong when the silence of our comms phone was broken by the voice of the bombardier, ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six’, his slow counting seemed endless, ‘five, four, three, two, one’. But then came the voice, ‘Turn around, Mac!’ and the pilot, obeying the call of his bombardier, banked the aircraft sharply to take it out of range of the anti-aircraft fire. My eagerly awaited twenty-second report, ‘The bomb bay is empty!’ was postponed.
The moment our squadron made a wide arc towards the starting point, an incredible sight filled my right window. Hundreds of flying fortresses in tight formation, slowly and uninterrupted, were pushing forward towards a massive, seemingly motionless, smoke-filled ball of exploding anti-aircraft shells. Suddenly this almost peaceful sight was interrupted as one ‘Seventeen’ broke apart, long tongues of orange flames and black smoke accompanying its falling debris from this tortured patch of sky. I stopped counting the open parachutes of the crew members as another plane headed towards the ground with a trail of black smoke. Now our predicament was clear to me. The desperation I had felt as we flew with a monotonous hum towards the target again has come back to me countless times since.
The escalating anti-aircraft fire gave me a feeling of freezing hell. I reached out and unplugged the cord of my heated jumpsuit - sweat ran in rivulets down my body. I glanced at Edwards, expecting a reassuring smile, but all I saw was a figure crouched under a helmet and glued to a radar screen. The plane over-jumped with alarming regularity, and the impacts and reflections of the shrapnel grew stronger and stronger. Suddenly, the silence on the phone was broken by the navigator's shout: 'They're gonna get us Mac! Take evasive action! Take evasive action!' I'll never forget McCartney's cool, sleepy reply, 'Fisher's in command, Schultz, Fisher's in command!' After a moment, Fisher started counting down: ‘Ten, nine, eight...’
With my left index finger on the camera shutter, I opened the plywood door over the open bomb bay. It was unreal! Below us was the peaceful, green, sun-drenched Bohemian countryside, floating slowly under the white lambs with the terrifying explosions of anti-aircraft shells between them. The ringing buzz of a large grenade shrapnel rolling down a 250lb bomb suspended in a bomb bay interrupted this fascinating spectacle. Instinctively, I slammed the door. Later we often laughed at the false security the plywood door presented to us. Another large shard tore through the bulkhead and the wooden floor at my feet. Convinced the gunners had us in their sights, I pulled my parachute under my bulletproof vest and put my feet on the frequency meter under the table. Fisher kept the plane flailing under the directional strikes and continued counting down: ‘Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one’ - and then came the incredible 'Turn it, Mac, turn it!'
A near-perpendicular turn to the right took us out of the shot as our Flake-scattered squadron turned wide at the third attempt and headed for the finish. Light clouds prevented Fisher from seeing the target for a second time, and just as ordered he did not want to endanger the civilian population.
Exhausted and resigned to my fate, I watched the panorama of destruction as we passed over the target point for the third time. While we had been the lead aircraft in the first attack, we now found ourselves at the very end, praying that the air defenses would exhaust their ammunition before we were over the armory again. But we were not so lucky! By being the last squadron in the noon sky, we became the ideal and virtually only target for this third attempt, which made the blood run cold in our veins. The bombshell opened up again, Fisher started the countdown, the pounding and rumbling started again. We knew we were either going to complete the mission or die. Fuel reserves were dwindling and getting home could become a serious problem. 'Three, two, one - drop the bombs!' Our prayers were answered.
As the last of our twelve 250lb bombs left the bomb bay, I hit the camera lever switch and pressed the phone button. 'The bomb bay is empty! The bomb bay is empty!' I hung up while Pilot McCartney maneuvered the plane to escape the artillery fire. At that moment the phone in my helmet came to life: 'Bomber to radio operator - main target bombed - results very good!' I quickly scrambled the bombardier's information, contacted our base and tapped out a report of our success.
10 hours and 15 minutes after take-off, we reported to our intelligence officer on the progress of the action, exhausted and with bruises from our oxygen masks framing our tired faces. There were over fifty holes in our plane. One grenade, probably a 37mm, had pierced the entire main spar of the right wing without exploding. Otherwise, the course of our last flight would never have been told.
As far as I know, it was the last strategic strike of the 8th Air Force in World War II. Apparently, I also broadcast the last message of the 8th Air Army raid."

From the book 500 Hours to Victory/500 Hours to Victory by Karel Foud, Milan Jíša, Ivan Rollinger