Wallkill Valley Times, Wednesday, August 23, 2017
for the other eleven planes to assemble
on our tail. With the routine radio
procedures accomplished, I tried to relax
by listening to music or news on the BBC.
I was astonished by a nerve shattering
announcement that the BBC and Radio
Free Europe were warning the Czech
workers at Skoda to “Get out and stay
out” because bombers were on their way
to blast their factories. This was the first
such preannouncement raid of the war! I
immediately shared this revelation with
the other nine “lucky” crew members.
Their comments are unprintable.
During this late phase of the war,
P-51 fighter cover usually guaranteed our
arriving at the target area unhindered by
ME-109’s or FW-190’s; however, it took a
little imagination to realize that giving
enemy flak batteries plenty of advanced
notice made our bomb run prospect pretty
grim. By now the briefing admonition to
“bomb the primary target visually only”
began to sink in. Supreme Headquarters
Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF) was
determined to spare Czech lives-even at
the expense of our own.
At any rate,we were flying at 22,000
feet on a near perfect spring day when
we turned on the Initial Point (l.P.) About
nine tight formations --over 300 B- 17’s
stretched out behind us. On this cloudless
April 25th day, all the markings of a milk
run were useless. All the extra equipment
was just excess baggage. This day was
to be a skeet shoot and we were among
the over 2,700 GI’ s riding in open bellied
defenseless “clay pigeons” on a straight,
unwavering and tenacious course down
the firing range. Below us, dozens of
Nazi “trap shooters” were calculating
their elevations and getting ready to let
fly every projectile they could get their
hands on.
In what seemed like only minutes,
puffs of black smoke wafted my radio
room window and simultaneously the
plane shook from end to end from the
nearby concussions. Shrapnel began
ricocheting off the thin aluminum
skin of the plane like gravel off a tin
roof. Compulsively, I hunched deeper
inside my steel helmet and flak vest.
The intensity of the flak was incredible
when the interphone silence was broken
by the bombardier’s: “Ten, nine, eight,
seven, six,” it seemed interminable, “five,
four, three, two, one--” then, “Take it
around Mac!” yelled the Captain to the
pilot. I quickly slammed shut the bombay
doors as we banked sharply out of the
tracking flak. My anticipated 22nd “Bomb
bay’s clear-bomb bay’s clear” interphone
report was put on hold.
As our squadron made a wide sweep
toward the LP., an incredible picture
filled my right window. Hundreds of
Fortresses in tight formation slowly,
relentlessly, drifting toward a seemingly
Dave Lustig with his medal.
stationary ball of deadly flak blasts.
Suddenly the almost peaceful unreality
was shattered when a B-17 broke up
trailing long tongues of orange flames
and black smoke as it tumbled out of the
bowels of that tormented piece of sky.
I stopped counting ‘chutes as another
Fort started down. Only then did our
precarious position become crystal clear.
The desperation that I felt as we droned
on toward our second assault has haunted
me countless times since.
The crescendo of the flak was
increasing in that forty degrees below zero
hell as I reached down and disconnected
my heated flying suit cord. Sweat was
cascading down my sides. I glanced at
the Flight Officer, Edwards, hoping for a
reassuring grin. All I saw was a hunched
up figure under a flak helmet; his eyes
glued to his scope. The plane was again
bouncing from the flak bursts underneath
and the ricocheting was intensifying when
the interphone silence was shattered by
the navigator yelling, “They ‘re tracking
us Mac! Take evasive action! Take evasive
action!! I’ll never forget Georgia born
Capt. McCartney’s cool drawling reply:
“Fisher’s got the plane!” and so Capt.
Fisher had, as he calmly manipulated the
cross hairs and started his, “Ten, nine,
eight ...”
With my finger on the camera switch,
I pulled open the plywood door to open
the bomb bay--the scene was unreal.
Down below, the pastoral green sun-
drenched Czech landscape drifted slowly
beneath fleecy white clouds and countless
shells burst in between. A ringing twang
interrupted the scene as a large piece of
shrapnel ricocheted off of a 500 pounder
in the bomb bay and caused me to slam
the door shut. In retrospect, I often laugh
at the false security I derived from that
plywood door. Another large piece tore
through the bulkhead and the plywood
floor beneath my feet. Convinced that the
flak batteries had our number, I snapped
my parachute pack beneath my flak vest
and put my feet on the frequency meter
3
under my desk. Capt. Fisher held the
buffeting plane on its course as he again
ran down the count: seven,six, five, four,
three, two, one ... and again he shouted
“Take it around, Mac take it around!” An
almost vertical right turn delivered us
from the flak as our well-perforated B-
17’s swung wide toward the initial point
(target) for attempt number three. Light
clouds and smoke obliterated Fisher’s
view, and true to his orders, he would not
jeopardize the civilian population.
Enervated and resigned to our fate, I
watched the panorama of destruction as
we assembled for a third time. Leaders of
the pack on the first assault, our squadron
was now a tail-end Charlie praying that
the flak would run out before we did.
No such luck! Being the last remaining
squadron, we were targets of choice as
we ran that third blood chilling gantlet
to the hornet’s nest that was the Skoda
Armament Works. Once again the bomb
bay doors opened, and Fisher started his
count. We all knew it was do or die. Fuel
reserves were low and to get home could
be a problem.
Then finally--”bombs away!” “Bomb
bay’s clear! Bomb bay’s clear!” The pilot
maneuvered to evade the flak. In another
moment, the interphone came alive:
“Bombardier to radio--bombed primary
target- results very good!”
Ten hours and fifteen minutes after
takeoff, we were debriefed, exhausted and
the oxygen mask marks still lining our
faces. Our plane had over fifty shrapnel
holes and one shell had bore completely
through the right wing without detonating
otherwise this version of the mission to
Skoda might not have been told. To the
best of my knowledge, this was the last
strategic strike of World War II by the 8th
Air Force over enemy territory. Sixteen
bombers and three fighters were lost that
day. However, I still swell pride for the
small part I played in the “big one”(World
War II).
Lustig turned 95 on August 15 and is
physically and mentally good, according
to his son Ray. He revisited Pilsen and
the Skoda Armament Works site on
September 22, 1989. There is a museum
there now which tells the story in full.
Dave had an opportunity to talk to many
people there. A brochure clearly lists the
bombardment on April 25, 1945.
“In retrospect, isn’t it nice to know
that even though we were fighting to
protect our freedoms, we, as a nation
at war, regarded the lives of those who
sympathized with the allied nations,
as valuable as our own,” Lustig wrote.
“Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister
of England during WWll, summed it up
very nicely when he said, ‘Never have
so many owed so much to so few. Amen.”