Charlie Brown Comes Home: An Incredible Story of War and Courage

(To David Bartoccini)
01/10/16

At the edge of the trees a 'flying Fortress', lost and without a motor, quickly straightens the bar to avoid the crash. Trudging, riddled with the blows of hunting and flak (anti-aircraft, ed), he tries to escape towards his salvation. The formation to which it belonged, aimed at bombing the 20 December 1943 city of Bremen, had been dispersed by "bandits" (enemy aircraft, ed) along with the rest of the 379th Bomber Group USAAF of which he was a part.

Our B-17 F, nicknamed Ye Olde Pub, is commanded by the lt. Charles "Charlie" Brown and, already at take off, he knew that he would not have had it easy that day: he had to fly all the way to the right of the large formation ... right there, in the so-called 'Purple Heart Corner' (more exposed and risky position, ed). Minutes before, just about the goal, the flak had given the usual welcome to the formation of bombers of the8th Air Force, and a mixed formation of BF-109 and Fw190 had fallen into the corners of the formation with the sun behind them. The Ye Olde Pub had been hit by gusts of shrapnel; the left side was soon reduced to a sieve, 3 of seriously injured machine gunners and the tail gunner, "Ecky" Eckenrode, had died.

Training is broken. Each for itself. The 1 engine goes up in flames, and the two 12,7 brownings hang fixed, lifeless and silent: it's a matter of time before some 109 notice it and fall back on it, maybe right from the tail. We need to get out of the way and quickly. They are all injured on board. Brown was injured in the shoulder and commutes to bring morphine syringes to everyone, while the co-pilot, "Pinky" Luke, takes the plane out of the formation. The oxygen system does not go, it loses: it was damaged by the gusts, and Charlie Brown breathes with difficulty when he resumes command. He comes and the plane goes down. The B-17 goes down in a spiral, and the engine turns off. German fighters leave their prey by passing it off and throw themselves back on the herd.

The light in Brown's eyes comes back on with a shot of oxygen; pull the handle and remove the snow-dyed trees. He is alone. As soon as he feels ready he takes courage and with it some altitude, but waiting for him is a JG / 109 BF-6 G-27. He has a yellow 2 on his side and two bumps, at his commands there is an ace with 22 confirmed and earned kills on all the fronts that the war has seen: Europe, Africa, Russia. His name is Stigler, oberleutnant Franz Stigler, and he is waiting for a knight's cross to hang around his neck. Stigler is also left alone; he queues waiting to be hit by a barrage of tracers fired by the tail machine guns, then by those of the dorsal turret, and then, depending on his lucky side, also by the left or right machine gun. It won't be a walk in the park, but the bomb carrier that has been setting Germany on fire for months now wants to knock it down. Worth the knight's cross. It will save someone's life. Stigler approaches but nothing happens.

Nothing comes out of those two black tubes, punctured by air cooling; they don't move, they don't shoot. It is still approaching and only then does it notice the extent of the damage. There is a gash: it is so big that you look inside it, it sees the blood on the crew. Other gashes, here and there, are no less: that plane flies hanging by a thread. In his mind echoes the words of his squadron leader in North Africa, Gustav Rödel, "If I ever see, or hear of any of you who shot a man with a parachute, I will shoot him myself."

Stigler thinks or doesn't think, he approaches again and joins the cockpit. Brown, who imagined it was a wicked mouse hunt, who was expecting a deadly flurry at any moment, does not believe his eyes. The fighter pilot with the tilted swastika greets and gestures. He cannot understand that he is showing him the route to Sweden, unoccupied and closer than England, so he continues his course with difficulty. He pulls straight for England Brown, occasionally faints, faints; then when he opens his eyes he turns and still sees that careless guardian angel flying beside him, who has not yet given him the coup de grace to make him fall to pieces. They are now on the North Sea, in the open sea. Stigler follows as a thoughtful escort, thinks about the risk of encountering a returning Allied fighter squadron, or some formation on patrol, but continues.

When he sees England he understands that he is really risking his skin, and that the way back home is long and lonely. Before he was passed off, he went back to the bomber cabin, looked for the pilot's gaze, and when he found him he waved: goodbye and good luck. Then it disappears in a pull-up.

Brown traveled 250 miles when he rested the ripped belly on the lawn of the RAF base in Seething, from where he had taken off. Land and bring everyone home for Christmas. Only "Ecky" Eckenrode didn't make it. The other 8 are all saved. He will survive the war and return to West Virginia. After being in college he will return to experience the thrill of flying, serving the USAF in Laos (...) and Vietnam. He will leave in the 1972.

Stigler will also survive the war, with 400 missions completed as a fighter pilot. In 1953 he lands in Canada to become a very successful entrepreneur.

Neither of the two, during the conflict between Germany and the United States, will make word of the incident: Stigler would have risked his wings, or worse the court-martial, Brown that his comrades trusted in the mercy of their opponents and died even faster. Over the years Brown often thought that in reality what had happened to him was the result of a hallucination, an idea produced by his mind while he was groggy from lack of oxygen. Years later, however, in 1986, his mind kept thinking incessantly about that yellow 2, so he wrote a letter to look for the pilot who perhaps had saved his life in his dreams. Stigler read it and replied, "I did it."

In the 1990 the two met and remained friends until the 2008, when death found them, one a few months from the other. If someone was still looking for the meaning of the word cavalry perhaps he can find it here, in the exploits of Franz Stigler. Lieutenant Brown, on the other hand, his answer finally found it.

It was all real Charlie, it was not the fault of rarefied oxygen, it had not been a dream, i knights of the air they exist: they fly at a distance from you, and whisper "come home" behind the armored glass of 109. Charlie Brown comes home!

(photo: web / Bundesarchiv)