As the gray light of dawn filled the sky, the flyers around me started to wake up, grumbling as they stumbled out of bed. We gulped down eggs and some lousy coffee. We were driven out to the airfield to do preflight checks on our P-47s. Ever since joining the 54th air group, I'd grown to admire the large 7-ton Thunderbolts; their 6 .50 cal machine guns could handle anything. I climbed into my cockpit and strapped in. We received the signal to take off. I taxied forward and increased speed until I took off. I retracted my landing gear and rose to 15,000 ft where I put on my oxygen mask. Our group moved forward. Other groups were near by, spread out in a cloudless sky. After a half hour of flight, we caught up with a horde of B-17s. We fanned out above them ready to pounce on any fighters attacking the lumbering "Forts". The radios started crackling as the advance fighter guard locked in combat with the German fighters. We quickly joined the fight. The sky was filled with fighters and bombers, smoke and debris. "All fighter release drop tanks in ten seconds." the flight leader called. I flipped the switches to drop the tanks as I dove on a group of Bf 110s attacking a box of B-17s. I hit my firing button, ripping into tone of the fighter-bombers. It dove out of the way, pieces flying off the right engine. I plunged after it, punching my firing buttons whenever I could take a shot. Pieces were flying off the battered and smoking craft; finally the pilot bailed out. The craft spun wildly on its descent towards earth.

Suddenly a Bf 109 dove on my tail. Cannon and machine gun fire clattered around my windshield from the guns of the snarling 109. I instinctively stomped my right boot down hard on the rudder pedal while I simultaneously cut the throttle, putting the plane into a right skid. The 109 whizzed past, unable to copy my extreme maneuver. I slammed the throttle forward and whizzed after the 109. My thumbs hit the firing button. My plane shuddered as the machine guns chewed apart the doomed plane. It disappeared in a brilliant flash as my bullets found the gas tank.

Suddenly an Fw 190 jumped me, tracers and cannon shells flew past my cockpit striking my left wing. I banked hard to the right and flipped over into a dive that no plane could hope to match. At 10,000 feet I slowed and pulled my stick up, rising again towards the bombers. I lined up on a 110 and fired, but before I could pursue it another Focke Wulf hit me. My cockpit cracked and hydraulic fluid sprayed my face. Blindly I stomped on the rudder pedal and at the same time banked to the right. Turning to face my opponent, I hit the firing buttons but only the right wing responded. Thankfully my aim was true. The pilot hit the silk as his plane burst into flame. My radio crackled "All fighters regroup 25,000 ft." I rose to join my comrades. 15 minutes later a fresh group of fighters was spotted rising to meet the bombers. "Lets get 'em boys" the flight leader called "none on my mark...now!" I pushed my stick down, almost, it seemed, breaking it off. At the same time, I shoved in the throttle causing my plane to whiz by the bombers. As we neared the fighters, I lined up on a Wulf and fired. Even with my limited firepower I practically ripped off the fighterís wing. I burst through the debris, whipped around and headed back up. The bombers were going to reach their target soon and I didn't want to be underneath them where I might get hit. Slowly the bomb bays swung open then almost lazily the bombs dropped towards their target.

Our mission complete, we turned back, eager to return to England. Upon landing I checked out my plane. It had countless holes in it, three of them in the cockpit. I was blessed to be alive. I had destroyed four planes and another probable. I was debriefed, had a quick supper, and fell into bed exhausted. Tomorrow would hold another routine mission.