Fighter Pilot: The First American Air Ace of World War II

by William R. Dunn

At the age of twelve, American William R. Dunn decided to become a fighter pilot. In 1939 he joined the Canadian Army and was soon transferred to the Royal Air Force. He was the first pilot in the famous Eagle Squadron of American volunteers to shoot down an enemy aircraft and later became the first American ace of the war. After joining the U.S. Army Air Corps in 1943, he saw action in the Normandy invasion and in Patton's sweep across France. Twenty years later he fought again in Vietnam. Dunn keenly conveys the fighter pilot's experience of war―the tension of combat, the harsh grip of fear, the love of aircraft, the elation of victory, the boisterous comradeship and competition of the pilot brotherhood. Fighter Pilot is both a gripping story and a unique historical document.

Genres: Aviation, Military Fiction, Military History, History, World War II, Nonfiction, Biography

272 pages, Paperback

First published September 1, 1982

Reviews

[Mike]

Okay, for me this was an easy call, 5 Stars all the way, an "Ace" first person account. Dunn's book is just "pack-jammed" with great air action and ground hijinks. He was wild from the start, great stories growing up. Started flying at 12 and begs flight hours any place he can. At 17 he's in the US Army infantry (recruiter lied about being a pilot) . He gets out but Sep 1939 happens and he still wants to be a pilot. He goes to Vancouver to join the RCAF but once again winds up in the infantry as a Seaforth Highlander. Sent to England, he eventually answers a RAF call for pilots. He has about 160hrs flying time that accidentally shows up on the application form as 560hrs. Eventually he graduates to Hurricanes, followed by conversion to the Spitfire. He really knows how to tell a good flying story. Here's his account of a 3 squadron Spitfire fighter sweep that runs into a multi-squadron Luftwaffe fighter force with the same idea. They meet over the English Channel:

Let me tell you it was some fight, with more than sixty fighters all milling around at full bore, all squirting cannon shells and machine gun bullets at each other. I had my Spit’s throttle firewalled and, with both hands on the spade grip of the control column, yanked her around in high-speed tight turns, dives, stall turns, half rolls, split-S and anything else I could do with her to keep from getting my rear end shot off or from ramming some other sod. I got off a quick squirt once in a while at a 109, but the action was so fast and furious that there wasn’t time to get on a Hun’s tail and stay there long enough to get in a good shot. About the time I fired a few rounds at a Kraut, one or two of them were firing at me.

Hauling my Spit around in a tight turn to port, some Squarehead let me have it good-bang!-right in the upper fuel tank, which was located just forward of the cockpit and windscreen. I caught a momentary glimpse of his yellow-nosed Me.109F as he dove past me, one of the “Abbeville Kids,” as we’d nicknamed the enemy pilots of Jagdgeschwader 26. Flames burst out from under my Spit’s engine cowling, gasoline fumes filled my cockpit, the whole works was about to explode in my face within the next few seconds. There was nothing to do but get the hell out of her before she blew.

The next thing I remember I was falling through the sky, still in the middle of the dogfight with aircraft whizzing by in all directions, with bullets flying every which way. “Don’t pull your parachute ripcord yet,” I told myself. “Wait until you’ve fallen clear of this mess.” So I waited until several seconds and a couple thousand feet had gone by, then I pulled the chute’s D-ring.

His account of bailing out over the channel and being picked up, along with several other pilots including 2 German pilots is classic. Dunn has so many stories, you are never bored. Another tale about night flying:

A New Zealand night fighter pilot friend of mine, Guy Corbett, was vectored one dark night to intercept an unidentified bomber, which the sector controller declared to be “hostile.” Guy found the bomber in all that darkness by spotting the exhaust flame from its engines, gave it a good squirt, and sent it down blazing to crash a couple of miles from our airfield. About an hour or so later, when Guy had finished his night patrol and landed, he came rushing into the mess bar excitedly telling us all about his victory.

Before he’d gotten half through his story, he noticed several hardeyed, strange aircrew types bellied up to the bar. They were wearing flying suits and glared at him with some degree of hostility. Yes, it was the crew of the bomber Guy had shot down. They were British, their bomber was a four-engine Stirling, and, to say the least, they were all as mad as hornets. Luckily, they’d all parachuted safely, were picked up by Home Guard troops, and brought to our airfield mess.

Since the bomber crew was in our mess and somewhat outnumbered, the whole affair was satisfactorily settled when Guy offered his profound apology and bought drinks for the crew for several hours. In the wee hours of the morning, with the bomber types feeling no pain and having all the makings of a huge hangover, we poured them into a lorry and sent them safely home. We all wrote the incident off as an occupational hazard.

Those of us fighter pilots who were on dawn readiness that morning, after downing several cups of hot black coffee, were most thankful to sit quietly in our Spitfire cockpits for a bit sucking in pure oxygen to quickly sober us up.

Another dogfight where Dunn becomes an ace with a 5th and 6th kill on the same sortie. Just as he gets shoots the second aircraft down, the SHTF:
Soon I can see the shock waves caused by their heavy explosions in the target area. All nine Blenheims are still with us, surrounded by the defending fighters of our close escort. Now, to get them safely home again.

From what I can see, the scrap below is breaking up into a number of running dogfights. Our Spitfires use a lot of petrol in a battle such as this one. The fuel left in our tanks will get us back to England, but it isn’t enough to allow us to stay over enemy territory and fight much longer. Maybe another ten minutes or so.

My port wing jerks and skids my Spitfire to the right. Now there are several long rips in the metal skin and a jagged hole near its tip. I look back quickly and see my attacker coming at me from the left rear quarter, slightly higher, and closing fast. I think he is the leader of the pair I had first attacked.

There are perhaps three seconds left between life and death for me. The German’s tracers, glowing like little balls of fire, flash past my cockpit. I yank back the throttle, give my prop full tine pitch, jam the flaps down, and violently skid my aircraft out of his gunsight. He is now closing too fast. I have greatly decreased my speed by changing prop pitch and by dumping flaps-luckily the flaps didn’t blow off. He overshoots me, skimming not more than ten feet above my head.

The bluish-white belly of the 109F fills my windscreen. I can even see oil streaks and rivets on the underside of its fuselage, and above that the black cross insignia, unit markings, and a red rooster painted on the side of the cockpit. The Hun pilot is looking directly down at me. His expression tells me that he fully realizes (Gott in Himmel!) the mistake he has just made.

I fire. I can’t miss. My guns chatter for no more than three or four seconds. I see the bullets smashing into the Hun aircraft’s belly. Pieces fly off the 109. Then a wisp of gray smoke streams back from its engine, and then the whole aircraft is suddenly engulfed in a sheet of white-hot flame. It rolls over slowly onto its back and starts down at a high rate of speed. The tail section breaks off. I last see it, tumbling as it falls, far below me. Splash two! My face is wet with nervous sweat. I can hear myself gasping in my oxygen mask.

I see another 109 flying level some 500 feet below me and crossing my path from left to right-heading for home, I assume. The Hun pilot has now seen me. He starts taking violent evasive action as I make a diving turn toward his tail. I close to 75 yards. He suddenly pulls up into a steep climb. I fire a short burst into his back. He kicks over into a right turn and flies straight across my gunsight. No more than thirty yards separate our two aircraft. I fire again. He begins to smoke.

At this moment, in my rear-vision mirror, I see four Me.109s climbing up to intercept me. This is getting too hot for me. I jam the throttle through the gate, jerk the control column back into my stomach, and climb up and over them. The nearest one takes a squirt at my fast-moving Spitfire. His deflection is bad, luckily. The 20-mm cannon shells and machine gun bullets streak past me and then veer off my tail.

I roll my Spit onto its back, pull on the stick, and the reversed horizon comes up to meet me. I hear explosions and a banging like hail on my aircraft’s fuselage. My port wing is hit again….
Eventually Dunn is forced to leave the RAF and join the USAAF. He returns to Europe in time for D-Day, flying the P-47.

The 406th was equipped with Republic P-47 Thunderbolts, a large and heavy aircraft, but a powerful, well-armed lighter. Its big Pratt and Whitney R-2800 radial engine could turn out 2,000 horsepower, and its eight .50-ca1iber machine guns put out a terrific firepower. In addition, the P-47 could carry 5-inch HVAR rockets, bombs, or external fuel tanks-or it could carry the whole works at once. Without a doubt, the P-47 was the world’s biggest single-engine fighter/bomber. Like all other fighters, the P-47 received its share of nicknames: Repulsive Scatterbolt, Jug, Thunder Mug, Bucket of Bolts, T-Bolt, Big Ugly, and Cast Iron Beast.

His missions included fighter cover for the landings, protecting Patton's flanks when the 3rd Army broke out and armed recce shooting up targets of opportunity:

All the 9th Air Force fighter groups, including the 406th, were directed to step up combat operations in France, especially armed recce missions. Hunt down and kill everything that moved was the field order-railway trains, trucks, automobiles, river barges, coastal vessels, anything that might support the German ground troops shoot or blow the hell out of it. We were also directed to do a lot of bridge busting, strike heavy flak gun positions, and knock off flak towers.

This last bit, the flak towers, was a very dangerous business. The enemy gunners were encased in steel-reinforced concrete towers about fifty feet high, with all sorts of automatic weapons pointing, it seemed, in every direction. Since our .50-caliber machine guns didn’t do too much damage to these towers, except knock off a lot of concrete chips, we soon learned to employ our 5-inch HVAR rockets against them. To get a rocket hit we had to get in pretty close because of the rocket’s slow velocity and dropping trajectory. To divvy up the flak tower’s return fire, we would attack the tower simultaneously from two or three directions. When we were within firing range, we each let go a pair of rockets. Then we spent the next couple of seconds ducking the other firing aircraft and the rocket bursts. A very tricky business. I might add that we did make several mistakes in tower target identification, blowing the hell out of some French village’s water supply towers. C’est la guerre! “

After completing his "100" missions in Europe, he volunteers for the War in the Pacific. Many further adventures occur. You will be amazed at his various adventures and will enjoy this book. Just realize fighter pilots tend to exaggerate so take some of the stories with a grain of salt.

[Matt]

Fighter Pilot is a good solid book. Lt Col. Dunn is very honest and upfront with his experiences. His story is exceptional in that he services, The Canadian Army, the Royal Air Force and the USAF and saw WWII through from almost the beginning to the end in some sort of uniform. The book is a quick read but interesting. In one part he describes being wounded and the range of emotions he elicits in that chapter alone is worth the read. This is a good book that should be read by anyone interested in WWII aviation history.

[CASPER HILEMAN]

Colonel William Dunn American volunteer for the R.A.F. and its legendary "Eagle Squadron" made up of foreign volunteers and later the first American "Ace" of the Second World War. Colonel Dunn charms the reader with his Huck Finn-like personality. This was the First military history book I was ever given or read. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

[David Miller]

Truly a phenomenal account of a man who history should not forget.