Remembering Richard E. Tuttle
Madam Speaker, I rise today on a sad note. Last week, a true American hero died, Richard Tuttle, at the age of 92. He was a gunner on a B-24 flying over Europe during World War II. He was shot down and spent 18 months in one of the prison…
Madam Speaker, I rise today on a sad note. Last week, a true American hero died, Richard Tuttle, at the age of 92. He was a gunner on a B-24 flying over Europe during World War II. He was shot down and spent 18 months in one of the prison camps. He was also a dear friend of my family.
He and Sally Tuttle lived in Mokelumne Hill. He became one of the very first commissioners of the California Energy Commission and went on to become a judge. He was a dear friend. His loss will be felt throughout the community. Our condolences go out to his family.
[From the Calaveras Enterprise,
Sept. 3, 2013]
WWII Veteran Honored for Heroic Bombing Raid--Moke Hill Man Was a B-24
Gunner
(By Joel Metzger)
Thousands of tracer bullets whizzed by as a battery of
anti-aircraft gunners targeted the B-24 Liberator in which
Mokelumne Hill resident Richard Tuttle was flying Aug. 1,
1943.
Tuttle was a 22-year-old staff sergeant at the time and he
flew as a radio operator and machine gunner with the 44th
Bomb Group, nicknamed ``The Flying Eightballs.''
``The German flak gunners were just blasting away at us the
whole time,'' Tuttle, now 92, remembered. ``They came at us
with heavy firepower. Every plane took hits.''
Tuttle's bomber was screaming along at more than 200 mph
only 20 feet above the ground. The operation's target was a
group of nine oil refineries in the area of Ploiesti,
Romania. These refineries were known as Adolph ``Hitler's gas
station,'' because they provided about 35 percent of the gas
and diesel fuel used by the Axis war machine.
The mission turned out to be one of the costliest for the
United States Air Force--53 aircraft and 660 airmen were
lost. Never had the Air Force lost so many men on a single
mission, which is why the day was later referred to as
``Black Sunday.''
Seventy years later, Tuttle was honored at the National
Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton, Ohio, for
his participation on the mission, which was called Operation
Tidal Wave. He had been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross
for his heroism and extraordinary achievement during the
mission. The gathering commemorated the most highly decorated
single military action in U.S. history.
``There were only 75 men who were on that raid who are
still alive,'' Tuttle said. ``They wanted to put on a little
something for us.''
While in Ohio, Tuttle enjoyed activities at the Air Force
Museum, a celebratory dinner, big band music from the era,
meeting other veterans and a tour of a B-24.
``It was the first time I'd been in a B-24 since I was shot
down,'' Tuttle said with a big smile. ``I could see exactly
where I used to sit, complete with the little window looking
out. It was just as I remembered.''
``I enjoyed it to no end,'' Tuttle said of the event.
``There's nothing like being treated like a hero.''
Being treated like a hero was something Tuttle earned.
Surviving the harrowing mission of 1943 was no small feat.
Dust filled the desert air as motors roared to life at
airfields around Bengazi, Libya, in the early morning hours
of Aug. 1, 1943. Tuttle gravely took his position as radio
operator and gunner in one of the 178 B-24s and prepared for
the longest mission flight of his life--more than 2,400
miles, round trip. He sent and received coded messages during
the missions. On occasion, he would man the top turret that
housed twin .50 caliber machine guns.
Along with Tuttle, another Calaveras County resident,
Joseph ``Topper'' Huberty, of San Andreas, was on the
mission. He later became a Calaveras County Superior Court
judge.
The B-24s were equipped with extra fuel tanks in their bomb
bays to increase capacity to 3,100 gallons.
Of the 178 planes that took off, only 88 would return--55
of which were damaged during the mission.
The formation crossed the Mediterranean and Adriatic seas
and the Pindus Mountains in Albania before crossing into
Romania, where they dropped to low altitude to avoid
detection by German radar.
Mission commanders ordered complete radio silence for the
duration of the flight. Despite these precautions, the
Germans became aware of the approaching American planes. Due
to an inability to communicate effectively, the formation of
planes had become scattered and flew off course. Even though
everything hadn't gone according to plan, the mission moved
forward.
When nearing Ploiesti, a navigation error caused a group of
planes to follow the wrong railroad tracks toward the
objective. This caused the planes to fly through an extensive
air defense system around Bucharest before they even reached
the defenses protecting the oil refineries.
``It was supposed to be a surprise, but there was no doubt
they were ready for us,'' Tuttle said.
The mission has been described as an ``aerial Gettysburg.''
One pilot likened the raid to ``driving down the main street
of your hometown with everybody shooting at you.''
``In order to be on target, we followed railroad lines for
35 miles on the way in,'' Tuttle said. ``We were coming in on
a straight line, which made us sitting ducks for the flak
gunners.
``I was standing between pilot and copilot. The top turret
gunman was above me with his knees on my shoulders. I could
look out at the No. 3 engine through a little window. I saw
the tracer bullets going by, some making an impact.
``We were as low as we could get without crashing.''
With so much anti-aircraft fire directed at his plane,
Tuttle said he didn't know if he was going to survive, but he
was sure of one thing.
``This was it, this was what I joined the war for,'' Tuttle
said. ``I spent three years in the goddamned military to do
some good.
``I was scared,'' he continued. ``But that's what courage
is--even when you're scared, you go on fighting.
``We had all 10 machine guns firing at once and the entire
plane was vibrating,'' he said, adding the continuous fire
was so intense the gun barrels were in danger of warping from
the heat. ``One formation went in with 13 planes and only six
came out. They hit us hard. I had a 20 mm cannon shell lodge
in my radio transmitter right by my toe. It came within about
three inches of my foot.''
After running the railroad gauntlet, Tuttle's B-24 reached
the target refinery and he remembers seeing quite a few
cables holding up towers in the area.
``We snapped the cables with our plane,'' he said.
``Unfortunately, sometimes the cables snapped the plane. See,
we lost a lot of planes. We dropped all the bombs right on
it. That's why we went in low--so we could be accurate. Some
of the bombs had delayed fuses so they went off maybe 20 or
30 seconds later.''
After delivering the payload, Tuttle's plane peeled off and
``got the hell out of there.
``We stayed down low. This made it much harder for fighter
planes to hit us,'' Tuttle said. ``If they made a pass and
missed, they'd hit the ground. We had a long way to go--over
the Balkans, across the Mediterranean and back to Libya.''
A tally of the flight log totaled about 16 hours in the
air.
Looking back on the mission, Tuttle said it was unlike any
other.
``It was the greatest air-to-ground combat in history,'' he
said. ``There's never been another one like it, because
everything has changed.''
While it may have been one-of-a-kind, the mission was very
costly. During the mission, 310 airmen were killed and 108
were captured as prisoners of war.
Tuttle flew 19 other missions during his time in the
service--well 18 and a half, because he was shot down on a
mission to Wiener Neustadt, Austria, on Oct. 1, 1943.
``I dropped bombs on Germany all over the place,'' he said.
``I never got injured, but one time a bullet passed so close
to my big toe it raised a blood blister.''
On the day he was shot down, the pilot had just dropped the
plane's complement of bombs on a German fighter plane
manufacturing plant.
``We dropped all the bombs, which was good because the bomb
bay was clear when it came time for me to bail out,'' Tuttle
said, adding the plane was at about 19,000 feet. ``The co-
pilot gave me the thumbs-up and I rolled out of the bomb bay.
I was going to delay opening my chute, because it enhanced my
chances of surviving the jump.''
Tuttle said he watched his plane spiral downward until it
crashed in a fireball into the Austrian countryside.
``Four guys went down with the plane,'' he said, shaking
his head at how quickly his world changed from thinking he
might die to having hope for survival after he jumped out of
the plane.
``All of a sudden I'm over an Austrian meadow, two or three
miles up, floating gently in the breeze looking around at the
peaceful countryside, and I thought, `Hell, I might survive
this war.' ''
Tuttle touched down in the middle of a thicket, rolled up
his chute and concealed himself under bushes until enemy
soldiers started yelling nearby. Concerned they might begin
shooting into the thicket, Tuttle opted to surrender.
``I thought I better get out of there,'' he said. ``I came
out with my hands up and said, `You got me.' ''
Tuttle was taken to the infamous Stalag 17 camp and spent
19 months there as a prisoner of war.
``We were not treated well,'' he said. ``I got down to 137
pounds from 175.''
Tuttle remembers sleeping on burlap nailed to a wooden
frame without sheets or pillows. He and his compatriots
called the beds ``fart sacks.''
``We often ate what we called `wet dog soup.' It smelled
like a wet dog. It was a real favorite,'' he with a sarcastic
laugh. ``Sometimes we got a few turnips and potatoes. It was
not good.''
The occasional book that was sent into the camp and a
secret radio smuggled to him by allied forces that kept him
up to date on the war were small comforts to which Tuttle
clung.
When the war ended, Tuttle was released from the camp and
walked down a road in Austria. That's when he saw the first
American soldiers he had seen in many months.
``They were throwing German guns into piles. I was so glad
to see them,'' Tuttle said, his voice choked with emotion and
tears welling in his eyes. ``The war was over.''
Tuttle was taken to a hospital in England to ``get fattened
up'' and later returned to the U.S., where he had a long
career serving as a distinguished attorney and superior court
judge.
Just a few years ago, Tuttle wrote down his experiences at
Ploesti within the context of his autobiography, ``Nevada
City and Beyond, an Unscripted Life.''
Tuttle plans to live out the remainder of his days in
Mokelumne Hill with his wife Sally.
``During the war, I gained a better understanding of life,
what it means and why some values are worth fighting for,''
Tuttle said. ``Looking back, I'm proud of what I did. Damn
proud.''