During WWII the United States trained over a million military pilots. The US Army Air Force accounted for 700,000 of that number. Some became famous and earned awards. Books were written about them. Fifty-two thousand air crew never came home. Another 26,000 died in flying accidents. For every famous pilot there were hundreds who flew their missions, got shot at, returned to base and did it all over again the next morning. Late in the war hundreds of fighter pilots never saw an enemy plane, much less fired their guns.
Most people are familiar with the tradition of nose art on war planes. The more famous tend to be scantily clad women in the tradition of Vargas Girls. Some honored geographic regions such as Ridge Runner or Salem Representative. Or alluded to enduring eight hour missions like Iron Ass. Many were named for girlfriends and wives. Personnel with artistic talents made a little extra money by creating the works of art for these planes.
And then there was Georgie. In 1944 Kenneth Helfrecht of Madison, Wisconsin joined the Army Air Force for pilot training. By September 1944 he was in England about to begin his combat tour with a P-51 Mustang squadron, in a group that would become the highest scoring American Fighter Group of WW2, with 1016 ½ destroyed. While bomber combat tours were measured in number of missions, fighter tours were measured in combat hours. A fighter pilot combat tour was 250 hours.
Some pilots opted to extend for a half or full tour so they wouldn’t be assigned as a flight instructor back home. But that’s another story.
As Kenny built up his experience and hours, he was assigned a slightly used P-51D. Nineteen years old and flying at 300 miles per hour, controlling six fifty caliber machines guns, and a 1,500 horse power supercharged engine. And since most of the planes in the unit had some sort of art work, he began casting around for an idea.
Flash back to Madison. After flight training and before shipping out, Kenny was able to visit home. His mother, like all mothers, worried for her son’s safety. But she also worried about the upkeep of the house while Kenny was overseas. Take a moment here. In April 1944, Kenny turned 19. Let that settle in. His mother was particularly concerned over who would cut the grass. There was this little kid down the street who hung around with Kenny and his friends. This was the days of hand pushed, reel mowers. According to Kenny, he gave the kid five dollars. A pretty good sum in 1944, and told the kid to look after the lawn. And when he got back, he would pay whatever was owed.
Right, you’re way ahead of the story. At some point Kenny’s Mother included a story in one of her letters. It seems the little kid had been making him useful around her house and the neighborhood. Not just with the lawn, but with other chores as well. And therein turns the story of why First Lieutenant Helfrecht, fighter pilot, US Army Air Forces, not only named his plane Georgie, but contracted Staff Sargent Don Allen to paint a likeness of the boy on the cowling as well.
Kenny stayed with the squadron to the end of the war. He flew 58 missions and is credited with destroying five aircraft by ground strafing. A practice described by many fighter pilots as more dangerous than aerial
combat. There’s lots of people shooting back at you down there. Kenny was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and seven Air Medals. He couldn’t yet vote or drink legally. After the war he earned an engineering degree, married, had two children and five grandchildren. He never flew as a pilot again.
I got to know Kenny when he was along in years. He was gleeful and mischievous. A gentle soul and easy to talk with. I have been privileged to be in the company of many WW2 fighter pilots. And while some continued flying in the civil or military world, so many returned home and never got in a cockpit again. I’ve asked many of them, “How do you walk away from the rush, the joy, of flying? Not even as a private pilot?” The answer is fairly universal. Generally with a shrug. It was a job. It was something that needed to be done. It was a good idea at the time. After the war, it was time for something else. Kenny passed away in April 2020. He was 95.
At the end of The Bridges of Toko Ri, there is a question; “Where do we get such men?”
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